Richard Baker - Prince of Ravens

“Satisfying my curiosity,” Jack answered. “These were in the pouch we took off Balathorp last night.”

“No more gold,” Narm observed, with a small frown of disappointment.

“No, but we have Fetterfist’s books here. See, he recorded every, er, acquisition he made or intended to make, then where and when he sold his merchandise.” Jack pointed out the entry referring to himself. “Here is last night’s business. It seems he meant to sell me for five hundred crowns.”

“You should hand that over to the magistrate,” Narm observed. “It seems like damning evidence against Balathorp. Speaking of which, I didn’t see anything in today’s handbills about his arrest.”

Jack shrugged. “The Watch is most likely keeping the affair quiet while they investigate. A man of Balathorp’s station unmasked as a slaver? Shocking! Sensational! The last thing the authorities would want is to have it all come out in the broadsheets and handbills before they are certain of the facts.”

Narm paged through the ledger, looking it over. “What do you make of this one?” he asked. He showed Jack an entry that read: 18 Tars. 10b. Mchd: Lot of 60–80? Source: Blkwd. Dest: Shark. Val: 10 ea . “It’s for tonight.”

Jack looked at the notations. “A lot of sixty to eighty captives at once? Is that possible? I haven’t heard of any slaver trying something as ambitious as that.” He frowned, wondering what sort of scheme Balathorp had planned, and whether it was still going forward with the slaver lord in the Watch’s custody.

He was interrupted by the strange stone from Balathorp’s pouch, which hummed softly. The thing was glowing with a faint luminescence, almost as if the flecks of emerald in its mottled surface were gleaming of their own accord.

“What in the world?” Narm muttered, staring at the small stone. “What manner of magic is this?”

“I am not sure,” Jack answered. He stared at the dark stone for a long moment, then reached out tentatively to turn it over and see if anything was unusual on its other side.

The instant his fingertips brushed the cool stone, he felt a presence in his mind. “Fetterfist,” a cool elven voice seemed to whisper through the stone. Jack recognized Dresimil Chumavh’s lilting tone, and found a strikingly clear image of the drow noblewoman in his mind’s eye. “ I have sixty warriors in the cellars ,” she continued. “Make sure your men are ready-we strike at ten bells. And watch Norwood, he brought additional guards.”

Jack snatched his hand away from the stone, startled. A sending-stone! he realized. He’d heard of such devices before. Somewhere in the Underdark below his feet, Dresimil was holding in her hand a stone that was a twin to the one sitting on the wooden desk in front of Jack. As far as she knew, the stone Jack held in his hand was still in Fetterfist’s possession. Did she expect a reply?

“What? What happened?” Narm demanded.

Jack realized that the swordsman hadn’t heard any of Dresimil’s message. “A message for Balathorp,” he answered, absently rubbing his fingers. “It’s the drow. They have a strong force somewhere, and they intend to attack in cooperation with the slavers. Tonight, at ten bells of the evening.”

“That would explain the ledger entry. Did the drow say anything about their target?”

“Lord Norwood,” Jack replied. His mind raced. Where would Marden Norwood be this evening at ten bells? It would be someplace that Dresimil expected Cailek Balathorp to be, too … A sick dread began to gather in the pit of the stomach as the answer became clear to him. He turned a stricken look on Narm and urgently asked, “What time is it now? What is the hour? Selune grant that we’re not too late!”

“It struck nine just before I came in, but that was a good quarter-hour ago, perhaps more,” Narm said. “Where will the dark elves strike?”

“The Lord Mayor’s Spring Revel,” Jack answered with a grimace. “Dresimil mentioned Lord Norwood by name, and that is almost certainly where Balathorp would be if we hadn’t lured him out last night.” He looked down at the slaver’s ledger. “The Lord Mayor is a Blacktree, isn’t he? That’s Blackwood Manor there. It must be.” He leaped to his feet, seized the pouch, the stone, and the ledger, and threw his cloak over his shoulder. “Come on, Narm. We have to warn them!”

The half-orc rose to his feet. “Jack, what can we do? Blackwood Manor is a couple of miles outside town. What is the point of racing out there just in time to be murdered or enslaved?”

“You do not understand. Seila is there!” Jack hurried over to the counter, ripped a piece of blank paper from the slaver’s journal, and scribbled out a quick message.

Tharzon looked at Jack with a furrowed brow. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

“The drow. They’re going to strike at the Lord Mayor’s revel. I have to get out to Blackwood Manor at once.” Jack finished his note and handed it to the old dwarf. “Find someone to take this to Nimber’s Skewer Shop, and have your man ask for Elana. The quicker, the better.”

Tharzon’s eyes widened. “Are you certain that is wise?” he asked.

“She’s no friend to the dark elves, I can tell you that. And if I am right, we might need all the blades we can find tonight.”

The dwarf stared in surprise a moment longer before nodding his head. “Right, then. Wait one moment and we’ll find a ride for you.” He turned and waved his cane at the barkeeps and workers in the taproom. “Bann! Come here, I’ve got a message for you. Grith, go harness the wagon and horses, we need it now! Orph, go find Kurzen and tell him to fetch his armor and his hammer, he’ll have need of them. Hurry, all of you! There’s not a moment to lose.”

Jack wavered, uncertain whether he’d be better off to go at once or wait on Tharzon’s messengers. He decided he’d need a wagon or carriage or horse in any event, and Tharzon’s was the closest to hand. “You have my thanks, Tharzon,” he said. “Narm, fetch the rest of the Blue Wyverns if you can find them fast. I leave as soon as we can hitch the team.” Then he hurried out to the stable behind the taphouse to lend a hand with the wagon.

The night grew darker and drearier as the brewer’s wagon clattered loudly along the Fire River Road. The overcast was thickening, hiding the moon, and a biting wind from the north drove small, stinging droplets of cold rain against Jack’s face. He clung to the bench with both hands as the wagon bounced and swayed along the rutted road. Beside him, Kurzen gripped the reins and drove the two-horse team onward through the night; in the straw-covered wagon bed Narm, Halamar, and Arlith hung on with all their strength.

“Kurzen, slow down!” Halamar called. “You’ll overturn us!”

“No time!” Jack shouted back. “Drive them harder!”

The dwarf grimaced, but did not bother to reply to either of them; all of his attention was on the road. But he flicked the whip at the galloping horses and shouted “Yah! Yah!” spurring them on even faster.

Jack spied an iron gate standing open up ahead on the left-hand side of the road. “Blackwood,” he said to Kurzen. “Turn there!”

The dwarf nodded. He let the horses thunder up to the gate and finally slowed them just enough to make the turn. The wagon careened on two wheels, and they very nearly rolled right at the entrance of the manor’s drive, but somehow Kurzen steered the team back the other way just enough to bring all four wheels back to the road. Ahead of them stood a magnificent manor house amid stately old oaks and laspars, festively illuminated by scores of colorful lanterns. Fine carriages filled the drive in front of the manor’s door, with liveried footmen waiting patiently by their master’s coaches. Two guards in the black and silver of House Blacktree flanked the door. “Thank the gods, we’re not too late,” Jack said. But how long did they have?