in the Norwood house colors. The Norwood armsmen began to hurry through the crowd toward Jack.
“I do not like the looks of this, Jack,” Arlith whispered behind him. “Are you certain you’ve got the right villain?”
A short, round-bodied fellow in a gold-embroidered black coat approached Norwood, frowning. Jack recognized the gold oak-leaf emblem of the Blacktree family on his coat, and the large gold chain that served as the mayor’s badge of office. “What’s all this about, Norwood?” the short nobleman asked.
“I apologize for the disturbance, Blacktree,” Norwood said through gritted teeth. “It appears this interruption must be dealt with. Please have him arrested.”
Jack glanced around and saw nothing but anger, suspicion, and contempt on the faces of the city’s assembled elites. He had only moments before Norwood’s soldiers dragged him away. Well, some of the lords and ladies in the room would get exactly what they deserved if the dark elves murdered them all after they ignored his warning. Others, most notably Seila, were innocent and were likely to be hurt or killed if he could not prove his point.
The great mantle clock in the adjoining room struck the hour; the first bell rang clearly throughout the hushed crowd. In pure desperation, Jack murmured the words to his invisibility spell and vanished from view.
The crowd gasped and stirred in shock. Cries of “The villain is escaping!” or “Stop him!” rang through the room. Jack, however, did not flee. He reached into the pouch at his belt and drew forth Fetterfist’s leather half- hood. Then he stole up behind Balathorp, unsheathing his dagger. The second bell struck. With the quickness of a striking snake, he pulled the half-mask down over Balathorp’s head while immobilizing the tall slaver with the threat of a bared blade at his throat. The sudden motion spoiled Jack’s invisibility, as he expected; he wavered back into view.
“Stand down your guards or Balathorp dies!” Jack shouted. The third bell chimed. “Seila-look at this man’s face. Is this Fetterfist?”
“I’ll have you fed to the eels for this!” Balathorp hissed to Jack. He twisted in Jack’s grip until Jack pinked him with the point of the dagger.
“That is one outcome,” Jack agreed. Another bell rang. “On the other hand, if I am a villain or madman, as you claim, there is no reason why I shouldn’t slit your throat if I am doomed anyway. Now hold still, or I’ll see if Seila can identify your corpse.”
Jack saw the bodyguards, armsmen, and retainers who were converging on the ballroom watching him with alert, determined expressions; well, if he’d done nothing else, he had at least put them on their guard. Norwood stepped forward and addressed Jack. “Stop this at once!” he barked. The fifth bell sounded. “I have no idea what game you are playing at, but your villainy is at an end!”
Seila, on the other hand, stood staring at Jack and Balathorp with a sick expression on her face. “Seila, it would be helpful if you could resolve this question soon,” Jack prompted her. “Is this the man who ambushed the Norwood caravan and sold you into captivity in Chumavhraele?”
Seila shifted her eyes from Jack’s face to Balathorp’s. The sixth bell struck … and a flicker of shock, then anger, crossed her features. “Yes, it is,” she said, almost as if she were surprised to hear herself speak. Then, more loudly, “Yes! He is Fetterfist. I will not forget that hood and face as long as I live. Father, Jack is right!”
Norwood turned to Seila and started to say something, but his words died in his throat as he took the measure of her expression. He looked back to Balathorp, and his eyes narrowed. The seventh bell of the hour sounded. “Incredible,” he said to the tall lord. “You dared to abduct my daughter? You murdered my retainers?”
“It is a lie! This man-” Balathorp shouted, but Jack silenced him with a little more pressure of his dagger. The clock struck its eighth bell.
Jack looked past the slaver’s shoulder at Seila’s father and Lord Blacktree, still standing next to each other. “My lords, there will be time later to demand explanations. Dresimil Chumavh is here, and she means to take or kill you all.”
“What do you say?” said Blacktree. The ninth bell sounded. “The drow will attack us here?”
“Along with any thugs or sellswords Balathorp here could arrange,” Jack replied. He swept the ballroom and its balconies with his eyes, looking for cloaked and hooded figures in the shadows.
