“Advantage? What advantage?” Aderbleen asked, frowning suspiciously at Jack.
“I have seen the book they are looking for,” Jack replied. “In fact, I have handled it at length, although that was a long time ago. If I recall correctly, it is much easier to divine the location of something that has been handled and studied than something that is simply known about. None of your professional colleagues have even the slightest clue what it looks like.”
Aderbleen’s bushy eyebrows rose. “That may prove significant,” he admitted. “I am willing to make the attempt; my customary fee is five hundred gold crowns. The spirits advise me to require payment in advance.”
“The spirits are a grasping and suspicious lot,” Jack answered. “Perhaps they’d be inclined to accept one hundred crowns in advance, and a ten percent cut of the reward when I collect it?”
“The spirits dislike your stinginess,” the gnome shot back. “They refuse to be consulted for less than four hundred crowns. After all, your ability to successfully utilize the information they impart is unknown at this time.”
“Perhaps the spirits should augur the odds of my success, then.”
“That is another divination altogether,” the diviner replied. They dickered back and forth for a few minutes, and finally agreed on two hundred pieces of gold, with a bonus should the tome be recovered.
Satisfied, the diviner rubbed his small hands together and motioned to the crystal ball at the center of the table. “Lean close, resting your hands on the table,” he intoned. “Gaze into the orb, and bring to mind everything you recall of this book-its look, its feel, the smell of its pages, words or passages you recall. We shall see what we shall see.”
Jack complied, concentrating on his memory of the Sarkonagael with all his might. The gnome chanted softly, summoning his magic; the room seemed to grow dim and the crystal ball grew brighter. He remembered the weight of the book in his hands, the black leather cover with an embossed silver skull, the title stamped out with silver chasing. In the crystal orb a misty image began to take shape, a dark book lying on a large stone table. Parchment and lesser tomes lay scattered around it.
“Ah, you have indeed seen this book before,” Aderbleen whispered. “No other attempt gained even the faintest glimpse. Let us draw back and see more of the surroundings.” He murmured softly, continuing to shape his spell, and the image in the orb shrank and slid out of view just as if Jack had stepped back and turned his head in a different direction. Now he could see something of the surroundings: A large chamber of dressed stone blocks, the floor made of gleaming yellow marble, crimson pillars carved in the shape of heroic dwarves supporting the ceiling high above. At one end of the hall or chamber there stood a dais crowned by a great altar in the shape of an anvil; a mosaic on the wall behind the altar displayed the image of a huge hammer surrounded by fire and lightning. Bookshelves and work tables were arranged haphazardly throughout the grand hall. The whole scene was illuminated by gleaming golden crystal-lamps worked cunningly into the pillar-sculptures of the dwarf heroes.
“The book lies in Sarbreen, somewhere beneath our feet,” Aderbleen said. “Find this chamber, and you will find the book.”
“Sarbreen is a very large place, full of monsters and ancient traps,” Jack protested. “I can hardly search the entire ruin for a single chamber, no matter how grand.”
“Well, I can also tell you that the tome lies about eight hundred and twenty-five yards in that direction,” Aderbleen said, pointing at a shallow angle toward the floor behind Jack’s back. “However, there is no way to know which entrance to the ruins is actually closest to the Sarkonagael’s location once the twists, turns, and blind alleys of the ancient city are taken into account. Try somewhere in northern Sarbreen, about two or three levels down.”
Jack peered again at the image in the crystal ball. He thought he saw a shadow of movement … but it was gone almost at once. He didn’t know where in Sarbreen that chamber might lie, but he knew someone who might. “Very well,” he said. “That is certainly more than I knew before I arrived on your doorstep as foretold.” It was also a strong indication that the Sarkonagael was not currently in Myrkyssa Jelan’s hands, nor in immediate danger of discovery by some other treasure-hunter. “Need I remind you that what we have seen in your crystal ball should remain strictly confidential? If someone else should reach the book before I do, you will not receive the bonus we agreed upon.”
“The spirits are not stupid,” Aderbleen replied.
