Prince of Ravens

CHAPTER FIVE

Norwood Manor was much as Jack remembered it from his long-ago visit. Most of the furnishings were different, but a few pieces of decor remained after a century of absence-the great chandelier in the foyer was still there, the coats of arms in the upper hallway seemed the same, and even a couple of portraits in the parlor remained. Seila and her mother were delighted when he mentioned the similarities to them, but he carefully omitted sharing many details of his previous visit. It was only about three years ago by his reckoning (since, after all, a hundred years of slumber had passed as little more than a single night’s sleep). On a snowy evening in the Year of Rogue Dragons he’d slipped into an elegant midwinter’s ball at Sarpentar House by posing as a caterer, and he had spent a very profitable evening working the glittering crowd of guests as a pickpocket before seducing a rather intoxicated noble lass who’d mistaken a careless pat for attention of a different sort. In fact, Jack had very pleasant memories of the third-floor linen closet … but Seila and the Norwoods didn’t need to know that, thank you.

For two full days, Jack did nothing but bask in the gratitude of Seila’s family and retainers. After three months of captivity, Seila had been given up for lost. As her rescuer, Jack was treated very well indeed in Norwood Manor. He slept as long as he liked, bathed in steaming hot baths until he finally eradicated the lingering aroma of the rothe paddocks, ate like a king, and refined the dramatic tale of his rescue of the beautiful Seila until he even impressed himself with his bravery, wit, and resourcefulness. He was introduced to a bewildering array of noble Ravenaars, beginning with Seila’s mother Idril, a dozen aunts and uncles and cousins, and then scores of nobles of other families who flocked to Norwood Manor on hearing of Seila’s return from the Underdark. Her father Marden was away in Tantras on family business, but Idril Norwood dispatched a courier at once to summon him back.

On the morning of the third day since their escape from Sarbreen, Jack was roused from his luxurious bed in one of the manor’s guestrooms by Seila, who wore a green riding-dress that matched her striking green eyes (a charming feature of hers he hadn’t noticed in the gloom of the Underdark). “Up and out of bed, Jack,” she said. “It’s a fine spring day without a cloud in the sky, and I have an open carriage waiting in the drive. I think it’s time to give you the grand tour of Raven’s Bluff.”

Despite the fact that he was really quite comfortable in the great feather bed, Jack’s curiosity asserted itself. He was not yet fully recovered from his toils in Tower Chumavhraele-he could stand to regain another ten pounds or so, in his judgment-but his curiosity about this new age in which he found himself had been growing each day. “An excellent suggestion, my dear,” he said. He threw off the coverlets and climbed to his feet; Seila obligingly turned her back while he changed from his sleeping robe into the borrowed clothes the Norwoods had found for him, pulling on warm gray woolen breeches and a padded vest of fine blue velvet over a cream-colored shirt. He paused at the washbasin to splash some water on his face and quickly check the trim of the neat goatee that had replaced months’ worth of scraggly beard growth, then threw a heavy scarlet cape over his shoulders and selected a feathered cap.

When he was ready, he followed Seila down to the manor’s foyer and out to the waiting buggy, where a liveried driver waited with a dapple-gray mare in harness. They climbed into the seat and spread a blanket over their laps before the driver clucked to his horse and set off at an easy trot.

Norwood Manor stood about five miles north of the city, on a fine piece of land that stretched all the way to the bluffs overlooking the Dragon Reach. Jack settled in to enjoy the ride, taking in the scattered estates, manor houses, and country homes of the Ravenaar nobility, broken up by small farmsteads and wide swaths of woodland. “So far it seems much the same,” he said to Seila after a mile or so. “Most of these grand old houses were here back in my day. That one there is Daradusk Hall, is it not?”

“It is. Baron Ostin Daradusk is the head of the family these days.” Seila tapped the side of her head. “A very eccentric fellow by most accounts. The man is terrified of vampires and never ventures from his house after sundown.”

“Have he or his family suffered from a vampire’s attack?”

“Not that anyone knows of, but Baron Daradusk claims that only proves that his methods are effective.”

Jack chuckled. “I suppose he also takes credit for keeping away the elephants, too.” He pointed at another manor, this one a lofty house on a high knoll of the mountain that crowded in on Raven’s Bluff from the northeast. “And that is Daltabria, isn’t it? One of the De Sheers’s estates?”

