Prince of Ravens

CHAPTER TEN

Jack didn’t stir from his bed until ten bells in the morning. He trudged down the stairs yawning, thoroughly exhausted by the late night and his unusual adventures. He’d spent no small amount of time lying awake as he grappled with the challenge posed by Tarandor and his schemes, to little avail. It would be useful to determine how exactly Tarandor intended to return him to his confinement in the wild mythal, but Jack could not think of a way to do that safely if in fact the Guild itself sanctioned Tarandor’s extreme measures. Wizards could be a bureaucratic and inflexible lot at times, and he could not be certain that the Guild would intervene on his side instead of Tarandor’s. He might be able to find someone to serve as a go-between to broker some sort of truce with the guild, but anybody he dispatched in that capacity could easily be charmed or dominated and turned against Jack.

“Perhaps it is time I retired,” he thought aloud as he sat down to his breakfast-now a very ordinary plate of toast with butter and jam and a cold mug of coffee.

The cook was apparently done with wasting time on him. “Or perhaps I should take up Lord Norwood’s suggestion and travel for my health, preferably someplace where dogmatic wizards will not feel compelled to encyst me and throw away the metaphorical key.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?” Edelmon said as he shuffled into the room.

“I am beset by complications; answers are unclear.”

“Ah, very good, sir. To what address shall I have your things sent today?”

“My things can stay right where they are for three more days, by my count, so I would appreciate it if you did not send them anywhere at all.”

Edelmon acknowledged Jack’s instructions with a small bow, and withdrew. Jack observed that no handbills waited neatly by his place setting, nor was any correspondence arranged for his inspection. Apparently the cook was not the only one anticipating his imminent departure; Jack scowled after the valet for a moment, and drained down his lukewarm coffee with a grimace of distaste. What to do? he wondered. He had an engagement of sorts with Seila in the evening, but between now and then, he needed to find some suitable new address. “And that suggests resolving the question of the Sarkonagael’s reward in order to determine my budget,” he decided. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to part with the tome so soon after finding a use for its magic, but Tharzon and the Blue Wyverns would be waiting for their cut of the reward; it wouldn’t be wise to give them cause to doubt his trustworthiness.

Absorbed in his thoughts, Jack retrieved the Sarkonagael in its old wrappings from his satchel and brought it back to the table. “Myrkyssa Jelan caused a great deal of trouble with you once upon a time,” he told the book, “including the creation of an evil duplicate who subverted half the city against me. The last thing I need is another shadowy twin.”

There were some dark and strange spells in the tome, including a number that Jack did not really understand, but it was the spell of making shadow-doppelgangers that most concerned him. He didn’t particularly care if Myrkyssa Jelan or any other interested parties had access to any other part of the Sarkonagael, really. That suggested an obvious if somewhat crude solution. Jack took the tome into the cupboard (a roomy closet, really) and pulled the door shut behind him. He stood there in the dark for a moment until the book’s silver runes began to glow, then opened the book to the spell entitled “Sarkon’s Umbral Simulacrum.” He drew his dagger from his belt, and with great care removed the spell from the book, excising a total of four pages. If the Sarkonagael’s seeker had sinister intentions for that particular enchantment, the absence of the spell should check them quite thoroughly. He let himself out of the cupboard and took the book back to the dining room table for a little more work with better light, trimming the cut pages very close to the binding; it was hard to notice the missing pages without a careful inspection. Finally he took the removed pages, folded them in half, and tucked them into an envelope from his stationery set before hiding it in the inner pocket of his jacket.

“There,” he said to himself. “The tome is rendered completely harmless, and now I may proceed with confidence.” It occurred to him that he might profit by taking the Secrets of the Shadewrights completely apart and selling it back a page or two at a time … but he reminded himself that the mysterious buyer had been willing to spend a large sum of gold to get his hands on the book, and might be tempted to post another reward to accelerate the process if it became tedious. He decided it would be better to leave the rest of the book intact.

Satisfied with his precautions, he wrapped up the Sarkonagael again, tucked it back into his satchel, and left his house. The day was unusually gloomy; a low, heavy overcast glowered above the rooftops, although there was no rain to speak of. He strolled south on MacIntyre to Morglar’s Ride, then headed west into Altarside. Few people seemed to be out and about, and those who were had an unusually vigilant and hurried look; Jack began to wonder if he’d slept through some unusual alarm or if some dire news was abroad. He found himself looking down each alleyway he passed and peering into shadows, more than half-expecting to find another cloaked figure dogging his steps or vanishing from sight just as Jack noted a menacing presence. But this time he reached his destination without catching sight of any dark elf spies, real or imagined.

The counting house of Albrath stood not far from the City Hall. Jack climbed the stone steps to the door and entered; a long counter manned by several clerks stood along the wall, and doors of iron bars led to the offices behind the counter. Jack explained that he had retained the house’s representation in an unusual service, which proved sufficient for one of the counter-clerks to unlock the door and escort him to a small private office inside.

