“Fine, then,” Jack grumbled. He grudgingly paid half the agreed sum in advance. He tried to reassure himself with the thought that if his little ploy worked, it would be money well spent; neither dark elf assassins nor officious wizards would have any more reason to haunt his steps. “After all, is that not how men of means defeat their troubles?” he asked himself. “Any problem that can be solved with something as simple as a bag of gold crowns is not much of a problem at all, really.”
“What was that?” Narm asked, pausing in his count of coins.
“A philosophical observation, and nothing more,” Jack replied.
“It depends whether you have a bag of gold or not,” Kurzen answered. “And of course some complaints can’t be addressed by any amount of coin.” He scooped up his share of the coins, and stood. “I have to get back to my work or my da will never let me hear the end of it.”
“Remember, the warehouse of Mumfort and Company, nine bells on the evening of the seventeeth,” Jack said again. “I will meet you there.”
“Nine bells,” Narm agreed. “Until the day after tomorrow, then,” he said. Kurzen nodded in agreement and led the way back to the crowded taproom. Jack took his leave of the Smoke Wyrm for the evening, hurrying back to the tiny little suite above the disused tinsmith’s shop.
He passed the rest of the evening in a close study of the spell he’d cut from the Sarkonagael, reading the magical pages in the lightless room. Tharzon’s bolthole was not a particularly comfortable place to study; the roof leaked, and there was a peculiarly strong musty odor that seemed to emerge in the rain and damp of the evening. However, the place served its purpose of providing Jack with a place to work out of the sight of those who did not mean him well. Jack had given the shadow-simulacrum spell only a cursory examination while entrapped in Tarandor Delhame’s bottle. Jack soon discovered that, as he’d thought, the spell was more of a ritual than the sort of spell one might actually memorize. The procedure itself seemed relatively straightforward, but some of the finer details taxed him sorely. By the early hours of morning he’d satisfied his curiosity enough to seek a few hours’ sleep on the narrow, hard bed.
Jack awoke to another cold, overcast morning; a steady drizzle grayed the streets and buildings around Jack’s retreat. He made his breakfast on a pair of sweet rolls and a quart of fresh milk from a nearby bakery, while he carefully composed a brief note and sealed it in a small envelope. Then he dressed himself in the plainest and most ordinary of the clothes remaining from the fine wardrobe created by Grigor Silverstitch-dark blue breeches with a matching vest, a shirt of white Turmishan cotton, a broad-brimmed hat of the same hue as the breeches, and a cape of light gray. He tucked his note into his vest pocket, then he worked his spell of disguise, making himself taller and lanker, changing his hair to a dirty straw color, removing his goatee, and making his jawline broad and bony. When he finished, he checked his appearance in the mirror and grinned in approval; it was a good likeness of Cailek Balathorp. Then he set out into the rainy morning.
He headed south through Torchtown until he reached Evensong Ride, then strolled through Holyhouses and Swordspoint. At MacIntyre he turned left, with a small twinge of trepidation-the smoldering ruins of Maldridge were just a block or two ahead, and there was a very small chance that anyone looking for Jack might stake out the burned manor on the off chance he returned to dig through the rubble. But before he reached Maldridge or any likely imaginary spies watching for him, he came to the High House of Magic and trotted up the rain-slick steps to the door.
After one quick tug at his garments to adjust the fit, Jack knocked on the great black door. There was a long pause, then Jack heard measured footfalls from the hallway within. The heavy door swung open, revealing the tiefling chamberlain-Marzam, was that his name? — dressed in a fine black coat. The grave-looking tiefling studied Jack for a moment, and then asked, “May I help you, sir?”
“Is Master Tarandor here today?” Jack asked.
“I believe so, sir. If you’ll wait a moment-”
“No need, my good fellow.” Jack drew his note from his breast pocket and presented it to the chamberlain. “Please deliver this to him at once. It is a matter that interests him greatly.”
Marzam gave Jack a dubious look, but he accepted the envelope. “I will see to it,” he said.
“Very good,” Jack answered. He turned and trotted back down the steps; behind him, the tiefling watched him depart, then returned inside. The rogue turned south on MacIntyre and crossed Evensong Ride, making for a building just two short blocks down from the High House of Magic. A faded yellow door stood under the sign of a great black pot; Jack went inside. Back in his day, the Kettle of Many Things had been a fine little restaurant. After a hundred years, it was now a tavern that catered to the city’s working folk with filling fare and inexpensive ale and wine. Jack took a seat at a table by the window, ordered a mug of weak beer, and settled in to wait, hoping the tiefling hadn’t just tossed the note as soon as he closed the door. It was midmorning; the Kettle was quiet, with only two or three other customers minding their own business.
A quarter-hour later, the wizard Tarandor Delhame hurried through the door, sweeping the room with his eyes. Jack, of course, still wore Balathorp’s face, but he’d drawn his hat low over his face in a show of discretion. He signaled the wizard with a motion of his hand. Tarandor frowned, but he crossed the room and slid into the bench opposite Jack. “Are you the one who left me the note at the High House?” he asked.
“I am,” Jack replied, performing a good imitation of Balathorp’s deep and mellifluous tone. “I hope I did not cause you any great inconvenience, Master Tarandor.”
“If what your note claimed is true, then it is no inconvenience at all.” The wizard studied his face, evidently trying to place it. “You seem to have me at a disadvantage. Who are you?”
“A simple man of business. Some call me Fetterfist.”
Tarandor’s eyes narrowed. “The slaver,” he said flatly. “Your reputation precedes you.”
“We all do what we must to get by.”
“Why did you seek me out?”
“I heard that you are very interested in this Jack Ravenwild fellow. I can deliver him to you.”
The abjurer frowned. “My interest is hardly public knowledge. How did you learn that I was seeking him?”
Jack gave a small shrug. “I had a little conversation with the fire-mage Halamar at that taphouse he favors last night. You might say we have some mutual acquaintances. Now, I am sure you are a busy man, and I have many things to attend today as well, so allow me to get to the point: I have Ravenwild, and I’ll sell him to you for two thousand gold crowns.”
“Two thousand-” the abjurer spluttered. “Why, you don’t understand! He poses a dire threat to the safety of the entire city. I must take him into custody as a public service.”
Jack took a long sip from his beer. “Do I look as if I am interested in performing public services?” he asked. “You are not the only party interested in this fellow, you know. The drow would love to get their hands on him, too, and they’ll pay me that much or more.”
“No, don’t do that! The dark elves may not follow the necessary procedures, and I will never be free of this detestable duty.” Tarandor scowled, but after a moment he nodded. “Fine. Two thousand crowns, then. Where is he?”
Jack stood and hid a smile. That last bit about asking for money was pure inspiration of the moment; the idea that Tarandor would pay for the privilege of being duped was exquisite. He should have asked for more. “Meet me at ten bells tomorrow night at the icehouse on Black Visor Street,” he said. “I’ll have him all bundled up and ready for you. And don’t forget the coin. Now, are we agreed?”