“No longer. It belongs to the Hawkynfleur family now. The De Sheers died out thirty or forty years ago when old Lady Niune passed without children.”

“Niune, really?” Jack shook his head. “I knew her. Not well, mind you, but I could pick her out of a crowd even if she wouldn’t have known me.” Strange to think that a young noblewoman with scarcely twenty-five winters to her had lived out her entire life and died as an old woman in Seila’s time-well, the time of Seila’s parents, anyway. He wouldn’t be surprised if Idril Norwood or her husband had met Niune when they were younger, because they were practically neighbors. Why, there might be very old people today who’d been babes when he was so strangely imprisoned. “Or, for that matter, any number of dwarves or elves,” he murmured aloud.

“What was that?”

“It just occurred to me that while there are probably no humans alive who knew me before, there might be some nonhumans who remember me. Dwarves and elves and other such folk live much longer than we do, after all.”

“Did you know many?”

“Only a handful, really. Still, we should try to look up one or two.” Jack grinned at her. “If nothing else, I would dearly love to offer some proof of my outrageous claims.”

“I believe you, Jack.”

“Which I greatly appreciate, my dear, but I suspect that many others will find my story harder to credit.” He leaned forward to address the driver. “My good fellow, by any chance do you know where a taphouse called the Smoke Wyrm stands? It used to lie on an alley off Vesper Way, in Torchtown.”

“It’s still there, sir. They brew a very good stout, but one to be enjoyed in moderation.”

“Drive us there when we enter the city. If I recall, it’s hard by the north gate, anyway.”

“Do you think someone you know might still be found there?” Seila asked.

“It seems unlikely, but one never knows. If nothing else, the current owners might know what became of him.”

As they neared the city’s northern gate, Jack noticed that the woods that had once grown close up to the city walls had been cut back by a bowshot at some point in the past. The small cluster of buildings that had once stood just outside the gate was gone as well. Evidently Raven’s Bluff had faced some threat from the northern road, and readied itself to fight off an attack. He added it to the long list of questions he had about what had transpired in the years he’d been absent. The driver paused at the gate, where a half-dozen guards questioned everyone entering the city, but they were quickly waved through-the soldiers knew the Norwoods by sight and were careful not to annoy an important noble family.

The Tantras Road became Manycoins Way at the city gate; Jack looked about eagerly, noting many details that he’d missed in his exhaustion and light-blindness when he and Seila had found a carriage to take them to her family’s manor a few days before. Raven’s Bluff was surprisingly unchanged, for the most part. Perhaps four in five of the buildings Jack remembered from his own time still stood, although some had fallen into disrepair and others had been reshingled or painted in new colors. Most of the businesses and shops seemed to have changed hands at least once.

His wonder must have shown; Seila watched him with a wide smile on her face. “You seem overwhelmed,” she offered.

“I am. It’s very much the same, but different in so many of the details,” Jack answered. “There was a guide service in that barrister’s office, and that building under the sign of the Blue Basilisk Coster I knew as the Black Flame merchant house.” He turned his attention to the people thronging the street, and frowned. “Hmm. Fashions have changed a good deal while I’ve been … away. The cut of clothing is different, and most of the men are clean-shaven. Is my goatee out of style now? I can see that I shall have to adjust my grooming and seek advice about gentlemen’s fashions.”

The driver turned onto Vesper Way and drove two more short blocks before stopping in front of the taphouse Jack remembered. He could see at once that it had been expanded once or twice, and in fact sported a brand new sign with a painting of a sleeping dragon, smoke from its nostrils encircling its head. Jack hopped down from the carriage and gave Seila his hand as she climbed down after him. They descended a short flight of steps to the taphouse entrance-the common room was in the cellar-where Jack tried the door and found it locked. He gave it a firm rap with his knuckle. It was probably not much later than ten bells of the morning; there wouldn’t be many taphouses open at this hour.

After a moment, he heard heavy footsteps from within, and a small clatter of dishware. Then the door rattled as its bolt was drawn, and it opened from inside. A dark-haired dwarf in a leather apron with gold rings in his thick black beard looked up at them. “Sorry, goodfolk,” he grunted. “We’re not open yet. Come back in an hour.”

Jack peered at the fellow, wondering. Could it be? “Tharzon?” he asked tentatively.

“No, that’s me da,” the dwarf said. “I’m Kurzen.”

