fifty gold crowns for your time and trouble.”
The big swordsman scratched at his stubble-covered chin. “In light of the mortal danger we encountered on our last venture, we’ll need to be paid in advance. And I’ll be the judge of whether fifty crowns is enough for your job. Now, what do you have in mind?”
“Let us find a place to speak more privately, and perhaps see if Kurzen is interested as well,” Jack answered. The rogue and the sellsword moved over to the crowded bar, where Tharzon’s son and a pair of human barkeeps worked to keep the mugs and pitchers of the Smoke Wyrm’s customers full.
Kurzen glanced up and saw Jack and Narm waiting. He gave them a small nod, wiping his hands on his apron. “Back again, Jack? I thought you were off to the opera or some such business this evening.”
Narm glanced down at Jack. “The opera?” he asked.
“I am a cultured man. Besides, that’s where the rich people can be found.”
“I see that another scheme is afoot,” said Kurzen. “Speak quickly, if you please-we’re a mite busy this evening.”
“This shouldn’t be more than a few moments of your time, friend Kurzen,” Jack replied. “Do you have a quiet place to talk?”
The dwarf glanced at the room and the waiting customers. “Hold down the bar, lads,” he said to the barkeeps. Then he came out from around the bar and led Jack and Narm to the kegroom where Jack had spoken to Tharzon earlier. Several of the big kegs were lying empty on the floor, which was now wet and slick with spillage. Jack was impressed; they went through a good deal of ale at the Smoke Wyrm, or so it seemed. Kurzen wiped his hands on his apron and glanced around once to make sure no one else was in earshot. “Well, Jack, what’s on your mind?” he said.
“I need some help in convincing some persistent enemies to leave me alone.”
“It’ll cost you more than fifty crowns to hire me as an assassin,” Narm muttered.
“That is not precisely what I was planning,” Jack replied. “I wish to retain you for security.”
He went on to describe the situations with Tarandor and the dark elves while Narm and Kurzen listened closely. At length the half-orc made a counteroffer, and after some negotiation, they settled on a price of four hundred gold crowns for the participation of Kurzen and the Company of the Blue Wyvern.
“Good enough,” the dwarf grunted. “But let’s have half in advance, if you please.”
“Aye, half in advance,” Narm agreed. Jack started to protest, but the half-orc only smiled. “You’ve just told us that two different bands of foes are looking for you. If they catch you, Kurzen and I will have nothing for our troubles.”
“Fine, then,” Jack grumbled. He grudgingly paid half the agreed sum in advance. He tried to reassure himself with the thought that if his little ploy worked, it would be money well spent; neither dark elf assassins nor officious wizards would have any more reason to haunt his steps. “After all, is that not how men of means defeat their troubles?” he asked himself. “Any problem that can be solved with something as simple as a bag of gold crowns is not much of a problem at all, really.”
“What was that?” Narm asked, pausing in his count of coins.
“A philosophical observation, and nothing more,” Jack replied.
“It depends whether you have a bag of gold or not,” Kurzen answered. “And of course some complaints can’t be addressed by any amount of coin.” He scooped up his share of the coins, and stood. “I have to get back to my work or my da will never let me hear the end of it.”
“Remember, the warehouse of Mumfort and Company, nine bells on the evening of the seventeeth,” Jack said again. “I will meet you there.”
“Nine bells,” Narm agreed. “Until the day after tomorrow, then,” he said. Kurzen nodded in agreement and led the way back to the crowded taproom. Jack took his leave of the Smoke Wyrm for the evening, hurrying back to the tiny little suite above the disused tinsmith’s shop.
He passed the rest of the evening in a close study of the spell he’d cut from the Sarkonagael, reading the magical pages in the lightless room. Tharzon’s bolthole was not a particularly comfortable place to study; the roof leaked, and there was a peculiarly strong musty odor that seemed to emerge in the rain and damp of the evening. However, the place served its purpose of providing Jack with a place to work out of the sight of those who did not mean him well. Jack had given the shadow-simulacrum spell only a cursory examination while entrapped in Tarandor Delhame’s bottle. Jack soon discovered that, as he’d thought, the spell was more of a ritual than the sort of spell one might actually memorize. The procedure itself seemed relatively straightforward, but some of the finer details taxed him sorely. By the early hours of morning he’d satisfied his curiosity enough to seek a few hours’ sleep on the narrow, hard bed.
