“A more permanent arrangement is, of course, to be preferred,” he told himself as he dined at the Ravenstrand’s common board that evening, “but for a tenday or so, this will serve well enough.” He examined a couple of the daily handbills from the inn’s common room while he ate. The Lord Mayor’s Revel was of course the chief topic of the day; Jack read about the lavish preparations and delightful entertainment planned for the evening. Seila would be there, perhaps expecting him to show up to unmask Fetterfist if word had not yet spread that Balathorp had been turned in to the city watch with serious accusations leveled against him. The thought of crashing the affair to see her crossed his mind, but then he reminded himself that he was trying to stay out of sight until the obnoxious Tarandor Delhame returned to Iriaebor.
The thought of Seila merely increased Jack’s frustration at the notion of outwaiting the master abjurer. With the remains of Norwood’s reward, the Sarkonagael’s reward, the hefty fee he’d extorted from the wizard Tarandor, and the full purse he’d found among Balathorp’s effects, Jack was as wealthy as anyone in Raven’s Bluff who wasn’t a noble or a very successful merchant. In fact, he was rich as he’d ever been in his life, a state of affairs he very much looked forward to enjoying. But that was nowhere as rich as he might be if he could win the hand of Seila Norwood. In fact, as Jack reflected on events, it occurred to him that of the various schemes and designs he’d concocted since his escape from the rothe pastures of Tower Chumavhraele, the one effort now in the greatest doubt was attaching himself in a real and lasting way to the Norwood fortunes. More to the point, he missed Seila, and found that his thoughts lingered on her merry smile, her enchanting green eyes, her lively wit, the delightful curves, the sweet sensation of her lips meeting his … he gave a small sigh, and shook his head.
“Clearly, it’s well past time to find my way back into her favor,” he reflected. “The question is, how?” He could invent a story that accounted for why he went to such pains to claim a title-an old curse or enemy he was desperate to avoid, perhaps. The difficulty was that both Seila and her father were now predisposed to doubt any new explanations he offered. If that were the case, would an honest and sincere apology stand the best chance of success? Both sincerity and honesty were somewhat foreign to Jack’s nature, but Seila seemed to have a way of bringing out strange sentiments in him. Perhaps he ought to hire a coach and go out to the Lord Mayor’s palace this very moment and tell her exactly what he felt in his heart … but, of course, he was supposed to be staying out of sight until Tarandor departed. The whole simulacrum scheme would collapse if word somehow got back to Tarandor that Jack was still at liberty.
Jack scowled to himself; he disliked waiting. Deciding he was in need of more convivial company than that offered by the Ravenstrand, he returned to his room for a cloak and rakish hat, then set out for the Smoke Wyrm. It was only a few blocks away, but he took a circuitous route to throw off any hypothetical tails. The evening was overcast, with a three-quarter moon that peeked infrequently through the scudding clouds. The rains and cold weather of the last few days seemed to finally be moving on, but the streets still seemed unusually empty, almost as if the city was holding its breath in anticipation.
The glow of lanternlight and murmur of voices from the taphouse were a welcome improvement. Jack found the Smoke Wyrm perhaps half-full, and paused in the doorway to make sure no one he did not care to meet was waiting for him. The place seemed safe enough, so he made his way to the bar. “A good evening to you, friend Tharzon,” he said to the old dwarf, who was working behind the counter. “A pint of your excellent lager, if you please. There will be no Old Smoky for me this evening.”
Tharzon snorted. “I never thought I’d live to see you learn a lesson, Jack.” He drew a pint for Jack and set it in front of the rogue. Then he reached under the counter and brought out a large leather belt pouch. “Speaking of which, you left this here last night.”
Jack looked at the pouch in confusion for a moment before he recognized it as Balathorp’s. He’d taken it from the slaver along with his coinpurse and sword, but hadn’t gotten around to looking through it during last night’s drinking at the Smoke Wyrm. “My thanks,” he said. “I had forgotten all about this.”
Taking the large mug and the leather pouch, he found a small table in a dark corner where he could watch the door without being easily seen. Carefully he emptied the pouch’s contents on the table. There was a well-worn ledger, a charcoal pencil, a pair of manacles, and finally a strange stone of mottled black and green, about half the size of his fist. He sensed magic in the stone, but its purpose eluded him; after scrutinizing it for a few moments, he set it aside. The ledger was filled out with cryptic abbreviations and columns of figures, marking dates and sums of coin. On a hunch Jack flipped to the pages for the last couple of days, and discovered on the page dated 14 Tarsakh the notation 17 Tars. 12b. Mumfort. Mchd: JR, m, hmn, 30. Source:? Dest: Chum. Vaclass="underline" 500? D. wants this one.
“Twelve bells, night of the seventeenth at Mumfort’s warehouse,” Jack decided. Balathorp had recorded Jack’s anticipated abduction as one more item of business, it seemed. From neighboring entries he quickly discerned that mchd meant “merchandise” and that the slaver had noted him as a thiry-year-old male human. Destination clearly suggested Chumavhraele, and Balathorp seemed to guess his value at five hundred gold crowns, which seemed like a lot to Jack. Then again, the slaver probably hoped that Dresimil Chumavh would gladly pay to get her hands on the man who’d whisked Seila Norwood out of her clutches. Perhaps the ledger might reveal more of Balathorp’s acquisitions and deliveries-that would seem to be sufficiently incriminating to help the Watch along with its investigation. Jack began to scan the ledger for more information, paging back to see if he could find a record of Seila Norwood’s capture and sale to the dark elves, and lost himself in the tale of brutality, greed, and woe recorded in the slaver’s books. Fetterfist was a very busy fellow, it seemed, and he’d made a fortune out of buying and selling people.
“A good evening to you, Jack.” The rogue looked up; Narm gave him a friendly nod and seated himself at Jack’s table, his large hand wrapped around a mug of Tharzon’s stout. The swordsman had evidently decided that Jack was not so bad a fellow, especially since Jack had paid him quite a good deal of coin in the last tenday or so. “Working on another job already?”
“Satisfying my curiosity,” Jack answered. “These were in the pouch we took off Balathorp last night.”
“No more gold,” Narm observed, with a small frown of disappointment.
“No, but we have Fetterfist’s books here. See, he recorded every, er, acquisition he made or intended to make, then where and when he sold his merchandise.” Jack pointed out the entry referring to himself. “Here is last night’s business. It seems he meant to sell me for five hundred crowns.”
“You should hand that over to the magistrate,” Narm observed. “It seems like damning evidence against Balathorp. Speaking of which, I didn’t see anything in today’s handbills about his arrest.”
Jack shrugged. “The Watch is most likely keeping the affair quiet while they investigate. A man of Balathorp’s station unmasked as a slaver? Shocking! Sensational! The last thing the authorities would want is to have it all come out in the broadsheets and handbills before they are certain of the facts.”