“Perhaps it would be wise to-” the Lord Mayor started to say, but at that moment the tenth bell of the hour struck. On the very note, globes of pure blackness suddenly sprang into being throughout the grand ballroom, followed at once by screams of panic and the sudden shrill sound of steel. Jack caught one glimpse of slender figures in dark cloaks appearing in the doorways and alcoves of the room before darkness suddenly swallowed him where he stood. The scuffle and trample of panicked footsteps seemed to be all around him; he tightened his grasp on Balathorp. But at that moment a large, strong hand clamped onto his right wrist, challenging him for control of the dagger-Balathorp had used the cover of the darkness to make a grab for the weapon.
Jack struggled to drive the blade home and managed to give the tall slaver a nasty cut, but a hard-driven elbow knocked him back. Balathorp grunted and twisted out of Jack’s grip. “Too late, Ravenwild,” the slaver hissed from somewhere nearby. “We have prepared a long time for this day. When we are done here, I will be the only lord left in Raven’s Bluff.”
“By all means, keep talking,” Jack replied, groping in the darkness. “I find this fascinating.” Someone blundered into him, and Jack very nearly stabbed him or her before he recognized the soft curve of a woman’s shoulder under his fingers. The woman gave a shriek of fright and recoiled; Jack muttered an oath and sheathed his dagger. He stopped moving and held still, listening for his foe, but it was hopeless. The ballroom was panic and bedlam, with screams of pain, cries of panic and dismay, the crash and clatter of furniture and glass, and countless footsteps and boot-scufflings in the dark. He heard Marden Norwood shouting commands, Lord Mayor Blacktree shouting out orders of his own, and half dozen other lords and captains all trying to assert control over the room.
“Chaos and calamity,” Jack said to himself. “This is madness!” If he moved he might blunder into someone else’s raised blade. If he stayed put some clever dark elf might cut him down like a stupid sheep. Jack stood paralyzed, unsure whether to wait for the darkness to end, try to find his way out, or announce his presence by calling out. But then a single terrified scream ended his indecision-Seila’s cry, ringing from somewhere not far off.
“Help! Jack!” she cried. Her cry was suddenly muffled, as if by a hand or gag clamped over her mouth.
“Seila,” Jack breathed. Without another thought, he rushed in the direction of her voice, only to stumble at once over a body lying motionless on the floor. He picked himself up and proceeded more carefully-and then he felt a strong counter spell wash across the ballroom. The drow darkness-globes evaporated one after another, dispelled by some spellcaster in the room. The return of the ballroom’s lanternlight revealed a scene of absolute pandemonium: Dozens appeared to be dead or wounded already, and drow warriors moved through the crowd, cutting down some and shooting others with their drugged quarrels. The guards of half a dozen noble houses battled fiercely against quick, graceful drow swordsmen, while others fought against a large gang of brown-hooded ruffians-Fetterfist’s men, or so Jack guessed-who were pouring into the manor’s foyer and front hall, blocking escape.
At first the whole scene appeared to be an unmitigated disaster, and Jack’s heart sank. But then he noticed that things were not all in the villains’ favor. Many of the nobles and city officials were armed with rapiers, daggers, and other such weapons suitable in a social setting, and they appeared to know how to use them. Others were spellcasters, and they plied wand and spell against the manor’s attackers. Norwood stood in the middle of a knot of his own armsmen, his wife Idril by his side shouting “Seila! Seila!” and looking desperately around the room. Jack spied Narm and Kurzen battling furiously against the ruffians near the ballroom entrance, while Halamar defended himself with five darting daggers of flame that wheeled and tumbled through the air around him.
“The issue is in doubt,” the rogue said to himself as he turned one way and another, searching for some glimpse of Balathorp or Seila. After a moment he spotted the tall lord’s yellow hair near the main entrance. Balathorp was shoving his way toward the brown-hooded sellswords blocking the door … and he was dragging Seila along behind him. Jack ran after him, dodging and twisting his way through the press of panicked party-goers and brawling guards.
A pair of drow warriors appeared in front of him, and Jack found two rapiers hedging him in. Behind them stood one of Dresimil’s brothers-most likely Jaeren, because he was the one with the sense of humor and the sorcerer confronting Jack had a wide and insincere grin on his ebony features. “Well, well,” said the drow prince. “If it isn’t the Lord Jaer Kell Wildhame! We have been looking for you, sir. You departed without taking your leave of my