He waited only a few moments before a portly, bearded merchant in a green tunic and matching cap appeared and took a seat behind the desk. “Good afternoon, sir,” the fellow said in a warm voice. “I am Halden Albrath. How may I help you today?”

Jack hid a small smile. Halden likely didn’t know it, but he very strongly resembled his great-great-grandfather Embro Albrath, with whom Jack had done business once upon a time. “I am the landsgrave Jaer Kell Wildhame, formerly of the Vilhon Reach, currently resident in the manor of Maldridge,” Jack began. “A couple of days ago I sent a note instructing House Albrath to represent my interests in a delicate negotiation through Horthlaer House. Have you made any progress?”

“Ah, of course,” Halden Albrath replied. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord.” He put his hand to his mouth and coughed delicately. “Before we continue, I should advise you that we customarily require a five percent fee for such representation. I took the liberty of assuming your consent, because your directions were specific. I saw to the matter myself.”

Jack bestowed a gracious nod on the moneychanger, but winced inside. That amounted to several hundred gold crowns he’d never see again; he hoped his caution wasn’t completely unnecessary. “I expected as much,” he replied. “What did you learn?”

“The procedure is quite simple: Produce the book, and after Horthlaer House verifies its authenticity, you will be paid in gold crowns, platinum moons, gemstones, or a letter of credit, as you prefer. You can deliver it yourself, or leave the book with me and I will see to it.”

“Does Horthlaer’s client agree to pay the additional expenses I set forth in my previous instructions?”

The merchant offered a half-smile, as if he understood exactly what Jack meant by expenses. “To my surprise, yes. The buyer agreed to pay seven thousand crowns for the book.”

“Excellent!” Jack grinned in satisfaction; that, of course, was nothing with which he needed to trouble his partners from the Sarbreen adventure. If he had it figured correctly, he now stood to collect twenty-five hundred crowns for his half of the original reward, plus two thousand crowns more for the additional reward he’d negotiated, less Albrath’s three hundred and fifty-so overall better than half again what he’d originally planned on. His prospects were far from displeasing, really. “I insist on remaining anonymous, of course.”

“Discretion is assured, my lord. If you have the book, we can deliver it this afternoon, and your reward will be available before five bells.”

“Very good,” Jack answered. He considered the matter one more time, then opened his satchel and set the heavy tome on the table. “Proceed with the arrangements. I will return this afternoon to collect my reward. Please have thirty-five hundred crowns set aside in platinum double moons; the rest of the sum I’ll take as credit against your house.”

“I shall see to it personally, sir,” Halden Albrath said. He stood and offered Jack his hand. “Until this afternoon, then.”

Jack shook the merchant’s hand, and allowed himself to be shown to the door. On the doorstep of Albrath’s, he paused to watch the passers-by, porters, and wagons on Morlgar’s Ride as he considered his fortunes. Although he had to find a new residence to replace the uncharitably withdrawn offer to make use of Maldridge, he’d end the day with more wealth than he had ever enjoyed in his life. Of course, he also had a powerful wizard who might try to magic him back into a tiny green bottle; dangerous enemies in Lady Dresimil, Fetterfist, and possibly Myrkyssa Jelan; and a powerful nobleman, Marden Norwood, who expected him to absent himself from Raven’s Bluff, perhaps permanently. “The measure of a man lies in the difficulties he surmounts,” Jack observed to the street, and set off to roam the Temple District.

He spent the rest of the morning inspecting potential residences in the better neighborhoods of town. Nothing seemed quite satisfactory for a man of his anticipated means, but perhaps some might be comfortable enough with a small staff. The gloomy weather hung over the city for the whole morning, until it finally overcame his high spirits and drove him back homeward. Footsore and tired, he retraced his steps to Maldridge.

None of the staff bothered to greet him when he let himself in, which gave Jack cause to wish them a variety of minor afflictions and discomforts as payment for their variable loyalties. He started for his study with the idea of pouring himself a small glass of brandy to lighten his mood, but something in the sitting room just to the right from the foyer caught his eye: Two large traveling trunks or wardrobes stood in the middle of the room. Suspicion darkened the rogue’s thoughts immediately; he went over to investigate, and found that his collection of fine new garments-really, the entirety of his material possessions, other than the things he happened to be wearing-had been rather carelessly packed away.

Jack’s umbrage could no longer be contained. He stomped in a circle around the tall trunks, waving his arms in outrage. “Effrontery! Insubordination!” he shouted at the empty room. “Edelmon, present yourself at once!”

The old valet appeared at the sitting room’s doorway. “You bellowed, Master Jack?”

“What is the meaning of this?”

“I have been notified that your tenancy here in Maldridge is soon ending at Lord Norwood’s pleasure, sir. In the interest of rendering your exit as convenient as possible, I have taken the liberty of packing for you.”

“This is premature! You are immediately dismissed from my service.”

“Very good, sir,” the old servant replied. “I shall bring the matter to Lord Norwood’s attention the day after tomorrow, and abide by whatever penalty or adjustment he assigns.” Edelmon gave a shallow bow, and shuffled back into the foyer … and at that moment the kitchen door at the rear of the house flew open with a crash.

