certainly wouldn’t hurt his cause to spend several hours at Seila Norwood’s side. “Given the circumstances, I suppose I should just meet you in your box at the Rundelstone?”
“That would seem to be for the best. The show begins at eight.”
“Excellent! I am looking forward to it already, and I am sure we will expose that dastardly felon before the end of the first act.” Jack took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Tomorrow night, then.”
“Tomorrow night,” Seila said. She leaned forward to kiss him again, lightly this time, and then slipped out the front door.
Deciding to heed Seila’s advice and demonstrate attention to Lord Norwood’s requirements, Jack spent most of the rainy afternoon looking into alternative lodgings. It was possible, after all, that given time Seila might succeed in moderating her father’s stern stance against him, although it was clear that the days of posing as the Landsgrave Jaer Kell Wildhame were at an end. Somehow Jack doubted that Norwood would ever countenance any relationship between him and Seila, but at least he was still in the game; after all, the old fellow might be struck down by a runaway carriage tomorrow, and then Jack’s failure to come clean under Norwood’s accusations might not reach anyone else’s ears.
Unfortunately, a long afternoon of eliminating one genteel neighborhood after another from his prospects as he compared asking prices for comfortable homes to the state of his accounts left him footsore and discouraged. Nothing in Tentowers or Swordspoint seemed likely to fit his budget; Sixstar and Mortonbrace held possibilities, but they could hardly be considered trendy districts. “If I were not a generous and forgiving soul I might at this very moment be engaged in arranging a coach accident,” Jack grumbled to himself as he roamed the streets. “Then I wouldn’t need to abandon Maldridge or make unpleasant adjustments to my lifestyle.”
The Sarkonagael he kept in a plain leather satchel under his left arm. He didn’t want to leave it out of his sight-Myrkyssa Jelan clearly knew where he lived and might be able to have Aderbleen divine its location again if he left it somewhere else. Several times throughout the afternoon he considered turning in the book immediately to get his hands on more coin sooner rather than later, but he checked the impulse: There was no hurry to part company with the prize until he’d seen whether he could drive up the price with some shrewd bargaining. No, the best thing to do was to secure good temporary quarters with the funds he already had in hand, simply to provide himself a place to keep his just-purchased wardrobe and personal belongings.
Jack turned his attention to the best inns and boarding-houses he could find, with little more success. Finally the thought occurred to him that he’d recently made a good impression on many new friends among the lower nobility; perhaps he could quietly let slip the news that Maldridge was soon to be renovated and that he was seeking a place to stay for a little while. Some kindly old matron among Lady Moonbrace’s friends or perhaps an acquaintance of the Flermeers would certainly step forward to extend hospitality to a person of his current celebrity. Jack decided that he liked that plan much better than parting with his own good gold … but that, of course, depended on Marden Norwood issuing no public denouncement of him. So far Seila’s father seemed disinclined to do so, perhaps because he’d offered Jack the chance to leave quietly with the coin he already had, but who could say what might happen when Norwood discovered Seila’s defiance?
Determined to put his new plan into action at once, Jack returned to Maldridge to write a few properly worded notes to some of his new friends among the well-to-do. He deflected Edelmon’s none-too-subtle inquiries about when exactly he would be vacating the premises and enjoyed another good dinner, even if it was unquestionably more ordinary fare than he’d enjoyed before Norwood’s unfortunate visit. “It appears the staff has determined there is no longer any particular reason to curry my good favor,” he muttered to himself.
He set straight to his correspondence after finishing his supper, and became so absorbed in the task that he lost track of the hour. It wasn’t until he absently noted the distant gongs echoing through the city streets as the various temples marked seven bells of the evening that sudden recollection struck him: He’d promised to meet Master Tarandor of the Wizards’ Guild in Bitterstone at this very hour.
“Selune’s silver teats!” he cried, sitting upright. Whatever business Tarandor had with him, no good could come of missing the appointment. He dashed for the door, slinging his satchel over his shoulder and throwing on a long cloak against the evening chill, and then hurried out. He took a moment to secure his cloak and consider the speediest route; as he did so he thought he saw a black-cloaked figure watching him from an alleyway across the street. Jack peered into the evening gloom, but the cloaked watcher was gone. Had he seen a hint of ruby-colored eyes and ebony skin? Or had he imagined something in the shadows of the alley?
