After the dinner, the guests retired to smoking rooms or parlors while the household staff cleared away the tables in the banquet hall to make space for dancing. Jack accompanied Seila to a drawing room as he plotted his next move. But he was intercepted in the hallway outside the door by a lean, balding man who wore the elegant dress robes of a mage. “Lord Wildhame?” the mage said. “May I have a word with you?”
Jack and Seila turned to face the fellow. He was a man of striking appearance, with winglike sweeps of black hair brushed back above his ears and a long, pointed goatee; both his beard and his temples were shot with narrow streaks of silver-white. Dark eyes glittered beneath a strong brow and a rudderlike nose, but his smile was warm and sincere. The mage inclined his head to Seila, and then Jack. “Allow me to congratulate you on your escape from your imprisonment and your return to Raven’s Bluff.”
Jack returned the fellow’s nod. “I only did the best I could in the circumstances, Master …?”
“Ah, I beg your pardon. Tarandor Delhame, at your service.”
“Master Tarandor,” said Jack, inclining his head again. Where had he heard that name before?
“Please forgive my confusion, but are you by any chance also known as Jack Ravenwild? And enrolled in the Wizards’ Guild as the Dread Delgath?”
Seila’s eyebrow lifted. “ ‘The Dread Delgath’?” she asked. “I shall have to add that to Ravenwild, I suppose. Exactly how many pseudonyms do you have, Jack?”
“In the past I sometimes found it advisable to adopt various aliases for my purposes,” Jack answered. “Remember, it was a different day and age, and the Warlord’s agents were everywhere. It saddens me to say it, but even the Wizards’ Guild was not completely above suspicion then; I did not trust them with my true identity.” He returned his attention to the mage. “I take it you must have spoken with Initiate Berreth.”
“Indeed. The Guild is fortunate to have such a celebrity as yourself among its membership.”
“I am sure the Wizards Guild must include many illustrious gentlemen and adventurers whose exploits outshine my own modest accomplishments,” Jack declared. “It is a pleasure to meet one of my esteemed colleagues in a social setting.”
“Ah, I must admit that I am not actually a member of the Raven’s Bluff guild, although I am acquainted with some of its masters,” said Tarandor. “I belong to the Mage Guild of Iriaebor; I am only visiting for a short time, and must return home soon.”
“What brings you to Raven’s Bluff, Master Tarandor?” Seila asked.
“I have learned that my master left important arcane matters for me to attend here in the Vast,” Tarandor replied. “In fact, I would dearly love to speak with Master Ravenwild about some old business that I think he may be able to help me resolve. It’s something of a mystery, and it’s puzzled me for years.”
Jack wondered what in the world the mage might be referring to, and then his memory finally placed the fellow’s name. “Ah, of course, you’re the Master Tarandor who called at Maldridge. Forgive my tardiness in replying, I have been very busy in the last couple of days.”
The mage waved his hand. “Think nothing of it. But I do need to speak with you, the sooner the better.” Seeing Jack’s hesitation, Tarandor hurried on. “Not tonight, of course. Perhaps noon tomorrow?”
“I may not return to the city until late tomorrow, and I have a previous engagement the day after,” Jack replied. “Better make it the evening of the thirteenth. Shall I expect you at Maldridge around seven bells?”
A look of impatience crossed Tarandor’s features, quickly smoothed away with a small nod and smile of acceptance. “Actually, I hope I can persuade you to join me at the warehouse of Mumfort and Company. It’s in Bitterstone, off Red Wyrm Ride.”
“A warehouse?” Jack asked.
Tarandor spread his hands apologetically. “I have come into possession of a large statue there, which can’t easily be moved. The statue is what I wish to speak to you about.”
“Master Tarandor, I know nothing about any statue.”
“When you see it, I think you will understand why we sought your professional expertise. In the meantime, the less said, the better.”
Jack frowned in puzzlement. He truly had no idea what the wizard was referring to, but he had to admit that his curiosity had been piqued. And it was rather flattering to think that the Guild recognized his unusual experience and expertise and believed he might be of use to a prominent mage visiting from a distant city. It might be a wise investment of his time and effort to go along with Tarandor’s request. “Very well, Master Tarandor, I will offer what help I may. Seven bells on the thirteenth, the Mumfort warehouse on Red Wyrm Ride.”