“Very good.” Jack stood up, and bowed to the small mage. “With luck the spirits will soon reveal to you our mutual success. Now, will the unseen powers lead me forth, or should I just show myself out the door?”
“Oh, just go back the way you came in,” the gnome snapped. He hopped down from his chair and pointed Jack to the door. Jack bowed his head again to Master Aderbleen, and left the Seekers’ Guildhall whistling a merry air.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Although Jack wanted to make inquiries about where exactly in Sarbreen a great abandoned temple might be found, he had to keep an eye on his social calendar if he wanted to continue to present himself as a lordling reestablishing himself in the city’s noble circles. The Sarkonagael seemed safely hidden in Sarbreen for now; he could retrieve it at his convenience. So, with some regrets, Jack passed the rest of the day in his newfound social engagements. He endured a long and rather tedious lunch at the home of Lady Moonbrace and a circle of her relations and friends-all of them very prim and proper ladies whose average age must have approached eighty years-discovering that they seemed most interested in the fact that he was a young, unmarried lord new to Raven’s Bluff and a potential prospect for their various matchmaking skills. Fortunately Jack escaped with little more than vague promises to attend various affairs where he gathered that nieces, daughters, and granddaughters would be thrown at him in the hopes that one might stick.
The reception at the playhouse was somewhat more interesting (and expensive). It was attended by a rather more eclectic group of nobles, merchants, and adventurers who’d blundered into enough good fortune to consider themselves patrons of the arts. Several of the reception guests were fine-looking young women who seemed quite taken by the rumors of Jack’s derring-do in Seila Norwood’s escape from the Underdark. He had to remind himself constantly that these were circles in which Seila and her family frequently moved. As tempting as it was to flirt with bored noble lasses intrigued by someone as novel as Lord Jaer Kell Wildhame, he couldn’t afford to let any stories of misbehavior get back to Seila, not if he hoped to pursue the Norwood fortune and her very lovely favors as well. Jack survived the occasion by replacing in his mind’s eye the more fetching and forward ladies at the theater with Lady Moonbrace’s friends, and made a note to himself to reverse the procedure the next time he found himself in Lady Moonbrace’s company.
The next day, the formal invitation to the celebratory affair at Norwood Manor was waiting for Jack when he came down for his breakfast. He admired the elegant card-golden ink on bleached vellum, hand-lettered with flowing calligraphy-which read, Dear Friend, the Lord and Lady Norwood humbly request your attendance for a banquet and spring revel at Norwood Manor on the occasion of their daughter Seila’s return safe and whole from captivity. “I observe that the event is described as a return and not a rescue,” Jack sniffed. He felt a little offended, but then he read further: Please join us on the evening of the Tenth of Tarsakh as we celebrate this joyous occasion and honor Lord Jaer Kell Wildhame, the hero responsible for Seila’s return to Norwood Manor. Dinner will be served at seven bells; regrets only.
“Well, that is more like it,” he said aloud. “Now, what else do we have here?”
Beneath the invitation was a small envelope addressed to him in a feminine hand; he opened it and discovered a note from Seila, a reply to his letter of a day or two ago. She wrote about the hustle and bustle of the party preparations, the simple joys in rediscovering the routines of her life before t
he slavers abducted her, and hinted at the return of two or three former suitors who had thoughts of resuming their pursuits now that she had been miraculously brought away from captivity in the Underdark. “Why, I think she means to make me jealous,” Jack muttered. “Well, those noble popinjays who think they can pick up where they left off will be in for a surprise. First, this is a matter of business to me, not idle romance. I will not be easily daunted. And second, none of them managed to rescue Seila from the drow.”
He read on and found that Seila had asked him to come visit her before the banquet and to stay the night afterward. His heart skipped a beat at that thought, until he read a bit further and discovered that a guest room on the far side of the manor from her chambers was reserved for his use. Still, it was heartening to see that she cared enough to make special arrangements for him-a very good sign indeed, really.
Jack glanced at the topmost handbill waiting by his breakfast; it was the morning of the eighth. He would want to be at Norwood Manor the afternoon of the tenth, but that meant he still had the better part of two days before the party. “Edelmon!” he called.
