greedily at the gold.
Torrin had instructed the middlemen to circulate his offer amongst Sundasz’s rogues, especially any found suddenly spending gold by the handful. The half-elf certainly seemed to fit that description.
“Barkeep!” the half-elf shouted. “Another round of your best for my friends and me. No, make that a round for everyone!” He swept a hand through the air, indicating the rest of the room. The other patrons grinned, raised their mugs in salute, and drained them.
The barkeep hastily thudded Torrin’s ale down on the counter, reached for fresh mugs and glasses, and filled them. Then he carried three to the half-elf’s table and collected payment. The half-elf waved away the change, and the barkeep bowed his thanks. There was a big smile on his face as he returned to the bar, obviously pleased with the large tip.
“Is my ale paid for, too?” Torrin asked.
“That it is,” replied the barkeep. “Let’s hope the elf’s generosity continues.” He carefully tucked the gold Anvils away in his strongbox as the other patrons lined up at the bar, thirsty for refills. “Funny that he’s so cheerful, even when he’s losing. Still, if he wants to toss away his coin…”
Torrin nodded, no longer listening. Those gold Anvils could very well be forgeries, struck from the cursed gold. Torrin pictured spellplague seeping into the barkeep’s blunt fingers, worming its way toward his heart. It would do the same to any dwarf patron who bought the expensive ales and wines offered by the inn-expensive enough to warrant receiving an Anvil or two as change.
Torrin, however, said nothing, gave no warning. It was for the greater good, he told himself. Yet keeping silent was as painful as trying to swallow a jagged shard of slag.
He made a show of staring at the fire and shivering. His cloak was dripping from the heavy rain in the open canyon outside. He rubbed his hands together, then picked up his mug and made his way to the hearth. He stood before the fire, warming himself and drying his cloak, using it as an excuse to get a closer look at the half-elf.
The fellow was well dressed, in what looked like brand new leather breeches and boots with brass buckles. His velvet doublet was embroidered with thread-of-gold and had a high ruff collar, slashed sleeves, and silver buttons on the cuffs. The clothes, however, didn’t match the rest of him. The half-elf’s hands were calloused, with grime under the fingernails. His graying hair was greasy. He took a long drink of wine, and wiped his lips with the back of a stained cuff.
He noticed Torrin looking at him, and held his eye for a moment, obviously sizing him up. Torrin raised his mug in salute.
The two dwarves at the table were as well dressed as the half-elf, but better groomed. They seemed far more comfortable in their clothes, and less coarse in their habits. One had a pipe in his mouth that had long since gone cold. The other drank wine from a fluted glass, like the half-elf. Torrin saw, to his horror, that the wine contained tiny flakes of gold. Elven “gold dust” wine, they called it. Very expensive stuff. And, if that was cursed gold, ultimately lethal.
A third dwarf sat slightly back from the table, but close enough to the half-elf that he was obviously with him. He was roughly dressed, with a sword slung across his back on a bandolier, and two daggers on his belt. He was a broad-chested man even for a dwarf, with hard black eyes, a shaved head, and long gray beard. His nose looked as if it had been flattened more than once. Numerous small scars criss-crossed his hands, which, Torrin noted with alarm, had a slight grayish tinge to them. The stoneplague?
The third dwarf was, Torrin decided, likely a bodyguard for the half-elf. Hired with cursed gold and showing the first signs of stoneplague. Oddly, the two gamblers didn’t seem to take any notice of his gray-tinged hands, despite the fact that dozens of dwarves in Sundasz had succumbed to the stoneplague.
The bodyguard glanced in Torrin’s direction and made a show of scowling, as if he’d just noticed Torrin. Yet Torrin had seen the sidelong look the dwarf had given him earlier, as Torrin had approached the hearth. The bodyguard nudged the half-elf and said something in a low voice.
The half-elf glanced in Torrin’s direction. “You there, by the fire!” he called out in a jovial voice. “You look like a man who likes to wager. Come. Sit down. Join us.”