“What the devil was that?” Jack demanded.

“I shall find out, sir,” Edelmon replied. He headed toward the back of the house. Jack paused in his inspection of the wardrobes, waiting for the old servant to report. Instead, the soft snap of bowstrings echoed in the hall; Edelmon let out one strangled shriek, and after that came the unmistakable sound of a human body crumpling to the floor.

That can’t be good, Jack realized. He looked around, searching for an escape from the sitting room. He could make a break for the front door, but that would take him into the front hall-where Edelmon had just been shot, unless he missed his guess. Or he could dart into the dining room and then to the kitchen and the door through which some unknown assailants had just entered his house. As he stood frozen and indecisive for one critical moment, the question was decided for him: Half a dozen black-clad figures in dark clothing swarmed into the sitting room, and turned their hand crossbows on Jack. Between low-hanging hoods and drawn-high scarves wrapped around their lower faces, the crimson eyes and smooth ebony features of drow warriors fixed on Jack with predatory malice.

The leader, none other than Jack’s former tormentor, Varys, met Jack’s eyes with a menacing smile. “Lord Wildhame,” he said with a mocking bow. “The marquise Dresimil sends her greetings and would like to extend her invitation to return to Chumavhraele. The circumstances of your departure demand nothing less.”

Jack stared at the dark elves in horror for several heartbeats. Varys grinned wickedly at him. Jack couldn’t begin to imagine what sort of tortures Dresimil might have in mind for him if the drow recaptured him; he might have been better off in Tarandor’s green bottle. Somehow he found his voice and said, “I am afraid I must decline at this time. As you can see, I am packed for a long journey. I promise I will call on your lovely marquise as soon as I return.”

“Ah, but our lady insists,” the drow sergeant replied. He raised his hand-crossbow, as did the rest of his warriors. As they fired, Jack yanked open the door of the large wardrobe he was standing next to and ducked behind the improvised shield. The small quarrels thudded into the trunk, their points puncturing the door, but none struck Jack. The rogue searched himself for tiny poisoned quarrels, found none, and darted for the dining room doorway.

Varys snarled in frustration. “After him!” he hissed. “Do not let him escape!”

Jack dashed from the sitting room into the dining room. The drow pursued him at once, no more than four or five steps behind him. He dared not pause long enough to try a spell, and simply ran for the door from the dining room to the kitchen. Then sudden, absolute darkness filled the room, as if he’d run into a coal cellar on a moonless night. Jack stumbled over a chair and floundered blindly along the large table in the middle of the room as he tried to keep moving. “Shar’s black heart!” he snarled, groping blindly through the blackness. The drow might as well have blinded him with their accursed darkness spells!

He found a doorway with one outstretched hand and hurried through, only to realize that he’d found the wrong door-he was back in the front hall. The pull-chain for the grand chandelier was under his hand, which meant that he was facing back toward the front door. Or was it on the other side of the hall? He couldn’t remember. The stealthy rush of feet whispered in the supernatural gloom behind him … but now he thought he could hear the dark elves ahead of him, too. They were surrounding him while he couldn’t see!

“The front hall!” Varys called softly to the others. None of the other drow replied, which was even more intimidating than a chorus of answers would have been.

This is insufferable, Jack raged silently. What harm had he ever done to the drow? Why were they so damned unreasonable about things? He couldn’t go back into the dining room, and he could hear soft movement approaching from the foyer. There was a dark elf there in the middle of the hall, perhaps two or three, closing in on him while he cowered by the wall. He could try to grope his way into the kitchen, but they’d be on him in moments unless he did something they didn’t expect-and that suggested a counterattack.

With one quick motion, Jack seized the chandelier’s chain, undid it from the wall cleat, and let it go. The huge fixture was a magnificent piece of ironwork, easily eight feet in diameter and hundreds of pounds in weight. The chain rattled and clacked loudly for an instant, then the whole thing plummeted to the hall’s zalantar-wood floor with a resounding crash and the shrill tinkle of breaking glass. A drow cried out in pain, and others shouted in alarm; Jack felt a sudden wash of heat and the crackle of flame in front of him as the chandelier’s oil lamps broke and ignited, even though the fire was completely hidden by the darkness spell.

“Hah! Take that, you fiends,” Jack called. He turned and stumbled toward the kitchen, hoping that the way to the back door was now open. He took two steps-and the darkness was abruptly gone. He stood in the kitchen doorway, with a hooded drow warrior blocking his way. Edelmon was lying unconscious almost right at his feet, several drow crossbow-bolts lodged in him, none in any particularly lethal spot. Jack barely noticed his valet, however-behind them both a spreading pool of lamp-oil burned fiercely under the wreckage of the chandelier. A drow soldier was lying in the burning oil, crushed under the fallen fixture. Varys and another warrior were right behind him, and the remaining drow warriors blocked the doorway to the dining room and the grand stairs leading to the upper floors.