“The thrice-damned dark elves have me starting at shadows,” he muttered. At least the afternoon’s rains had lifted, although a thick mist was gathering in the seaward districts; the night would be foggy indeed. Putting the uncertain sighting behind him, Jack crossed over to Moorland and hurried south all the way to Rhabie Promenade at a pace that was more than half a run, then followed the wide boulevard through Altarside and the Anvil into the harbor district of Bitterstone. Good luck to any skulking drow trying to dog his footsteps!
He managed the distance in a quarter-hour, but then once he was in the proper neighborhood the combination of thickening fog and poorly remembered directions delayed him further; he actually walked past the warehouse of Mumfort and Company twice before he realized that that was the place he was looking for. With some chagrin, he went up and knocked firmly at the door. “Master Tarandor?” he called.
He heard footsteps on a creaking wooden floor, then Tarandor Delhame opened the door. “Ah, good evening, Master Ravenwild,” the lean wizard said. Jack thought his smile seemed a little forced, but then again, he’d kept the fellow waiting almost half an hour. “I was beginning to fear that you’d forgotten our appointment.”
“In truth, I did not remember it until I heard seven bells struck. Please excuse my tardiness.”
“No matter,” the mage replied. “You are here now; we can proceed.” He stepped back and invited Jack inside with a slight bow; Jack nodded and entered the warehouse. Stacks of wooden crates and small wooden casks lined the walls; several lanterns hanging from posts cast a warm yellow illumination over the otherwise dim and dusty interior. Jack saw that a large space had been cleared in the center of the room. A work table littered with parchment, old tomes, and a couple of curious green glass bottles stood to one side of the room, while a large object of some sort stood covered by a shapeless sheet of canvas in the center of the open area. Several more wizards-a plump young man with a patchy beard, a fetching elven woman with greenish-gold hair, and a Calishite man who wore a fez turned and bowed to Jack as he made his entrance.
“Good evening,” Jack said to the others, enjoying the air of professional camaraderie. “So how might I be of assistance? I confess this is all very mysterious.”
“Perhaps it might be easiest to show you,” Tarandor answered. “Attend, sir.” He walked up to the covered object in the middle of the room, and glanced at the other wizards. Then he took hold of a cord or lanyard hidden under the canvas and gave it a firm yank. In the corner of his eye Jack noticed the other mages in the room averting their faces as Tarandor turned his back fully on the falling canvas shroud. Beneath the canvas there stood a battered old statue of no particular quality, the sort of thing one might have found gathering bird-nests in any poor nobleman’s garden-but the face had been carefully chiseled into a flat, mirror-smooth surface, and there glowed a complex mystic rune. Jack’s eyes fell on the symbol before he even realized that he was looking at it, and a great burst of greenish light sprang from the device. A sudden dizziness swept over him, as the warehouse seemed to whirl away into darkness and shadow and the most peculiar sensation of motion in all directions at once overcame him.
He fell to his hands and knees, and found cool sand underneath him instead of the dusty old floorboards of the warehouse. Jack scrambled back to his feet and whirled around, astounded by his new surroundings. He seemed to be in a small, spherical room made of dark greenish glass. The walls curved inward to meet the low ceiling, which then drew away into a dark passage or flue. Beneath his feet was coarse white sand, which served to level the floor. “What is the meaning of this?” he shouted, and struck at the wall with his fist. The glass was so thick he might as well have been punching at stone.
Jack realized that he could see through the dark glass wall; outside the small chamber that held him, he could still make out the yellow lanterns hanging from the posts in the warehouse, strangely dim and distant. A vast shadow suddenly seemed to move across the wall behind him, and the room shuddered under a dull impact. The whole structure, Jack of course included, seemed to rise straight into the air. He lost his balance and sprawled to the sand again, which now slithered past his hands and knees, shifting to one side as the strange chamber tilted. Jack floundered in the rough sand, cursing … then the face of Tarandor Dethame suddenly appeared against one wall, but vastly huge, easily twice Jack’s height from peppered goatee to gleaming bald brow.
“AH, THERE YOU ARE JACK,” the monstrous visage thundered. “HOW DO YOU LIKE YOUR