Torrin made a show of eyeing the stacks of Anvils on the table. “You’ll be sorry,” he said with a grin. “Get ready to lose some of that gold.”
The two dwarf gamblers made room at the table, and Torrin sat between them, wondering whether they were acting the role, or whether they were just what they seemed: unwitting pawns in the half-elf’s real game.
Torrin drained his ale and set the empty mug on a table behind him. He didn’t want the same trick he was about to pull being used on him.
“I’m Tril,” the half-elf said, introducing himself.
“Gond,” Torrin said, giving a false name. A human name, and one as common as quartz.
The pipe smoker introduced himself as Bran; the other dwarf, as Hathar.
“Another ale?” Tril asked as he handed Torrin the dice.
Torrin shook his head. “No, thank you,” he replied. “I prefer to keep a clear head for these matters.”
“What will you wager?” Bran asked.
“An equal share in a fortune,” Torrin answered, rattling the dice in cupped hands. “A veritable river of gold, just waiting to be tapped.”
The half-elf didn’t react. But rogues were like that-good at keeping a straight face.
Torrin nodded at the stacks of coins. “Here’s my offer,” he said. “Each of you spot me thirty Anvils, and when I’ve lost the last of them, whoever’s still in the game is in on the delve.” He glanced around the table. “Do we have a deal?”
Bran burst out laughing. His pipe fell from his mouth, struck the table, and scattered ash. Hathar turned to stare at Torrin, his expression making it clear he thought Torrin had just lost his mind. “What do you take me for, human?” he cried. “Some sort of beardless imbecile?”
Tril, however, shoved a stack of Anvils across the table-more than half of what he had left. “Done!” he cried.
The two dwarf gamblers exchanged looks. Hathar raised an eyebrow. Bran nodded, picked up his pipe and tucked it into a pocket, then began scooping his winnings into a coin pouch. “We’ll take our leave,” he said.
“What, now?” Tril cried. “Just when the game has gotten interesting?”
He was slurring his words slightly-likely for Torrin’s benefit.
“Tempting though it is to continue to enjoy your hospitality and relieve you of the last of your gold, I too must decline,” Hathar said, also collecting his winnings. He drained the last of his glass and bowed his farewell.
Torrin rattled the dice. “Your call,” he told the half-elf. “Should we play dice-or turn our attention to the real game?”
The bodyguard tensed. His hands were seemingly at ease on his lap, each close to a dagger. Tril, suddenly looking much more sober, flicked a hand. The bodyguard relaxed-slightly.
“You have a runestone for sale,” Tril said.
Torrin nodded.
“Prove to me you’ve got it,” the half-elf continued. “That we didn’t come all this way for nothing.”
Torrin’s pulse beat in his ears. He was acutely aware of the bodyguard sitting across the table. One of those knives would find his heart before he could blink, if their exchange went the wrong way. For that matter, any of the other patrons trying so hard to pretend they weren’t straining to listen in on the conversation might also be in league with the half-elf.
Willing his hands to stay steady, Torrin untied a coin pouch from his belt. “Are you familiar with the duplication ritual?” he asked, whispering a silent prayer that they were. Well-known to shopkeepers like his parents who took in magical items in trade, it was a spell used by rogues to pass off non-magical duplicates of a ring, a wand, or some other small item as the real thing. The transformation lasted less than a day before the item reverted back to its true form-just long enough for the rogues to leave town.
“I’ve heard of it,” the half-elf admitted.
“I’m about to show you a copy of the runestone,” Torrin said. “A replica, made using that ritual.” In fact, what he was about to show them was the real thing. He paused a moment, giving Val’tissa time to get into position. Torrin wasn’t worried about the half-elf using the runestone to teleport away, as the inn was a long way from the nearest earth node. But if Tril made a grab for the runestone and ran, she’d be there to stop him.