Varys skirted the flames and advanced with his hand crossbow trained on Jack’s midsection. “Clever,” the sergeant said. “I had hoped you might provide a little sport for us. Now place your hands on your head and hold still while my warriors bind you. I do not care to carry you all way back down to Chumavhraele, but I will put you to sleep if I must.”

“What do you want with me?” Jack demanded. “Are you in such sore need of dung-shovelers?”

“I suspect you will soon beg for the chance to shovel dung, my lord,” Varys replied. “The marquise has something special planned for you. Your hands?”

Jack glanced left and right, searching for some opening and finding none. The fire in the front hall was spreading to the room’s hangings and the fine paneling; acrid smoke filled the air. He could try a spell, but the dark elves would stick at least one envenomed quarrel in him before he finished, and then he’d be just as useless as poor Edelmon snoring on the floor. He briefly considered forcing the drow warriors to shoot him just for the spite of making them carry him back down to the Underdark, but then he realized that if he had any hope at all for escape, he would need to be conscious. With a shallow cough and watering eyes, he backed away into the kitchen and reluctantly raised his hands.

The dark elves wasted no more time. In a flash two surged up to seize his wrists and bind them behind his back, while a third fitted him with a gag and yanked a thick black hood over his head. Jack twisted and fought in protest, to no avail. Hands closed on his arms and shoulders, and he was hustled out of Maldridge with the smell of smoke thick in his nostrils.

Hooded and bound as he was, Jack could only guess at where the drow were taking him. They shoved him out the kitchen door and through the garden outside, keeping such a tight grip that when he inevitably stumbled and tripped over unseen obstacles they dragged him along with hardly a step missed. Jack thought he heard the rasping sound of the garden gate’s rusty bolt sliding through its brackets, and then Dresimil’s hunters hurried out into the unpaved alleyway behind Maldridge. They turned left, or so he thought, and led him down the alley some distance before another door creaked open. Then the rogue was manhandled through a doorway and down a short flight of wooden steps into a dark, damp place-a cellar, most likely. Something clattered and thumped; the dark elves whispered to each other. Although Jack strained to listen in, he couldn’t make out much of their strange Elvish, at least not with the heavy hood over his head.

It seems the drow use the cellars and alleys to stay out of sight, he decided, or at least they took pains to avoid being seen on the open streets by daylight. How many abandoned cellars or secret boltholes did they have scattered throughout the city? A moment later, stone scraped on stone, and a whiff of cold, rank air came to his nose. The dark elves seized him again and maneuvered him through a doorway and down several more steps. He could hear the gurgle and splash of slow-moving water, and the sounds around him took on a hollow, echoing tone.

“The sewers,” he murmured to himself-although the gag over his mouth rendered the remark into a muffled pair of grunts. Jack mentally added the excellent dwarf-built network of drainage tunnels beneath Raven’s Bluff to the dark elves’ routes for moving around the city unnoticed. He would have thought the drow too fastidious to spend much time in the dank, unhealthy tunnels, but then again, one could hardly come up from the Underdark without passing through Sarbreen, and one could hardly go from Sarbreen to the surface without passing through the sewers. The dark elves turned him toward the right, keeping to the somewhat drier ledge or walkway that ran close to the right-hand wall. Once or twice Jack stepped into cold, foul-smelling water. He found himself wishing they’d hurry up and leave the sewer behind, until he remembered what was likely waiting for him when they reached Tower Chumavhraele.

He winced inside his hood. If he was lucky, Dresimil Chumavh would have him put to death in some quick and spectacular manner. Otherwise she’d have her minions torture him for days or tendays before allowing him to die. “I refuse to give her the satisfaction of begging for mercy,” he resolved under his gag … but somehow he suspected that the dark elves had ways to break tougher men than he. Some morbid part of his imagination started worrying about which specific tortures the drow would employ, and no matter how much Jack fought against it, a whole array of fiendish devices and tactics filled his mind.

Suddenly he was jerked to a halt and roughly pushed to his knees. He started to protest, but a drow close behind him cuffed him by his ear. “Still and silent!” the dark elf hissed.

Jack bit back another cry of pain and did his best to keep still. He listened intently, hearing nothing but the dripping echoes of the sewer around him. The drow barely made a sound; he could imagine they were talking to each other with the clever sign language he’d seen once or twice in Chumavhraele. Why would they stop here? he wondered. Had they met someone else in the sewers?

He leaned forward, trying to hear something, anything at all-and suddenly complete chaos exploded all around him. Shouts of anger rang through the tunnels, steel whispered against leather as blades were drawn, bowstrings snapped, and frantic splashing and plunging broke the steady murmur of the drain water. “What? What’s going on?” Jack demanded of his captors, and of course succeeded only in producing more unintelligible grunts. Then he was shoved to the ground by a hand in the middle of his back, and the shrill ring of steel against steel filled the tunnel. Someone screamed nearby, and someone else roared in fury.

“Fools!” shrieked Varys. “You dare to interfere with us? Slay them all!”

