“That is unfortunate. Tarandor is a very capable abjurer. I would not want to have him determined to imprison me.”
“What will you tell Tarandor when you see him again?” Jack asked.
The fire-sorcerer scratched at his small patch of beard and shrugged. “Not a thing. In the first place, I find him arrogant and overbearing. More important, I am still awaiting my five-hundred-crown share from the disposal of the Sarkonagael, which I would be unlikely to receive if you were to be thrust back into permanent stasis. Speaking of which, have you claimed the reward yet? I would feel better if we resolved that without much more delay.”
“I settled it today. Your share is in Tharzon’s keeping.”
“Indeed?” Halamar glanced over at the bar and caught the old dwarf’s eye. Tharzon gave him a small nod. “Excellent! I had been led to understand that you sometimes experienced difficulties in observing such details.” He raised his tankard to Jack, and took a deep drink.
Jack took the opportunity to do likewise with his own cup, while thinking hard about the challenge posed by Tarandor’s unreasonable suspicions. He could hardly continue with his ordinary business if a competent and ambitious wizard was determined to trap him again. Somehow he would have to find a way to dissuade Tarandor from any further attacks on his liberty. “It seems that I will have to discourage Tarandor,” he mused. “I assume that the Guild might frown on murder or abduction?”
Halamar simply looked at Jack. “Can you think of any better way to confirm Tarandor’s misgivings about you?”
“A theoretical question only,” said Jack. He frowned in thought, considering the question of how to avoid recapture at Tarandor’s hands. Outside, the temple bells began to strike the hour; when they reached six bells, he suddenly leaped to his feet and slapped a hand to his forehead. “Selune’s silver slippers!” he cried. “I am supposed to meet Seila at the opera in an hour!”
Halamar raised an eyebrow. “Do not let me detain you, then.”
“We will continue this conversation later,” Jack promised. “My thanks for your news, Halamar.” With that, he seized the duffel with the remnants of his wardrobe, threw it up on his shoulder, and hurried to the door.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A little before eight bells in the evening, Jack strolled up to the Rundelstone Opera House. He’d hurried from the Smoke Wyrm to the dismal little apartment above the vacant tinsmith’s shop, washed quickly, and changed his clothes before racing back across town to Rundelstone. He wore a fine pair of black silk breeches, a double-breasted tunic of black with silver buttons, a short cape, and a rakish felt hat. They were the least-rumpled and least-smoky of his clothes. Of course, no one noticed his fine ensemble at the door, because he was invisible.
With some difficulty he worked his way through the crowd; in close quarters it was difficult to avoid being jostled, especially when other people had no reason not to walk right through where he happened to be standing. Jack feared for a moment that arousing suspicions with an invisible collision was inevitable, but before he caused a scene he hit upon the strategy of drawing up as close as he could behind a tall, important-looking lord. Other opera-goers naturally deferred to the fellow and helpfully cleared out of his path. Once the nobleman paused to sniff at the unexplained aroma of smoke in his vicinity, but he pressed on with a shrug, and Jack followed him inside.
Jack quickly fled the crowded lobby and climbed the stairs to the box level. Finding himself momentarily alone in the stairwell, he resumed visibility and began to look for the Norwood box. He discovered that the boxes were labeled with brass placards engraved with the name of the seats’ owner for the season, which made finding Seila a simple matter indeed. With one last look around for any observers, Jack cautiously opened the door at the back of the box and slipped into the back of the small balcony enclosure.
Seila waited inside, wearing a splendid green dress with a pale golden fur draped over her lovely shoulders. She looked up as Jack entered and frowned at him. “There you are,” she said in a low voice. “I have been worried sick about you all day, Jack! I feared you were lying dead in the ashes of Maldridge.”
“There was no need to fear,” Jack told her. “I am unharmed; I was not even home when the fire started.”
She gave Jack a suspicious look. “Then why do you smell like smoke?”
“I am afraid that my clothes-other than the ones I was wearing at the time, of course-were home. I managed to rescue half my wardrobe before the flames consumed the manor; this outfit seemed somewhat less permeated than anything else remaining in my possession.”
He took the seat beside hers and leaned over to kiss her, but she pulled back after lightly brushing his lips with hers. “Jack, Maldridge was better than two hundred years old,” she said. “The house was a treasure of my family. I have to tell you, my father is beyond furious. I have never seen him so angry. He thinks you burned down Maldridge on purpose!”
“That is ridiculous. Your father and I have our differences at the moment, but destroying Maldridge certainly would do nothing to resolve them. What could I possibly gain from such an action?”
Seila wavered, her mouth pursed. After a long moment she asked, “How did it happen?”
“Your father should take up that question with Marquise Dresimil. Her warriors were the fellows responsible for Maldridge’s destruction.”
“The drow set fire to Maldridge?” Seila exclaimed, perhaps more loudly than she’d meant to. Jack noticed heads in nearby boxes glancing in their direction. Fortunately, the orchestra was beginning to tune up, and the theater was filled with the audience’s chatter before the show; Seila’s voice did not carry far. “They were in Raven’s Bluff? Why would they do such a thing?”
“They were very definitely in Raven’s Bluff,” Jack replied. “As far as why they attacked Maldridge, well, I had occasion to speak with Myrkyssa Jelan a few days ago. She informed me that a party of dark elves had tried to spirit her back to the Underdark. I can only speculate that the band that attacked Maldridge was looking for me, and perhaps fired the house in spite when they found that they’d missed me. It seems that Dresimil wants her escaped captives back.”
“You’ve seen Myrkyssa Jelan?” Seila was self-conscious enough to lower her voice to a whisper this time. “By all that’s holy, Jack, what have you gotten yourself into? You couldn’t possibly expect me to believe that she is involved in this, too!”
Jack stifled a small cough. “As long as we are dealing in unfortunate developments, I should probably add a word of warning about Master Tarandor Delhame-you remember, the wizard we met at the party? He represents interests that imprisoned me in my own time, and is dissatisfied with my liberty. He may try to find me through you.” Seila started to protest, but Jack motioned for patience and leaned forward to spy out the crowd as discretely as he could. “A moment, my dear-give me a chance to look for our friend the slaver before they lower the house lights.”
“Fetterfist would seem to be the least of your concerns right now,” Seila said, a little crossly. But she drew closer to Jack and studied the crowd for a moment.
“Look for a tall, clean-shaven man, with straw-colored hair,” Jack replied. “Not too young, not too old-I would guess his age at thirty to forty.”
“Hmm. That fellow in red, in the third row?”
Jack followed Seila’s gaze, and shook his head. “Too fat. Fetterfist is a lean, bony fellow.” Together they searched the crowd until the house’s lamplighters came out to lower the lights, to no avail-the slaver was nowhere in sight. However, Seila did point out several men of about the right frame and appearance that Jack was able to definitively eliminate. The young noblewoman had actually brought a list of the male guests from the Norwood party who answered to Fetterfist’s general description, and she lined out names with a small charcoal pencil.