The rogue shook his head. Tharzon’s son looked just like Tharzon had, well, a hundred years ago. He tried to find a way to say that without confusing the poor fellow, and settled for asking, “Is Tharzon still … here?” After so many years, it simply seemed impossible that he might still be the proprietor of the Smoke Wyrm.

“Aye. What’s your business with him?”

“I’m an old friend.”

Kurzen squinted at Jack. “I’m near sixty years old, and I’ve never seen you before. Give me your name, then.”

“Tell Tharzon that Jack Ravenwild is at his doorstep,” Jack said. “I’ll wait.”

The dwarf grunted and closed the door. Seila glanced at Jack. “Ravenwild?” she asked.

“A nickname,” Jack explained. “Tharzon and I were sometimes engaged in ventures that wouldn’t have been entirely sanctioned by the civil authorities.” He heard Kurzen’s steps receding inside, and the distant sound of deep voices from somewhere inside. He gave Seila a quick wink. A moment later there came a cry in Dwarvish, and a sudden rush of footsteps toward the door, punctuated by a thumping or knocking sound. Then the door flew open wide again, and Jack found himself gazing upon the aged features of Tharzon the dwarf. If Tharzon had once looked very much like his son did today, he did no longer. His beard was gray, his face was lined with deep wrinkles, and most of the hair on top of his head had gone the way of last year’s snows. He was thinner than Jack remembered, too. The old dwarf’s shoulders were more hunched, and he leaned on a heavy cane-but the dark, fierce eyes and bushy brow were the same.

“Good morning, Tharzon,” Jack said. “I’ll wager you’d thought you’d seen the last of me.”

“Impossible,” the old dwarf whispered. “Impossible!”

“Not impossible, my old friend, merely highly improbable,” Jack answered. He glanced up at the taphouse and nodded in approval. “I like what you’ve done with the place. Hard to believe you’ve kept it for a hundred years.”

“Are you well, Da?” Kurzen said to his father. “If this fellow troubles you, say the word, and I’ll run him off for you.”

Tharzon stood, his mouth agape, for a long moment, and then he managed to shake his head. “No, my boy, no. Don’t you know who you’re looking at? This is the man that found the Guilder’s Vault and defeated the Warlord herself. Did you not listen to any of the stories I told you when you were a youngster?”

“But that’s not possible,” Kurzen protested. “Why, he’d have to be a hundred and thirty years old! That’s no great age for our folk, but not so for a human.”

“Nevertheless, here I am,” said Jack. “Seila, this is my old comrade in arms, Tharzon Brewhammer. Tharzon, this is my new friend, Lady Seila Norwood of the Norwood family.”

“The noblelady as was rescued from the thrice-damned drow the other day?” Tharzon replied. “Don’t be so surprised, the story’s all over the town. A pleasure to meet you, m’lady. Please, come in. Come in! Jack Ravenwild, as I live and breathe. What a day!”

The old dwarf led the way into the empty taphouse, and motioned for his son to set up a table and chairs. “What can we draw for you fine folk?” he asked.

“It’s a little early in the day for me,” Seila replied. “I don’t suppose you have some tea?”

“I’d ask if you still brew Old Smoky, but I won’t get far today if I started now,” Jack said. “Better make it your mildest lager.”

“Suit yourself, then,” Tharzon replied. Kurzen retreated to the bar, and soon returned with mugs for Jack, his father, and himself, and a plain kettle and teacup for Seila. “Where have you been for all these years, you scoundrel? How is it that you turn up a hundred years after the last time I saw you, not looking a day older?”

Kurzen frowned at Jack. “Doesn’t seem right, Da. Maybe he’s one of those … undead.”

Tharzon harrumphed. “Use your eyes, boy. Did you not see the sun shining outside? It’s no weather for such things as ought to be in their graves.”

“Someone imprisoned me with magic, Tharzon,” Jack replied. “They entombed me in the old mythal stone where we fought Jelan and her sellswords, and left me there. I might have gone on sleeping until the end of days, but the drow took it into their heads to meddle with the wild mythal and released me just a few tendays ago.” He took a sip of his lager and nodded in appreciation. Trust dwarves to know their business with a good ale. “Which reminds me: Do you have any idea who might have encysted me in an ancient ruin half a mile deep in the Underdark? I have no memory of the event, and I would dearly like to find out who used me with such malice.”