Jack started working to free himself. Lying on the ground, he got one foot against the sewer wall and used the leverage to scoot his bound hands underneath his buttocks. A few heartbeats of desperate wriggling brought his hands up under his knees, then around his feet one at a time. The fight raged on all around him, with cries of pain and panic-some drow, some human. There was a strange crackling, tearing sound, and Jack sensed strong magic close by him. A body fell almost on top of him-a dark elf, judging by the slender build and light weight. Jack ignored the body and dragged the hood from his head, rolling to his feet to make a break for freedom.

Several of the dark elves lay dead or unconscious around him, alongside a couple of human ruffians he didn’t recognize. More of the street toughs surrounded the rest of the drow, battling with knife and sling against rapier and hand crossbow. One of the dark elves went down under the impact of a sling bullet, and the fighting grew even more desperate. Jack decided that he wouldn’t get through the press in that direction, and turned to flee in the other direction-but there the drow sergeant Varys dueled none other than Myrkyssa Jelan. The elf wizard Kilarnan stood just a few steps behind the warlord, sword and wand in hand.

“Jelan?” Jack said in surprise, except that it came out as “Jmm-wnnhh?” because he was still gagged. Angrily he reached up and yanked the gag from his mouth. What he needed was a bit of magic, perhaps an invisibility spell to steal away from this unexpected brawl before he was missed … but he was too late. Jelan parried two lightning-quick thrusts of Varys’s rapier, then stepped inside the dark elf’s reach and sliced his head three-quarters off his neck with a wicked draw cut. Varys reeled around and collapsed in a heap as Jelan’s thugs overpowered the remaining drow.

Jelan eyed the dead drow in front of her with a small smile before she raised her gaze to Jack. “Well, then. I thought I told you to watch out for the drow, Jack.”

The rogue stared a moment in surprise, relief, and no small amount of apprehension. Out of the frying pan and into the fire? he wondered. “Elana,” he finally said. “What are you doing here?”

“I and my Moon Daggers have been engaged in something of a dispute with the drow for several tendays now,” Jelan replied. “They seem to think they have the run of the city. I disagree. I certainly saw no reason to let them take you back down to Chumavhraele.”

“But …” Jack’s natural loquaciousness was nowhere to be found. It seemed this day was full of surprises; he rallied and tried again. “How did you know they had me?”

“I have my sources at Horthlaer’s. I received word this morning that a deal had been struck for the Sarkonagael, so I moved my agents into place to seize the book. One of my spies was watching Maldridge; when the drow stormed the house, he sent for help. I had an idea the dark elves would head for the nearest entrance to Sarbreen with you, so I moved to intercept them. Excuse me for a moment.” Jelan moved past Jack to check on the rest of her men. She knelt briefly by one of the fallen ruffians, and shook her head-it looked like the fellow had taken a rapier-thrust through the heart. She moved to the next, and pulled a small crossbow-quarrel from his shoulder. “Darrek should be fine,” she said to her ruffians. “He’ll wake up in an hour or two with a splitting headache. Drow sleep-venom is strong stuff.”

“You were plotting to steal the Sarkonagael from me?” Jack demanded.

Jelan shrugged. “I would have done it last night, but you and the book were nowhere to be found. Where were you hiding?”

Jack frowned, wondering what had deterred Jelan for a moment before the answer came to him: She must have been looking for him during the time that he’d been confined in Tarandor’s accursed green bottle! Truly, events were moving at a dizzying pace; his rivals and enemies were falling all over each other in their eagerness to foil him. “I was inconvenienced by a completely unreasonable wizard,” he replied. More than that she probably would not believe.

“You would be wise to choose your enemies with more care,” Jelan said. She indicated the dark elves lying dead in the sewer tunnel with a nod of her head. “Now, it seems to me that I have rendered you something of a service by snatching you out of Dresimil Chumavh’s talons. The price of my assistance is, of course, the Sarkonagael. Where might I find the book?”

Jack steeled himself; somehow he doubted that Jelan would like what he was about to say. “I no longer have it, Elana,” he answered. “I turned it in for the reward. Which I have not yet collected, by the way, so there is no need to rob me at the moment.”

Myrkyssa Jelan frowned and stared levelly into his eyes for a long moment. “You turned it in?” she said. “Do not lie to me, Jack. I have been watching Horthlaer’s, and I know they do not have the book.”

“That was likely true an hour or two ago, but if Horthlaer’s does not have it by now, they will by the end of the day. I arranged another counting house to represent me, and left the Sarkonagael in their hands.”

The swordswoman muttered something to herself in a language that sounded like Shou, and turned away in frustration. Kilarnan looked at his employer. “Do we try to retrieve it from Horthlaer’s?” the elf asked. “It could be done.”

Jelan shook her head. “We would need days to arrange it; Horthlaer’s is the next best thing to a fortress. And we would set the whole of the city against us. The prize isn’t worth the cost of the throw.” She looked back at Jack, who was suddenly very conscious of the fact that he still had his hands bound in front of him and was still surrounded by her henchmen. “Did I not warn you against allowing the Sarkonagael to fall into the wrong hands?”