“Excellent!” the wizard replied. He nodded again to Seila and to Jack. “In that event, I will delay you no longer. My congratulations on your safe return, Lady Norwood.” With that, the wizard withdrew.
“That was mysterious,” Seila remarked.
“Indeed. I am the sort of person around whom mysteries and conundrums seem to gather.” Jack indicated the drawing room. “Shall we?”
After a short respite, the guests were summoned back to the banquet hall, which the household servants had transformed into a grand dance floor. A quartet of musicians were situated on a small balcony overlooking the hall; as the partygoers streamed back in, they struck up a merry air, and the dancing began. To his surprise and horror, Jack discovered that he was not at all familiar with the steps of the dances; apparently those, too, had changed during his long absence. Fortunately Seila was a very understanding partner, even if she did laugh at the startled look on his face when everyone on the floor went one way and he went another.
“I see that I am once again a century out of date,” he cried in frustration. “How mortifying! I have always been a good dancer.”
“Never fear, I’ll straighten you out soon enough,” Seila replied. “Step, step, step-step, turn and skip. Step, step, step-step, turn and skip.”
Jack was a quick study, and he picked up the new steps in short order. Regrettably he had to relinquish Seila’s company all too soon; there were only about a hundred or so gentlemen in attendance who wanted to dance with her. He was able to gain her hand two or three times during the evening, but for the most part he had to content himself with a glittering array of elegant young noblewomen, many of them Seila’s cousins, distant cousins, or dear friends. He told himself there were worse ways to pass an evening, but he kept an eye on Seila the whole time, mostly watching out for any of his potential rivals.
Sometime a little after midnight, he excused himself for a bit of air and strolled out onto the veranda, gazing over the pavilion and lanterns gracing the garden below. A familiar laugh caught his ear; he turned back toward the ballroom and saw Seila there in the middle of a knot of talkative young noblewomen. He gazed at her from his vantage, admiring the way her smile lit up her face. No, there would be far worse fates than to become the husband of Seila Norwood, he reflected. Not only would he be richer than he’d ever imagined and his place among the Ravenaar noble class cemented for life, he’d have that smile to brighten his days. Why, when he thought about it, he might not care if she were wealthy or not … “Stop that nonsense, Jack,” he murmured to himself. “The one sure way to miss your chance is to forget the game you’re playing.”
He gave himself a firm shake, readjusted his hat to a rakish tilt, and started to return to the fray. Then a voice nearby caught his ear. “Alas, my lady. You wound me, you truly do!” a man said with a low laugh.
Jack paused, and glanced around to find the speaker. He’d heard that turn of phrase before; a moment later he fixed his eye on a tall nobleman with long yellow hair, who stood on the balcony ringing the ballroom’s upper floor, conversing with a young noblewoman who laughed at his remark. Something about the fellow seemed familiar, but Jack couldn’t quite place him. “I’ve seen you before, but where?” he murmured aloud. The opera, perhaps? Or the meeting of the Historical Society?
Frowning, Jack stared at the mysterious lord for a long moment, forgetting about Seila and her friends on the dance floor. Tentatively he held out his arm and raised his hand slowly, positioning his fingers in his line of sight until he cropped out the upper half of the man’s face. All that was left was the bony jaw and the fringe of yellow hair falling about the fellow’s neck. “Ah, there you are,” Jack breathed. He’d seen that face and hair before, all right, but masked from the nose up in a leather cowl. The man standing on the balcony was Fetterfist the slaver … and he was apparently a guest at the Norwood ball.
“The dastard,” Jack fumed. Was he entertaining ideas of abducting her again? Or was he there simply because the Norwoods had innocently invited him among all the other assembled nobles of Raven’s Bluff, unaware of the fact that one of the city’s aristocrats was secretly a bloody-handed slaver? Either way, Jack meant to find out at once who the fellow was and expose him to the Norwoods-there was no reason to let Fetterfist walk about free one moment longer than he had to.