“Those of us who knew you wondered about that for years, Jack,” Tharzon said. “You simply vanished one night without a word to anyone. Most folk assumed that you’d run afoul of some enemy who’d chained an anchor to your feet and dumped you in the harbor, although there were some as held that you’d fled to safer parts after angering some high and powerful person with your … indiscretions.”

“Did no one think to look for me?” Jack asked.

“Oh, we checked your usual haunts. Anders looked for you for some time, because he was of the opinion that you owed him a great deal of coin. But naught ever came of it.”

Seila regarded Jack with a raised eyebrow. “It seems you had some interesting associations in your earlier life, Jack,” she observed.

“I was the victim of jealousy, misunderstandings, and false accusations, dear Seila. All would naturally have been answered in due course, clearing my good name and confounding my enemies, if only a lost century had not intervened.” Jack returned his attention to Tharzon. “Where was I last seen? In whose company? Were there any noted villains or malefactors in town who seemed especially pleased by my disappearance?”

“It’s been a long time, Jack.” The old dwarf frowned, thinking hard on the question. “I seem to remember that the Knights of the Hawk were looking for you, but then again, that wasn’t terribly unusual. There was a ball at some noble manor where you made some sort of scene, and as far as anyone could tell, you never came home.”

“Which manor?”

“You would know better than I,” Tharzon replied, but seeing that Jack was serious about the question, he fixed his gaze on the taproom’s great stone hearth, his brow knotting as he delved deeper and deeper into his memories. Jack began to wonder if his old friend had actually fallen asleep with his eyes open, but then the dwarf grunted. “Ah, there it is,” he muttered at last. “Sevencrown Keep. You certainly indulged your ambitions in those days, Jack.”

“The Leorduins? What business did I have with them?” Jack wondered aloud. The Leorduins were a very rich and very prickly family, indeed. Had they caught him in some scheme? If so, what scheme was it? Or had he simply gone to the Leorduin affair, whatever it was, to maneuver toward some other noble mark?

“How did you finally escape from your magical prison?” Tharzon’s son Kurzen asked. “You’d already been there a hundred years or so. What broke the spell?”

“Ah, that I think was an accident,” said Jack. “The drow had no idea that someone had been entombed within their old mythal stone. They were at work restoring its old spells, and their magic interfered with the encystment in which I slept, releasing me. They asked me how I’d come to be in their mythal, heard me out, agreed that my story was fascinating, and promptly condemned me to slavery once they’d decided they had no other use for me.”

“A black-hearted race, and that’s no lie,” Tharzon agreed. He looked over to Seila. “Is that where you come into the tale, my lady?”

Seila nodded. “I was traveling on the Tantras Road with one of my father’s caravans when a large party of brigands ambushed us. They took me and most of our people captive, and sold us to the dark elves. I was sent to the tower kitchens, and met Jack a tenday or so later. It took a long time, but eventually he managed to arrange our escape.”

“That’s a tale I’d like to hear,” Tharzon said. “How did you do it?”

“I’m glad you asked, friend Tharzon,” Jack replied. He immediately launched into a recounting of his toils among the drow, his befriending of Seila, and his daring escape. If his telling of the tale perhaps overemphasized his own cleverness, stoicism, and personal bravery, well, that was merely a bit of artistic license. After all, it was his story to tell, and he ought to be able to tell it as he liked, as long as he avoided embellishing the parts Seila could corroborate. Half an hour passed as Jack lingered on every detail and described every perilous development, during which he finished his first lager and embarked on a second, until finally he concluded with their arrival in the alley in Sindlecross. Even Kurzen left his work to listen to the story, caught up despite himself.

“Well done, Jack, well done,” Tharzon said in approval when Jack finished. “You always had a daring streak in you.”

“It was nothing,” Jack replied with false modesty, waving away Tharzon’s praise.

“You can bet that the drow won’t believe it to be nothing,” Kurzen warned. “The dark elves have long memories, and they never let a slight pass without answer. You’d best watch your back, Jack Ravenwild.”

“I am not concerned,” Jack answered. “The drow do not frighten me; I have their measure now.”

Kurzen shook his head at Jack’s reply. “They have their eyes and ears in the city. I would not be so quick to dismiss them. If I were you, I’d lay low for a time.” The young dwarf rose and returned to his work at the bar.