“Heeding warnings has never been easy for me, Elana.”

“Yes, I think I’ve learned that about you.” She glared at him. “Do you know who has the Sarkonagael now?”

Jack shook his head. “I did not determine the identity of the buyer.”

“Well, I did,” Jelan replied. “You have delivered the Secrets of the Shadewrights into the hands of Lord Norwood.”

“Norwood? Lord Marden Norwood?” Jack blinked in surprise. “What in the world would he want with it?”

“That is the question, now, isn’t it? The spell of shadow-simulacra is a potent weapon. It is a perfect tool for espionage, manipulation, or simple assassination. Do you know what might be done with that sort of magic in the wrong hands?”

Jack refrained from pointing out that Myrkyssa Jelan possessed that knowledge because she had in fact been the wrong hands just a few short years ago, by his measure. He also refrained from pointing out that the spell in question was actually in his vest pocket. Why did Seila’s father want the Sarkonagael? Was he engaged in some secret skullduggery of his own, or was he in cahoots with the drow in some unexpected manner? Jack’s mood soured even more at that thought. As heartily as he disliked Marden Norwood at the moment, for Seila’s sake he hoped that the man was not a villain. “Why do you distrust Norwood?” he asked.

“Have you seen how the nobles rule over Raven’s Bluff?” Jelan countered. “They control the city’s trade, its laws, the magistrates, the watch, the city officials, the Wizards’ Guild, everything. What do you think might happen when you give a man accustomed to using power as he pleases the sort of power the Sarkonagael holds?”

“He might want it simply for safekeeping,” said Jack, even though he was not at all sure that was the case.

“Possibly, but that is not a gamble I care to take.” The swordswoman motioned to her surviving mercenaries.

“Let us be on our way-there may be more drow about. Jack, you will find a stair leading back to the streets about thirty yards behind you.”

“That is it?” Jack asked. “You are letting me go?”

“You have nothing I want,” Jelan replied. She drew a dagger from her belt; Jack flinched despite his best efforts to hold still, but she merely sliced the bonds on his wrists and returned the knife to its sheath. “However … you have access to Norwood Manor that I do not. If Norwood tires of your games or you decide that he shouldn’t have that book you gave him after all, I’ll reward you for bringing it to me. Ask for Elana at Nimber’s Skewer Shop-that is how I prefer to be known in the current day. And you’d best heed my advice about avoiding the drow in the future, Jack. It might not be in my interest to rescue you again.” Then she turned on her heel and strode off, her small gang falling in behind her.

Jack stood in the dank sewer, surrounded by dead dark elves, and stared after Myrkyssa Jelan in confusion. He would never understand her peculiarities, not in a hundred years … which was ironic, considering that that was about how long he’d known her by one measure. He stooped to arm himself with a rapier and crossbow from the nearest dark elf, then hurried off to find his way back to the city streets.

Maldridge, unfortunately, burned to the ground.

“This will not endear me to Marden Norwood,” Jack muttered, watching the firefighting companies breaking up the smoldering debris and dousing hot spots with water pumped from their great wagons. “The destruction of Maldridge will try his patience sorely, or I am a goblin.” Somehow he doubted that Norwood would believe any story of drow kidnapers and accidental fires, not when the old lord was already inclined to look at him as a scoundrel and a fraud. Jack’s mind turned again to Norwood’s parting remark about the influence he wielded in the city and the sort of troubles he could arrange if his patience were tried.

He managed to retrieve about half of his new wardrobe, thanks in no small part to the fact that Edelmon had conveniently arranged his belongings close by the front door. Looters had carried off the large, fine trunks in which his new clothes had been housed. That, of course, was not unusual-opportunistic sorts had been racing fire companies to the scene of any fire since long before Jack’s time. He was, however, simultaneously insulted and relieved to find that the looters had discarded Jack’s bold and colorful garments in the street while stealing the trunks themselves. At least the looters had shown the uncommon decency to drag the unconscious Edelmon out of the burning house, or so Jack heard from the gawkers still standing about. Although he had no particular obligation to look after his discharged valet, he wouldn’t have wanted the old wretch to have ended up dead on his account.

It seemed unwise to linger near the destroyed mansion for long, so Jack carried a heaping armful of his clothing away from the scene. At a chandlery two streets over he found a large canvas duffel that could accommodate his sadly reduced wardrobe, stuffed his smoky-smelling clothes within, and set off again with all his possessions in the world carried over his shoulder.

A temporary setback, he told himself, and not a sign of any lasting change of fortunes-but just in case, Jack went straightaway to the counting house of Horthlaer to withdraw every last copper of the credit Norwood had provided for him. The old lord might remember to revoke the line of credit, or he might not, but Jack wasn’t about to take any chances. He decided to leave the Sarkonagael reward in the care of House Albrath for now; there was a limit to the amount of gold Jack wanted to carry around in a duffel without a place to lay his head at night. And then, since the afternoon was growing late and he had no idea where else to go, he wandered toward the Smoke Wyrm. He was sorely in need of a few tankards of good ale.

