The third dwarf was, Torrin decided, likely a bodyguard for the half-elf. Hired with cursed gold and showing the first signs of stoneplague. Oddly, the two gamblers didn’t seem to take any notice of his gray-tinged hands, despite the fact that dozens of dwarves in Sundasz had succumbed to the stoneplague.
The bodyguard glanced in Torrin’s direction and made a show of scowling, as if he’d just noticed Torrin. Yet Torrin had seen the sidelong look the dwarf had given him earlier, as Torrin had approached the hearth. The bodyguard nudged the half-elf and said something in a low voice.
The half-elf glanced in Torrin’s direction. “You there, by the fire!” he called out in a jovial voice. “You look like a man who likes to wager. Come. Sit down. Join us.”
Torrin made a show of eyeing the stacks of Anvils on the table. “You’ll be sorry,” he said with a grin. “Get ready to lose some of that gold.”
The two dwarf gamblers made room at the table, and Torrin sat between them, wondering whether they were acting the role, or whether they were just what they seemed: unwitting pawns in the half-elf’s real game.
Torrin drained his ale and set the empty mug on a table behind him. He didn’t want the same trick he was about to pull being used on him.
“I’m Tril,” the half-elf said, introducing himself.
“Gond,” Torrin said, giving a false name. A human name, and one as common as quartz.
The pipe smoker introduced himself as Bran; the other dwarf, as Hathar.
“Another ale?” Tril asked as he handed Torrin the dice.
Torrin shook his head. “No, thank you,” he replied. “I prefer to keep a clear head for these matters.”
“What will you wager?” Bran asked.
“An equal share in a fortune,” Torrin answered, rattling the dice in cupped hands. “A veritable river of gold, just waiting to be tapped.”
The half-elf didn’t react. But rogues were like that-good at keeping a straight face.
Torrin nodded at the stacks of coins. “Here’s my offer,” he said. “Each of you spot me thirty Anvils, and when I’ve lost the last of them, whoever’s still in the game is in on the delve.” He glanced around the table. “Do we have a deal?”
Bran burst out laughing. His pipe fell from his mouth, struck the table, and scattered ash. Hathar turned to stare at Torrin, his expression making it clear he thought Torrin had just lost his mind. “What do you take me for, human?” he cried. “Some sort of beardless imbecile?”
Tril, however, shoved a stack of Anvils across the table-more than half of what he had left. “Done!” he cried.
The two dwarf gamblers exchanged looks. Hathar raised an eyebrow. Bran nodded, picked up his pipe and tucked it into a pocket, then began scooping his winnings into a coin pouch. “We’ll take our leave,” he said.
“What, now?” Tril cried. “Just when the game has gotten interesting?”
He was slurring his words slightly-likely for Torrin’s benefit.
“Tempting though it is to continue to enjoy your hospitality and relieve you of the last of your gold, I too must decline,” Hathar said, also collecting his winnings. He drained the last of his glass and bowed his farewell.
Torrin rattled the dice. “Your call,” he told the half-elf. “Should we play dice-or turn our attention to the real game?”
The bodyguard tensed. His hands were seemingly at ease on his lap, each close to a dagger. Tril, suddenly looking much more sober, flicked a hand. The bodyguard relaxed-slightly.
“You have a runestone for sale,” Tril said.
Torrin nodded.
“Prove to me you’ve got it,” the half-elf continued. “That we didn’t come all this way for nothing.”
Torrin’s pulse beat in his ears. He was acutely aware of the bodyguard sitting across the table. One of those knives would find his heart before he could blink, if their exchange went the wrong way. For that matter, any of the other patrons trying so hard to pretend they weren’t straining to listen in on the conversation might also be in league with the half-elf.
Willing his hands to stay steady, Torrin untied a coin pouch from his belt. “Are you familiar with the duplication ritual?” he asked, whispering a silent prayer that they were. Well-known to shopkeepers like his parents who took in magical items in trade, it was a spell used by rogues to pass off non-magical duplicates of a ring, a wand, or some other small item as the real thing. The transformation lasted less than a day before the item reverted back to its true form-just long enough for the rogues to leave town.
“I’ve heard of it,” the half-elf admitted.
“I’m about to show you a copy of the runestone,” Torrin said. “A replica, made using that ritual.” In fact, what he was about to show them was the real thing. He paused a moment, giving Val’tissa time to get into position. Torrin wasn’t worried about the half-elf using the runestone to teleport away, as the inn was a long way from the nearest earth node. But if Tril made a grab for the runestone and ran, she’d be there to stop him.
Torrin turned the pouch upside down. His runestone thudded onto the table, scattering gold coins. Tril’s eyes widened. He started to reach for the stone.
The bodyguard caught the half-elf’s arm. “Touch it,” he told Torrin.
Torrin raised an eyebrow.
“You spilled it from the pouch without touching it,” the bodyguard said. “That makes me wonder if it’s ensorcelled.” He nodded down at the runestone. “Touch it.”
Torrin laid down the dice and picked up the stone. “Satisfied?” he asked as he placed it back on the table.
The bodyguard released his master’s arm, then picked up the runestone himself. After a quick examination, he passed it to Tril. The latter barely glanced at it before placing it back on the table.
So far, so good.
Tril leaned back in his chair, toying with his wine glass once more. His movements seemed idle, but his fingertips were white against the stem of the glass. “Where’s the real thing?” he asked.
“In my pack,” Torrin lied. “If you know anything about Delvers’ packs, you’ll know that I’m the only one who can remove anything from it, as Vadyr already found out. And just in case you’re thinking about it, little tricks like dispelling the pack’s magic won’t work. Everything inside it will just… vanish. Permanently. Killing me and reaching in with my dead hand won’t work, either. It’s my will that causes the pack to deliver its contents into my hand. And should you try to magically compel me to pull something out, well, let’s just say the pack will sense the difference, and act accordingly. Whatever I pull out will be a very unpleasant surprise, believe me.”
The last was just a myth the Delvers liked to spread, but the rogues wouldn’t know that. And for all Torrin knew, it might even be true. The manufacture and enchantment of a Delver’s pack was a closely guarded secret that only Delvemasters were privy to.
“Is that what happened to Vadyr?” Tril asked, his eyes cold. “An ‘unpleasant surprise?’ ”
“I have no idea what happened to your… associate,” Torrin said carefully, hoping his honest reply would be believed. “After he tried to steal the runestone from me in Hammergate, Vadyr disappeared. I never saw him again. Although I do know this-a duergar was enquiring about him around the same time.”
The half-elf started to glance at his bodyguard, but abruptly checked himself. He released the wine glass, which wobbled and threatened to fall. He caught the glass again, steadying it. His hand trembled just enough that Torrin noticed.
“What did the duergar look like?” Tril asked. “Did he have any tattoos?”