Jack took a long pull from his mug, and then he looked back to Tharzon. “There’s one other thing you should know. I think the drow released Myrkyssa Jelan, too.”

Tharzon sat up straight. “The Warlord herself? No!”

“I see that you remember her as fondly as I do,” said Jack. “I actually saw her down in the mythal-plaza, which is no longer under a lake, by the way. She emerged from the mythal as a very lifelike statue, and still managed to scare me half to death in that condition.” He grinned crookedly. “Apparently she didn’t stay that way for long, and the drow made the mistake of trying to enslave her. She cut her way out of Chumavhraele and vanished into the Underdark.”

The dwarf shook his head. “If Myrkyssa Jelan is at liberty again, trouble’s sure to follow. I wouldn’t be surprised …” Tharzon’s voice trailed away, and his eyes took on a thoughtful expression. “Hmmph. I wonder? Is it possible?”

“Is what possible, friend Tharzon?”

“A new gang moved into the Skymbles a couple of tendays ago. They call themselves the Moon Daggers, and they’ve already put a couple of local street gangs in their place. I’ve heard that the Moon Daggers aren’t just guttersnipes and street rats; skilled adventurers run the gang, with a dark-haired swordswoman at their head. Do you think it’s the Warlord?”

“I deem it unlikely. Street gangs come and go, and for that matter so do adventurers. All of Jelan’s plots and designs are a hundred years out of date; even she couldn’t easily recover from such a setback.” Jack considered the question again, and decided that he was well satisfied with that answer. He winked at Seila. “Now on to more important matters: I promised you three days ago that I’d tell you the tale of the Guilder’s Vault. Well, here sits one of my comrades in that harrowing adventure, and between the two of us I think we can do it justice.

“The tale begins in the disorderly library of a disreputable old sot of a sage by the name of Ontrodes, whose counsel I’d sought on the matter of a missing arcane tome known as the Sarkonagael …”

The telling of the story of the Guilder’s Vault took up the rest of the morning. Jack counted it as time well spent, because Seila was completely enthralled by the story, all the more so because old Tharzon was able to reinforce the telling of the tale with his own recollections. After that, Jack and Tharzon traded news of old comrades for a little longer-most of whom, as one might expect, were long since dead-until Jack finally held up his hand. “I could spend the rest of the day talking with you, friend Tharzon, but I’ve a lot of city still to see, and it would be a pity to bore my lovely companion, here. I promise that I will return soon to resume our conversation.”

“Fair enough,” Tharzon replied. He snorted in bemusement, and shook his head. “Jack Ravenwild, here under my beams again. Who could have thought it?”

With another round of handclasps, Jack and Seila said their goodbyes and returned to the sunny streets outside. They climbed back into the carriage, and Seila leaned close to Jack. “He seems a very pleasant fellow,” she remarked. “And what stories, too. I think you were not as much of a gentleman back in those days, Jack.”

“Rather like a good brandy, Tharzon’s mellowed with age,” Jack replied. “He was a very fierce fellow a century ago, and in fact once swore a blood oath to hack me to pieces if he ever saw me again. Fortunately, that little misunderstanding was cleared up! But I never would have thought him to be so sentimental.”

“Where to now?”

Jack considered the question for a moment. He’d hoped that Tharzon might be able to shed some light on why he’d been encysted in the wild mythal, but it seemed that his disappearance had been as much a mystery to his friends as it was to himself. He would have to think of some other way to pursue that inquiry, he supposed. “Hmm … well, I can’t think of any other old friends to look up unless we visit the cemetery. Let’s just have a turn around the city and see what we see. I used to have a house over in Mortonbrace, and I sometimes made do with a little loft in Burnt Gables and a cottage on the Ladyrock.” Jack’s eye fell on a counting house, and another thought struck him. “And I would dearly like to visit Wyrmhoard House, if they are still around. My deposits have had a hundred years to grow; I am frankly curious as to the state of my accounts.”

“To Mortonbrace, Hartle,” Seila said to their driver. “But take your time, there’s no hurry.”

“As you wish, my lady,” the driver replied. He gave the reins a shake and clucked at the horse, and the carriage rolled away from the Smoke Wyrm. They drove east on Vespers Way until they reached Moorland Ride, where they turned south and passed through the neighborhoods of Sixstar, Tentowers, and Swordspoint. Jack engaged himself wholly in the game of trying to spot which buildings remained the same and which had changed, then comparing the current occupants or business to the ones he remembered from his time. Many of the fine townhouses and manors in the noble neighborhoods still belonged to the same families, as one might expect, but most of the businesses were strange to him.