The dwarven taproom was bustling with business; the workday was done for many of the city’s common folk. Jack bought a pint of Old Smoky, ignoring the irony of the transaction, and found himself a seat at a small table by the wall. His duffel he slid under his chair. “Things are not so bad as they seem,” he reminded himself after a long pull from the tankard. He was still a man of means, after all. What did it matter that all the possessions he called his own could now fit in a canvas bag under his seat? He had a fortune of thousands of gold crowns to reestablish himself in more comfort whenever he liked.

“Maldridge was too big for me anyway,” he decided, and soothed his throat with another pull from his mug. “I will find myself a smaller, more comfortable place to call my own, and fit it with a front door that would defeat a rampaging minotaur.” The notion had much to recommend it … but the small satisfaction he felt from the resolution dulled all too quickly. When he considered all the schemes and ambitions he’d developed upon liberating himself from the dark elves’ captivity, he could truthfully say he was satisfied with the progress of not a single one of them. He’d had some success in winning the affections of the delightful (and delightfully wealthy) Seila Norwood, only to incur the mortal disapproval of her father. He’d discovered who had imprisoned him in the wild mythal a hundred years past, but now an impatient wizard of some skill seemed determined to return him to his prison as soon as possible. The Sarkonagael he had recovered in a daring and well-executed expedition to Sarbreen, only to discover that he’d undertaken the effort on behalf of the man who distrusted him more than anybody in Raven’s Bluff. And of course his ambitions of establishing himself in the elevated company of the city’s noble classes had foundered on the twin rocks of Norwood’s disfavor and a drowish vendetta.

“Appearances are important,” he reflected glumly. Jaer Kell Wildhame, heroic adversary of the dark elves and well-heeled intimate of Lord Marden Norwood, was a fellow who was clearly going places. Jack Ravenwild, fraud and arsonist, was much less compelling. “Somehow I must find a way to present myself in a better light.”

The first order of business was to arrange a roof over his head. Jack spied Tharzon behind the bar, consulting with Kurzen on some matter or another, and an idea came to mind. He hopped up from his seat and crossed the taproom to address the old dwarf. “Friend Tharzon, I am in need of some advice,” he said.

Tharzon looked Jack up and down. “Rise early, and go to bed soon after the sun,” he replied. “You will be astonished at how much more you can do in a day’s work. Oh, and pay your debts promptly in full. Your comrades in the Sarbreen venture are beginning to wonder about your reliability.”

“The former is difficult and impractical. I have little interest in doing more in a day’s work, as you should well know. As to the latter …” Jack suppressed a wince. He hadn’t meant to part with twenty-five hundred coins of gold this very day; scrupulous attention to debt was against his nature. But in this case perhaps it was for the best. Thanks to his stop at Horthlaer’s he had sufficient funds on his person, and he was sorely in need of allies on whom he could rely. “As to the latter, you will be happy to learn that I have concluded the business of the Sarkonagael, and can pay you, your son, and the stouthearted Blue Wyverns this very moment.”

Tharzon’s bushy white eyebrows climbed in surprise. “That I was not expecting,” he said. He jerked his head toward the keg room behind the bar. “Well, step around the bar, then, and let’s count it where we’ll not have every eye in the place on us.”

Jack feigned a broad, sincere smile, and followed the old dwarf into the next room. Under Tharzon’s watchful eye he counted out five stacks of platinum double-moons, each coin worth twenty crowns, on a battered old work-counter beneath the heavy casks of ale. “There you are, my friend-a good day’s work,” he said. “You can see to it that Kurzen, Narm, Arlith, and Halamar get their cuts?”

Tharzon nodded in satisfaction. “I’ll take care of it,” he said. He swept the coins into a good-sized coinpurse, and tucked the purse inside his tunic.

“Now, about that advice,” Jack said. “Do you know of any quiet, safe, and comfortable place where I might hang my cape for a few days until I put my affairs in better order? Anonymity would be advantageous.”

“This has something to do with the fire at Maldridge today, doesn’t it?” the old dwarf grunted. “Well, you can’t stay here-I prefer to stay clear of your troubles.”

“Surely you must have some recommendation?”

Tharzon frowned beneath his beard, thinking. “There is a vacant tinsmith’s shop with a small apartment upstairs, over on Broken Bit Lane,” he finally said. “I happen to hold the deed. From time to time I arrange for friends who don’t want to be found to stay there. You can have it for a few days, but mind you, Jack, I don’t want the place burned down.”

“It sounds ideal,” Jack replied.

“You may revise your opinion soon enough. It’s cramped, cluttered, and furnished only with a cot,” the dwarf answered. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a simple iron key. “Number sixteen.”