The old valet answered at once. “Yes, Master Jack?”
“What engagements do I have in the next couple of days?”
“I have arranged for Master Limner Nander Willon to call at three bells this afternoon to consult with you on the Wildhame arms and emblems. This evening there is a performance of The Bride of Secomber at the Stane Opera House; you have been invited to join Lord and Lady Flermeer in their box. Tomorrow Master Silverstitch hopes to perform a fitting, and the Ravenaar Historical Society has invited you to speak at their monthly meeting.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “The Historical Society?” he asked dubiously.
“Its membership includes representatives of many of the city’s most respected families, Master Jack. They are very anxious to speak with you, because it is rumored that you knew the notorious Warlord Myrkyssa Jelan personally.”
Jack wondered what the bespectacled bookworms of the Historical Society would make of the fact that the Warlord was at large in their city at this very moment. He’d decided to keep the tale from the authorities for now; he wasn’t completely confident that it would be possible to convince a magistrate or watch-captain that a legendary threat of long ago was walking the streets of the city today, or that it would profit him to bring it to their attention. After all, he had once been pursued by the Knights of the Hawk simply because he was acquainted with Myrkyssa Jelan. “Very well, I will attend,” he said.
“Oh, and a Master Tarandor of the Wizards’ Guild has requested an appointment the morning of the tenth.”
“Hmm, I’m not sure when I might ride out to Norwood Manor. Or, for that matter, when I’ll return. Put him off for now, I’ll meet with him after Seila’s revel.”
“Very good, my lord,” Edelmon replied. He bowed and withdrew.
Jack finished his breakfast, and contemplated his day for a moment. It seemed that he had a few hours available; this might be a good opportunity to lay the groundwork for retrieving the Sarkonagael from the depths of Sarbreen. Although no one else seemed likely to divine its location as Jack had done, it wouldn’t be wise to assume the book would remain hidden forever. After all, he couldn’t be certain that some other competent adventurer wouldn’t stumble across the Sarkonagael by following some other line of investigation or through sheer good luck.
“Not so urgent that I cannot attend Seila’s revel first, but too important to leave to chance for long,” Jack told himself. He was less than enthusiastic about venturing into the infamous dungeon of Sarbreen again, let alone venturing into any subterranean place where dark elves might be lurking. But as it so happened, he knew someone who was very familiar with Sarbreen. He hopped up from his chair, threw on a cape and hat, and set out into the city.
The morning was foggy, but the mists had a burnished glow above the rooftops that suggested they might soon burn off. Jack walked over to Moorland Ride and followed that street north until he reached Vesper Way near the city wall, and then he turned left. At the mouth of the alleyway between Moorland and Manycoins a stealthy motion caught his eye; Jack took two quick steps toward the center of the street and set his hand on his rapier’s hilt. Peering through the chilly shadows he glimpsed a cloaked and hooded figure retreating down the alley. The figure turned to glance back at him just before ducking into a cellar stair. Jack thought he saw a face of inky black framed by fine white hair and perhaps a hint of ruby-red eyes, but he couldn’t be certain.
“Surely that was not a drow abroad in daylight,” he murmured aloud. Then again, the morning was foggy; it was not a bright day by any means. He stood still for a long moment as passers-by strode past and carts trundled over the cobblestones, but no one else seemed to have noticed the cloaked figure. Were the dark elves spying on his movements? Had he caught sight of a drow engaged in some other private business that had nothing to do with him? Or were his eyes simply playing tricks on him?
Jack finally removed his hand from his swordhilt with a small shrug and went on his way. He knew that there were drow under the city, after all, and this fellow hadn’t paid any unusual attention to him. There was no sense in borrowing trouble, so to speak. Crossing Manycoins Way, he found the Smoke Wyrm and rapped on the taproom door.
This time, old Tharzon himself answered. “Jack! Come to trade more tales already? Or do you prefer to start the day’s drinking early? It’s not good to get in the habit of drinking in the morning, you know.”
“Sound advice, friend Tharzon, and counsel I intend to heed,” Jack replied. “No, I have need of your unmatched knowledge of Sarbreen and its dark and dangerous ways. You knew more about the place than anyone in the city a hundred years ago; I can only imagine your wisdom has grown since.”