In Swordspoint they turned east on Raven Way, and crossed the small bridge over DeVillars Creek into the neighborhood of Mortonbrace. In Jack’s day Mortonbrace had been something of an up and coming neighborhood, a place where many of the newly wealthy-including no small number of adventurers-had built fine new houses for themselves. Now, a hundred years later, it seemed that Mortonbrace had seen its peak and was growing old. Fine old manor houses now verged on dilapidation; some were broken out into a dozen or more apartments occupied by poor laborers and craftsmen, many of them from foreign lands. Jack discovered that the fashionable townhouse he’d bought for himself with his reward from the whole Myrkyssa Jelan affair was now occupied by several families of halflings.

“Well,” he said with a sigh. It surprised him how much the sight of his house falling into disrepair and full of strangers darkened his mood; he’d never been one to care too much for the roof over his head, as long as he had one. “I suppose it would have too much to expect that the house would have stood vacant all this time.”

“You might still have a claim on the place,” Seila offered. “Or I’m sure you could buy it back if you wanted to.”

Jack eyed the place dubiously. The roof now had a distinct sag to it, the porch slanted noticeably, and the siding was covered with salvaged planks and patches. He put on an air of indulgent good humor, and waved off the suggestion. “I think I’ll let them keep it,” he replied.

Next they visited Wyrmhoard House, the counting house where Jack had once kept the modest wealth he’d managed to save instead of spending on fine furnishings, splendid garb, and various dissipations and entertainments. There Jack learned that the five hundred or so gold crowns he’d once possessed had vanished into history, the account having been settled by someone claiming to have been acting as his legal heir about four years after he’d disappeared. “Duplicity! Despoliation!” Jack cried at the clerk assisting him. “How could you have simply given away the funds I entrusted to you?”

“Sir, you are referring to an event that occurred ninety-five years ago,” the clerk protested. He was a balding, middle-aged gnome who stood on a high riser behind the counter. The gnome pointed to the ancient, yellowed ledger in which the transaction was recorded. “It’s a wonder that we have this much of a record. This-” he paused to squint at the fading signature-“Morgath? Is that it? This Morgath apparently presented a court writ attesting to your demise, and another authorizing him to see to your estate. I can only surmise that my predecessor here at Wyrmhoard House saw no reason to doubt the veracity of the documents.”

“This is outrageous!” Jack protested. “I demand immediate redress.”

The clerk closed his dusty ledger. “You may seek such a ruling from the city magistrate, sir, but I will not hand you five hundred and thirty-five-”

“You neglect one hundred years of compound interest,” Jack interrupted.

“Five hundred thirty-five gold crowns or their compounded value, then. I cannot simply give you that sum. Do you have any proof that you are this person who lived a hundred years ago?”

“Of course I am me!”

“Then the magistrate should be able to establish that fact to my employer’s satisfaction. But I must reiterate that as far as Wyrmhoard House is concerned, the estate of Jack Ravenwild has already received all funds owed to it. I suggest you take up the matter with Master Morgath. Or, more likely, his descendants, if you can find them.” The clerk sniffed at Jack, tipped his cap to Seila, and scurried off with his ledger.

“If I can find them,” Jack muttered. “You have not heard the last from me on this matter!” he called after the retreating gnome.

Seila offered a small smile in sympathy. “I’m sure we can help you reestablish your identity,” she said. “My father has friends in the courts. Do you have any idea who this Morgath was?”

“No,” Jack said glumly. They left the counting house and climbed back into the carriage. Then Jack was struck by a memory … a fat, unctuous fellow from the thieves’ guild who always had a tall, bony thug at his side. “Wait, yes. Morgath was a thief. The clever bastard must have forged the documents so that he could plunder my savings after I disappeared, Mask damn his black heart!”

“I am sure that you will not be left in want,” Seila pointed out. “My father will be grateful for my return, I can promise you that much.”

Jack’s interest piqued at the thought of a handsome reward, but he carefully put on an air of good cheer. “Nothing of the sort is necessary,” he claimed. “Come, let’s continue our tour. I am enjoying the outing greatly, that last little bit of unpleasantness excepted.”

