Torrin turned the pouch upside down. His runestone thudded onto the table, scattering gold coins. Tril’s eyes widened. He started to reach for the stone.
The bodyguard caught the half-elf’s arm. “Touch it,” he told Torrin.
Torrin raised an eyebrow.
“You spilled it from the pouch without touching it,” the bodyguard said. “That makes me wonder if it’s ensorcelled.” He nodded down at the runestone. “Touch it.”
Torrin laid down the dice and picked up the stone. “Satisfied?” he asked as he placed it back on the table.
The bodyguard released his master’s arm, then picked up the runestone himself. After a quick examination, he passed it to Tril. The latter barely glanced at it before placing it back on the table.
So far, so good.
Tril leaned back in his chair, toying with his wine glass once more. His movements seemed idle, but his fingertips were white against the stem of the glass. “Where’s the real thing?” he asked.
“In my pack,” Torrin lied. “If you know anything about Delvers’ packs, you’ll know that I’m the only one who can remove anything from it, as Vadyr already found out. And just in case you’re thinking about it, little tricks like dispelling the pack’s magic won’t work. Everything inside it will just… vanish. Permanently. Killing me and reaching in with my dead hand won’t work, either. It’s my will that causes the pack to deliver its contents into my hand. And should you try to magically compel me to pull something out, well, let’s just say the pack will sense the difference, and act accordingly. Whatever I pull out will be a very unpleasant surprise, believe me.”
The last was just a myth the Delvers liked to spread, but the rogues wouldn’t know that. And for all Torrin knew, it might even be true. The manufacture and enchantment of a Delver’s pack was a closely guarded secret that only Delvemasters were privy to.
“Is that what happened to Vadyr?” Tril asked, his eyes cold. “An ‘unpleasant surprise?’ ”
“I have no idea what happened to your… associate,” Torrin said carefully, hoping his honest reply would be believed. “After he tried to steal the runestone from me in Hammergate, Vadyr disappeared. I never saw him again. Although I do know this-a duergar was enquiring about him around the same time.”
The half-elf started to glance at his bodyguard, but abruptly checked himself. He released the wine glass, which wobbled and threatened to fall. He caught the glass again, steadying it. His hand trembled just enough that Torrin noticed.
“What did the duergar look like?” Tril asked. “Did he have any tattoos?”
“I don’t know,” Torrin said. “I never saw him, myself. Just heard about him.”
Whoever the duergar was, it was clear the half-elf recognized him. Perhaps the duergar had been on the trail of the half-elf, as well. Making enquiries about the gold, and perhaps killing when he didn’t get the answers he wanted. A duergar in Sundasz wouldn’t surprise Torrin. Tallfolk, dark elves… anyone was welcome, it seemed.
Tril had regained his composure. He nodded at the runestone on the table. “How did you acquire that?” he asked. “The real one, I mean.”
“A dwarf named Kendril sold it to me,” Torrin replied.
Tril’s mouth twitched slightly. “And what happened to him? Did he just… disappear, the way Vadyr did? Or did you have something to do with it?”
“I may be a rogue, but I’m no murderer!” Torrin said vehemently. “Kendril took his own life. When we met to conduct our transaction, he was blind and crippled with the stoneplague, and begging the Dwarffather to forgive him. Then he jumped off Needle Leap.”
“Pushed, more likely,” the bodyguard growled.
“No!” Torrin said. “By Moradin’s beard, I swear it. I tried to stop Kendril from jumping, but he wouldn’t listen to me.”
“Well, then,” Tril said, suddenly breaking into a wide smile. “That certainly clears things up.”
“Clears what up?” Torrin asked, uncertain what had just caused the half-elf’s sudden change of demeanor.
Tril waved the question away with a slender hand. “Another drink is in order, I think,” he said. “To celebrate the start of a new relationship.” He snapped his fingers. “Bartender! More wine for me, and two ales for my companions, if you please!”
Torrin smiled to himself. The half-elf had just saved him a lot of bother. He’d been worried about how he’d get him to order another round, but the fellow had solved that problem. Torrin clenched both fists-the signal for Val’tissa to move to the bar and tip a potion into the half-elf’s glass as the bartender filled it.
“Then you’re satisfied with what’s being offered?” Torrin asked. “You’re willing to buy?”
Tril stared across the table at him. “What’s the asking price?”
“Information.”
“About what?”
The bartender arrived with their drinks. The conversation paused as the half-elf paid him.
“I want to know about the curse,” Torrin said. “Who cast it, how it was done. And how it can be undone.”
Tril stared at his wine glass, idly turning it. “That’s asking a lot,” he said.
Torrin felt sweat trickling down his back. Drink it, he silently pleaded. “The runestone’s worth a lot.”
Tril started to smile, but then hid it by taking a sip of wine. It took everything Torrin had not to sigh in relief. The half-elf was obviously about to lie to him. Thanks to the potion, however, he’d be compelled to speak the truth. Assuming Val’tissa had been successful.
“We were wondering ourselves what caused the gold to become cursed,” Tril said as he lowered his glass. “Kendril thought it was because Moradin was angry. But Cathor here-” he jerked a thumb in the direction of the bodyguard “-said it was probably something the duergar did.”
The bodyguard sat forward abruptly. His left hand was hidden under the table, and one of the sheaths on his bandolier was suddenly empty.
Torrin prayed Val’tissa would notice and position herself accordingly. He couldn’t signal her. A single flick of a finger might be his last. Cathor looked ready to strike. And he was obviously more than he’d seemed-more than a mere bodyguard.
“What duergar?” Torrin asked, his mouth suddenly as dry as rock dust.
“The ones in Drik Hargunen,” the half-elf replied. “The place where Cathor-”
Tril’s face suddenly went white. Several things happened then in rapid succession. Tril clutched himself as something sticky and wet-blood? — sprayed onto Torrin’s knee, soaking his trousers. Cathor lunged out of his seat and tried to grab the runestone. Before he could reach it, a wristbow bolt, shot by the invisible Val’tissa, thudded into his hand and pinned it to the table.
Cathor grabbed at the runestone with his other hand, but Torrin dived across the table and grabbed the front of his shirt, shoving him back.
Cathor was shorter than Torrin, but stronger. He forced himself forward. His hand closed around the runestone. He shouted something in a language Torrin didn’t understand.
Waves of blue spellfire erupted out of the floorboards and streaked toward the runestone. Terrified, the inn’s other patrons scrambled to get away. Shouts and screams filled the inn.
Torrin’s jaw dropped. Cathor had activated the runestone! How was that possible?
Val’tissa, now visible, raced to their table. “Torrin!” she shouted.
Torrin felt a sudden, familiar wrench. Still clutching the front of Cathor’s shirt, he was yanked sideways by the magic of the runestone. As the pair of them twisted into the space between the inn and wherever they were teleporting to, tumbling end over end together with the table, Cathor’s hand tore free of the bolt that had pinned it. His howl of pain echoed eerily as he and Torrin spun through space. Torrin saw a flash of steel. Despite his injured hand, Cathor had drawn his second dagger! Torrin’s mace was at his hip, but he couldn’t reach for it. He had to keep hold of Cathor or the Morndinsamman only knew where he’d wind up.
“Moradinnn!” Torrin screamed, his wail drawing out the way that Kendril’s had, that terrible day at Needle Leap. “Aid meee…”
Torrin and Cathor landed in darkness, crashing in a heap onto a rough stone floor. An eyeblink later, the table landed on them. Smashed prone, Torrin lost his grip on Cathor’s shirt. Something clattered away in the darkness. Cathor’s dagger? The runestone?