The gray-bearded dwarf gave a low laugh. “It didn’t take you long to find yourself some new scheme, did it? Well, come inside. I will see what I can do.” He led the way to the taproom-empty again, as it was still an hour shy of opening for the day-where Kurzen was busy breaking out new kegs and setting them up behind the bar. The younger dwarf gave Jack a friendly nod and went on with his work as Tharzon and Jack found seats by the hearth.
“Where’s that fetching noble lass of yours this morning?” Tharzon asked.
“At Norwood Manor, so far as I know. Her father decided that he’d be happy to put me up here in town, so I’ve been staying in a fine house over in Tentowers.” Jack gave Tharzon a grin. “I think he suspected my motives toward Seila.”
“Aye, well, he would be wise to,” the dwarf agreed. “So what do you want to know about Sarbreen, Jack?”
“Have you ever heard of a great hall with pillars carved in the shape of ancient dwarf warriors? The floor is made of honey-gold marble, and there is an altar of some sort in the shape of a great anvil. Behind the altar is an old mosaic of a hammer surrounded by fire.”
“Ah, the Temple of the Soulforger. That’s the place you’re speaking of, Jack.”
“The Temple of the Soulforger?”
“Moradin’s shrine, Jack, Moradin’s shrine. Sarbreen held a magnificent cathedral consecrated to the maker of all dwarves. There’s no mistaking the anvil altar.”
“Where is it?” Jack asked. “Do you know how to get there?”
Tharzon’s brow lowered as he eyed Jack for a moment. “What business do you have in the Temple of the Soulforger, Jack? You don’t intend anything … disrespectful, do you?”
“No, no, nothing like that. I consulted with a seer of the Diviners’ Guild yesterday, and that’s the place I saw in my vision. Someone collected a number of old tomes and scrolls and left them in the temple; I’m looking for one in particular. The temple itself I have no designs upon.” Well, not unless there’s some great treasure lying about just waiting to be pocketed, he added to himself.
Tharzon held Jack’s gaze a moment before nodding to himself. “In that case, then yes, I can tell you how to find it. But it’s o
n one of the deeper levels, and it’s not a journey for the faint of heart. That quarter of Sarbreen is dangerous, Jack, very dangerous, with monsters of sorts you won’t find roaming the sewers just beneath your feet. If you mean to get to the Soulforger’s Temple, you’ll want some good swordarms at your back, and probably a mage as well.”
Jack sighed. He’d hoped the temple would be somewhere close to the surface and not terribly perilous to reach. After all, his circumstances were reasonably comfortable at the moment, and he didn’t feel any particular driving need to risk life and limb unless the prize was truly extraordinary. On the other hand, he knew where the Sarkonagael was and no one else did. It would be a shame to pass by that sort of opportunity, especially with the chance to double his fortune as the stakes.
He leaned a little closer to Tharzon and asked, “Have you kept your hand in the game at all, Tharzon? Do you know where I might find a few trustworthy fellows who’d be willing to dare Sarbreen for a great prize?” Once upon a time Tharzon had been a thief almost as skilled as Jack himself, although the dwarf was by nature a tunneler and a lockpick. His thefts were patient and methodical affairs, the sort of work for which Jack had never had the temperament.
“I retired forty years ago,” the dwarf replied. He tapped his cane on the ground. “My knees are ruined, and my back’s none too good, either. I decided a long time ago to let younger dwarves worry about what sort of monsters they might meet in the dark and whether the authorities might nab them as they went about their trade. Too much risk, not enough profit.” He gave a small shrug. “Besides, the Smoke Wyrm returns a decent living for an honest day’s work.”
Jack glanced around the taproom and raised an eyebrow. “Friend Tharzon,” he said, “I have the feeling that your honest day’s work is more loosely defined than you let on.” After all, a profitable and well-known business was the perfect cover for a fence; the taproom likely provided Tharzon with all the spare coin he needed to buy what working thieves had to sell. “Tell me, do you export that excellent stout of yours?”
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