They drove on along Stonekeep Way through the Skymbles, and turned westward again into Burnt Gables-no, Jack reminded himself, Sindlecross, as it was now called. There he found that the old warehouse he’d once lived above was simply gone, replaced by a large granary. Jack grimaced; behind the stove in his loft there’d been a hidden cache where he remembered leaving a sackful of gold coins and gemstones for a day when he might need them, but clearly the hidey-hole and its treasures were gone now. “So much for that,” he sighed. It seemed that he was much poorer than he’d hoped he would be. “Take us through Shadystreets, and then find us a ferry to the Ladyrock.”

“Very good, sir,” the coachmen replied. He drove them south on Sindle Street to Riverview, where Jack pointed out to Seila the spot where the leaning tower of the old sage Ontrodes had once stood. The sage’s house was long gone, of course; it had been on the verge of falling down in Jack’s day, so he would have been astonished to find it still there. Then they made their way down to the point of Crow’s End. There Jack and Seila hired a boatman to scull them two hundred yards over to the island in the middle of Raven’s Bluff’s harbor. A half-hour’s walk in the afternoon sunshine was sufficient to circle the Ladyrock; Jack’s old cottage was still standing but was abandoned, its roof mostly caved in and its walls overgrown with ivy and brambles.

Seila looked at it with distaste. “Did you really live here once?”

“It was in much better repair a hundred years ago. But it was a very modest abode, even then.” Jack looked it over and shook his head. “I suppose I could fix it up.”

“Why did you need so many residences, anyway?” Seila asked. “And, excuse me for saying so, weren’t they all rather modest for a gentleman of your station?”

“The Mortonbrace house was a perfectly genteel address when I bought it. As for the loft and the cottage, well, I think I have already told you that I was not without enemies. This cottage may have been little better than a hovel, but no one knew I owned it and I could retreat here for privacy when I found it prudent to drop out of sight.”

Seila gave Jack a long look. “Were you a criminal of some sort, Jack?”

“Absolutely not. You must remember, in my time the city fell under the rule of corrupt merchants and nobles who subverted our civic institutions. Why, the Warlord Myrkyssa Jelan insinuated herself into the office of Lady Mayor by adopting an alias. When a city is ruled by malefactors, then patriots become outlaws.”

“I’ve heard the story of Myrkyssa Jelan before, but never the rest about corruption in the merchant houses and nobility.”

“Well, of course not. Powerful people were very embarrassed by the events of that time. I have no doubt that over time they worked very hard to whitewash the civic records.” Jack noted the concerned frown on Seila’s face, and quickly added, “The Norwoods were, of course, above reproach. Your family was one of the noble houses who worked to set matters right.”

“That is good to hear,” Seila replied, a look of relief on her face. “I was afraid that my ancestors might have been on the wrong side of that. So where would you like to go now?”

Jack glanced up at the sun, beginning to lower toward the west. “It’s getting late in the afternoon. I propose that we return to Norwood Manor.”

“I’m ready to go home,” Seila agreed.

They returned to the Ladyrock’s landing and hired another boat to take them back over to Crow’s End, where the carriage waited. Jack busied himself with studying the passers-by in the streets as they drove back to Mortonbrace. If anything, Raven’s Bluff seemed even more cosmopolitan than it had been a hundred years before. Sprinkled among the teeming crowds of humans he saw sturdy dwarves, dapper halflings, graceful elves of several kindreds, and people of kindreds he’d never even imagined before. As interesting as that seemed to him, none of the city folk seemed to take any notice of the nonhumans among them; clearly they were a routine sight in Raven’s Bluff.

An hour’s drive carried them through the city’s northern gate and out along the Tantras Road again. The carriage returned to Norwood Manor as the shadows stretched out long black fingers across the lawn and the evening chill gathered close. Seila shivered, and Jack took the liberty of putting his arm around her shoulders and inviting her to snuggle closely beside him. She looked up at him with her enchanting green eyes before leaning her head against his shoulder.

“Not everything is misery and toil in this age, Jack,” Seila said. “What do you think of the Year of the Ageless One now?”

“It shows more promise than I had first thought,” Jack admitted. “Much has changed, and not all for the better. But I could become used to it, I think.”

Seila chuckled softly to herself. “Do you think that you might be the Ageless One named by this year? Perhaps old Augathra caught some glimpse of your predicament when he wrote out his Roll of Years.”