“I thank you.” Jack decided that Tharzon was simply exercising modesty in describing the tinsmith’s room in such cautious terms, and accepted the key. Nightfall was not far off; he was not looking forward to lugging the heavy duffel several blocks, but it would probably be best to take care of the job before dark. One last mug of Old Smoky, then, or perhaps two … He followed Tharzon back out to the taproom, laid down a silver talent on the bar for a refill, and returned to the table where all his worldly possessions sat.

“Jack Ravenwild.”

Jack looked up from his mug and discovered the fire-mage Halamar at his table. The sorcerer gave him a small nod, his shaggy red braids falling around his shoulders. “This is something of a coincidence,” the sorcerer continued. “I was recently engaged in a conversation about you. May I join you, sir?”

“By all means,” Jack replied, gesturing at the seat across the table. He straightened up and kicked the canvas bag out of the way.

Halamar took the proffered chair, and signaled to Kurzen at the bar. The dwarf nodded and drew a pint for the mage, who cleverly used a minor telekinesis to summon it to his hand. “Ahh, that’s good,” he said. “Now, as I was saying-strange, do you smell smoke?”

“I smell little else,” Jack muttered darkly. “Please, continue.”

“Anyway, I was at the High House of Magic earlier this afternoon, and I encountered our esteemed visitor Tarandor Delhame berating his apprentices about some oversight or inattentiveness on their part. The door to his chamber stood open; there was a finely carved wooden case standing on his desk, with a strange greenish-black bottle next to it. I admit his distress provoked my curiosity, so when he was finished with his disciplinary measures, I asked him what had gone wrong.

“Tarandor said to me, ‘That ignorant, strutting buffoon of a sorcerer’-his words, not mine-‘has somehow escaped a very expensive spell of entrapment, and now I will have to start all over again.’ I asked him what sorcerer he was referring to. ‘Jack Ravenwild,’ he replied. ‘It was a conjuration of the eighth order, proof against the escape of any prisoner short of an archmage or demon prince. How could he have slipped out?’

“Well, I was surprised that Tarandor knew you by name. ‘Why in the world would you want to entrap Jack Ravenwild?’ I asked. ‘I am under an obligation to do so,’ Tarandor replied. ‘Meritheus left instructions for my master, who passed them on to me. Apparently he foresaw some calamity involving Ravenwild.’ I pointed out that it was impossible to know what threat old Meritheus foresaw or whether it still pertained after so many years. Tarandor only shrugged. ‘Who cares?’ he replied. ‘All I want to do is discharge my obligation as quickly as possible and return to Iriaebor.’

“I remonstrated with Tarandor, but it was clear that he had little interest in my views.” Halamar paused to imbibe a long swallow of his ale, and continued. “Anyway, I went on my way rather puzzled by the whole episode. I hope you can provide some new insight. Oh, and by the way, how did you escape an entrapment of the eighth order? That is no small feat.”

“I am a man of hidden talents,” Jack replied. “As it turned out, I had the Sarkonagael on my person when Tarandor conjured me into that bottle. I found a spell inside that helped me to escape. A shame that Tarandor has already noticed my absence; I was hoping he would remain ignorant of my freedom for some time yet.”

“That is unfortunate. Tarandor is a very capable abjurer. I would not want to have him determined to imprison me.”

“What will you tell Tarandor when you see him again?” Jack asked.

The fire-sorcerer scratched at his small patch of beard and shrugged. “Not a thing. In the first place, I find him arrogant and overbearing. More important, I am still awaiting my five-hundred-crown share from the disposal of the Sarkonagael, which I would be unlikely to receive if you were to be thrust back into permanent stasis. Speaking of which, have you claimed the reward yet? I would feel better if we resolved that without much more delay.”

“I settled it today. Your share is in Tharzon’s keeping.”

“Indeed?” Halamar glanced over at the bar and caught the old dwarf’s eye. Tharzon gave him a small nod. “Excellent! I had been led to understand that you sometimes experienced difficulties in observing such details.” He raised his tankard to Jack, and took a deep drink.

Jack took the opportunity to do likewise with his own cup, while thinking hard about the challenge posed by Tarandor’s unreasonable suspicions. He could hardly continue with his ordinary business if a competent and ambitious wizard was determined to trap him again. Somehow he would have to find a way to dissuade Tarandor from any further attacks on his liberty. “It seems that I will have to discourage Tarandor,” he mused. “I assume that the Guild might frown on murder or abduction?”

Halamar simply looked at Jack. “Can you think of any better way to confirm Tarandor’s misgivings about you?”

“A theoretical question only,” said Jack. He frowned in thought, considering the question of how to avoid recapture at Tarandor’s hands. Outside, the temple bells began to strike the hour; when they reached six bells, he suddenly leaped to his feet and slapped a hand to his forehead. “Selune’s silver slippers!” he cried. “I am supposed to meet Seila at the opera in an hour!”

Halamar raised an eyebrow. “Do not let me detain you, then.”

“We will continue this conversation later,” Jack promised. “My thanks for your news, Halamar.” With that, he seized the duffel with the remnants of his wardrobe, threw it up on his shoulder, and hurried to the door.