“Well, that was not as useful as I’d hoped,” Jack remarked as the opening overture began. “What now?”
“Wait and watch,” Seila advised. “It’s not unusual for people to show up late. We might find him at intermission.”
They watched the opening scene of The Fall of Myth Drannor. Jack found it confusing and melodramatic, with far too many Elvish names and characters to keep track of. He soon fell to studying the crowd in the low lighting, turning his attention to the stage only when some particularly spectacular movement of the music caught his ear. Seila, on the other hand, seemed quite affected by the opera and watched with rapt interest as the hero and his lady sang of the folly of love in a time of war and destruction.
At a quiet moment between scenes, Jack renewed the conversation. “I see a number of new arrivals, but no sign of our slaver yet,” he said. “How about you?”
Seila shook her head. “I recognize most of the people who have taken their seats during the first act. None of them could pass for Fetterfist unless he is a master of disguise.”
“Hmmm, perhaps he has no particular liking for opera. When is the next event of social significance?”
“The Lord Mayor’s spring revel, the night of the eighteenth,” Seila replied. “It’s supposed to be a grand affair this year; everybody will be there. I expect to attend with my family, however, so it may be difficult to smuggle you inside.”
“We have three days to think of something,” Jack said. He was not concerned; there wasn’t a ball, masquerade, or debut he couldn’t crash if he put his mind to it. On the other hand, the mention of Seila’s father brought another thought to mind. “As long as we have a moment, my dear, do you know of a reason why your father would be interested in a magic tome? Specifically, a book called the Sarkonagael?”
“The what?”
“The Sarkonagael. It is a book of shadow magic.”
“No, I have never heard of it. What does my father have to do with it?” Seila asked.
“He offered a very substantial reward for its recovery,” said Jack. He started to add more, but the next scene began with a fanfare of trumpets, and Seila looked back toward the stage. The rogue turned his attention from the audience on the floor of the house to the box seats on the opposite wall, studying each in turn with great care; now that his eyes were adjusted to the dim light, he could make out more of the room.
At the next interval of dialogue in the production, Seila belatedly replied to Jack. “My father sponsors adventurers from time to time,” she whispered. “If he offered a reward for some old book, I’m sure he had a good reason.”
“I hope so. The Sarkonagael has something of a sinister reputation.”
“Are you accusing my father of dabbling in dark magic?” Seila asked sharply.
“I said nothing of the sort,” Jack quickly said. “It’s simply that I have personal experience of the Sarkonagael, and it is frankly dangerous. I would like to know what your father wants it for.”
“Am I supposed to question him about it?” Seila turned in her seat to glare at Jack. “Exactly how should I broach the matter, Jack? ‘Father, the Landsgrave Jaer Kell Wildhame suspects you of collecting forbidden tomes. Can you give some account of yourself?’ ”
“Your father may be involved in something … unpleasant,” Jack replied. “Is that so hard to imagine? Many men of his station and position are.”
“As far as I know, he hasn’t answered to no less than three different names in my hearing, or pretended to be lord of any imaginary domains!”
Jack winced. “Very well,” he said. “I retract the question; your father’s interests are none of my concern. Let us put it behind us.”
Seila sat in silence for a long moment, her face turned away from his. Finally, she took a deep breath, and said, “I think you had better go now.”
“Now, Seila, I only asked a simple question about …” Jack began, but he did not finish the thought. Seila’s arms were crossed, and she stared stonily at the opera unfolding below. Jack had great confidence in his powers of persuasion, but he sensed that there was little he could say that would retrieve the situation. He grimaced, surprised to find that he was honestly hurt by her temporary rejection.
With as much dignity as he could muster, he stood and bowed. “I am sorry for this … misunderstanding. Whatever you may think of me, please be careful, Seila. Dark designs are at work in the city, and I am not at the bottom of all of them.” Then he let himself out of the box, leaving Seila to her anger.
“Jack, you fool,” he muttered to himself. “That was poorly done.” It seemed his evening at the opera was at an unfortunately early end.
He paused in the stairwell to alter his appearance, just in case he ran into any of the well-heeled folk he’d met at the historical society, the theater opening, or Lady Moonbrace’s tea. He changed his hair color, thickened his nose, and added twenty years of lines and crow’s-feet to his face, then proceeded to the lobby. Seila’s suspicion was a disappointment, to say the least. Somehow he would have to find his way back into her good graces, but other events would seem to suggest that the best thing he could do for the moment was to drop out of sight. With the wizard Tarandor and Dresimil’s dark elf warriors both looking for him, the lower his profile, the better. Matters were entirely out of hand; he could hardly make a show of repairing his good name when he dared not show his face in public.
He descended the stairs to the house’s lobby and spied a wine steward arranging his service at one side of the room. Jack crossed the gleaming marble floor, eying a goblet of Chessentan red. “Five talents, sir,” the steward said.
“Half a crown for a cup of mediocre wine?” Jack grumbled, but he fished the necessary coinage out of his purse and paid the fellow. He was not the only audience member up and out of his seat; a handful of others were in search of refreshment, or on their way to or from the powder rooms. Putting his back to the wall, he turned to watch the fine folk come and go-and then he saw Fetterfist. The tall, yellow-haired lord wore a tunic of blue with a great gold chain and a shapeless blue hat; he had a pair of striking beauties on his arms, one with dark hair and the other with hair of burnished copper.
Quickly Jack turned back to the wine steward and gestured discretely at the unknown lord. “Who is that fellow in blue, the one with the redhead and brunette in his company?” he asked the servant.
The steward gave a small shrug. “Why, I am not sure if I remember his name.” Jack produced a gold crown and pressed it into the steward’s hand. “Ah, wait, now it comes to me,” the steward continued. “That is Lord Cailek Balathorp, of the Balathorp family. His companions I do not recognize, but he seems to be in different company each time he attends.”
“My thanks,” Jack said drily. He stood watching Balathorp-Fetterfist-while he considered his various difficulties … and then a bold idea came to him. He examined the notion carefully, considering it in all its aspects, and nodded firmly to himself. Two different parties wished to deprive Jack of his freedom; very well, he would see to it that their ambitions were fulfilled, so that perhaps they might leave him in peace.
Draining the last of his cup, Jack ambled toward Balathorp and gave a small bow. “My lord, might I have a discreet word with you?”
Balathorp glanced at Jack with a look of annoyance. “Do I know you?” he asked.
“No, my lord, but we share certain business interests.”
“I do not attend the opera to discuss business.”
“I will not take much of your time.” Jack raised a hand to his chest, and made a show of wrapping the fingers of the other around his wrist as if to massage an ache … or to imitate a manacle.
Balathorp’s eyes narrowed, but he acceded. “Mirta, Saneyn, excuse me for just a moment,” he said to his companions. He followed as Jack drew him aside to a quiet corner of the room, where no one else stood within earshot. After a quick glance around, the tall lord scowled at Jack and said, “This had better be important. I never permit my business interests to intrude in the social circles I customarily inhabit.”