Jack awoke to another cold, overcast morning; a steady drizzle grayed the streets and buildings around Jack’s retreat. He made his breakfast on a pair of sweet rolls and a quart of fresh milk from a nearby bakery, while he carefully composed a brief note and sealed it in a small envelope. Then he dressed himself in the plainest and most ordinary of the clothes remaining from the fine wardrobe created by Grigor Silverstitch-dark blue breeches with a matching vest, a shirt of white Turmishan cotton, a broad-brimmed hat of the same hue as the breeches, and a cape of light gray. He tucked his note into his vest pocket, then he worked his spell of disguise, making himself taller and lanker, changing his hair to a dirty straw color, removing his goatee, and making his jawline broad and bony. When he finished, he checked his appearance in the mirror and grinned in approval; it was a good likeness of Cailek Balathorp. Then he set out into the rainy morning.
He headed south through Torchtown until he reached Evensong Ride, then strolled through Holyhouses and Swordspoint. At MacIntyre he turned left, with a small twinge of trepidation-the smoldering ruins of Maldridge were just a block or two ahead, and there was a very small chance that anyone looking for Jack might stake out the burned manor on the off chance he returned to dig through the rubble. But before he reached Maldridge or any likely imaginary spies watching for him, he came to the High House of Magic and trotted up the rain-slick steps to the door.
After one quick tug at his garments to adjust the fit, Jack knocked on the great black door. There was a long pause, then Jack heard measured footfalls from the hallway within. The heavy door swung open, revealing the tiefling chamberlain-Marzam, was that his name? — dressed in a fine black coat. The grave-looking tiefling studied Jack for a moment, and then asked, “May I help you, sir?”
“Is Master Tarandor here today?” Jack asked.
“I believe so, sir. If you’ll wait a moment-”
“No need, my good fellow.” Jack drew his note from his breast pocket and presented it to the chamberlain. “Please deliver this to him at once. It is a matter that interests him greatly.”
Marzam gave Jack a dubious look, but he accepted the envelope. “I will see to it,” he said.
“Very good,” Jack answered. He turned and trotted back down the steps; behind him, the tiefling watched him depart, then returned inside. The rogue turned south on MacIntyre and crossed Evensong Ride, making for a building just two short blocks down from the High House of Magic. A faded yellow door stood under the sign of a great black pot; Jack went inside. Back in his day, the Kettle of Many Things had been a fine little restaurant. After a hundred years, it was now a tavern that catered to the city’s working folk with filling fare and inexpensive ale and wine. Jack took a seat at a table by the window, ordered a mug of weak beer, and settled in to wait, hoping the tiefling hadn’t just tossed the note as soon as he closed the door. It was midmorning; the Kettle was quiet, with only two or three other customers minding their own business.
A quarter-hour later, the wizard Tarandor Delhame hurried through the door, sweeping the room with his eyes. Jack, of course, still wore Balathorp’s face, but he’d drawn his hat low over his face in a show of discretion. He signaled the wizard with a motion of his hand. Tarandor frowned, but he crossed the room and slid into the bench opposite Jack. “Are you the one who left me the note at the High House?” he asked.
“I am,” Jack replied, performing a good imitation of Balathorp’s deep and mellifluous tone. “I hope I did not cause you any great inconvenience, Master Tarandor.”
“If what your note claimed is true, then it is no inconvenience at all.” The wizard studied his face, evidently trying to place it. “You seem to have me at a disadvantage. Who are you?”
“A simple man of business. Some call me Fetterfist.”
Tarandor’s eyes narrowed. “The slaver,” he said flatly. “Your reputation precedes you.”
“We all do what we must to get by.”
“Why did you seek me out?”