“I doubt very much that my troubles and travails inspired a half-mad seer who lived a thousand years ago to add one more cryptic euphemism to his great prophecy. As much as it pains me to say it, I am not that important.”

“Well, I, for one, am glad that you found your way to this day,” Seila replied. She reached up to turn Jack’s face toward hers and kissed him soundly. He closed his eyes, losing himself in the soft delight of her lips as the horse’s harness jingled and the wheels clattered over the cobblestones of the manor drive. Then, all too soon, the carriage rocked gently to a halt by the manor steps, and Seila drew away. “Thank you for saving me,” she said.

For a moment Jack couldn’t find any words at all. Then he grinned and said, “I don’t suppose you could go find some new predicament for yourself? I would dearly love to rescue you again if that’s the reward for my efforts.”

She laughed, and clambered out of the carriage without a reply. Jack stared after her for a moment, admiring her fine curves and the silken sheen of her dark hair. “I believe she’s growing fond of me,” he murmured to himself. He might be absolutely destitute in this new day and age, but Seila Norwood very definitely was not, and that meant that this was no time to become soft in the head over a fetching figure and eyes as green as springtime, he told himself firmly. “Keep your wits about you, Jack. This is an opportunity not to be missed.”

With a broad smile, he leaped down from the carriage and followed Seila inside.

The next day, Seila’s father returned from Tantras.

Jack learned that the Lord Norwood was home when he ventured downstairs after sleeping away the better part of the morning. He found Seila having a late breakfast with her mother Idril in a small dining room that overlooked the manor’s gardens. A handsome, middle-aged nobleman sat between them, wearing a dark blue waistcoat and a large gold chain around his neck.

The fellow looked up as Jack entered, and beamed. “Ah, this must be our guest,” he said.

“Jack, allow me to introduce my father, Lord Marden Norwood,” said Seila. “Father, this is the Landsgrave Jaer Kell Wildhame of the Vilhon Reach, my only friend during those awful months of captivity, and ultimately the author of my escape.”

The silver-haired lord rose from the table and stepped forward to grasp Jack’s hand firmly. “My Lord Wildhame, I am forever in your debt,” he said. “Seila is the delight of my heart, and the hope of my house. By bringing her away from those accursed drow, you have given me cause to live once again.”

Jack returned his handclasp. “It was my great honor to have been of some small service to your lovely daughter, my Lord Norwood,” he said. “Allow me to thank you for the hospitality of your home over the last few days. The circumstances of my arrival in this new day left me with nothing more than the shirt on my back, and trust me, that wasn’t worth keeping.”

“Think nothing of it,” Norwood replied. “The least we could do, really. Seila told me of your extraordinary story this morning. I cannot imagine what you must make of all this, my Lord Wildhame.”

“Please, my lord-Wildhame or just Jack. My father is, or I suppose I must now say was, Lord Wildhame.”

“Of course, Jack, of course. And you should call me Marden. I believe you’ve earned that familiarity.” The elder Norwood pumped Jack’s hand again, and turned to Seila. “My dear, if you’ll permit me, I would like to steal your Jack away for a short while. I have some things I’d like to speak with him about.”

Seila gave her father a heart-melting pout, but her eyes laughed the whole while. “I suppose,” she said. “Do be kind to him, Da. Good luck to you, Jack.”

Lord Norwood steered Jack over to a large study that adjoined the dining room. It was finished in rich southern hardwoods and furnished in fine leather. Jack saw Seila glance once after them before the old lord drew the door shut behind him. He decided that utter confidence was called for; there was no Wildhame estate, of course, and in fact there never had been any such place, but as far as Marden Norwood knew, he was exactly what he said he was. After all, he reminded himself, nobility is simply a rather exclusive club that a few very ordinary individuals happen to belong to, thanks to nothing more than the accident of birth.

He faced Marden Norwood squarely, and asked, “How may I help you, Lord Marden?”

“Before we speak of anything else, there is something I must do,” the nobleman replied. “I have instructed Dralden Horthlaer of Horthlaer House on Manycoins Way to make available to you a credit line of five thousand gold crowns. Draw on it for anything you wish; the money is yours. I cannot set a value on what you have done for my family, but at least I can make sure that you will not be in want so long as it lies in my power to express my gratitude in some small way.”

Jack’s eyes widened, and he choked back on a whoop of glee. Instead he gathered his dignity about him like any properly raised lordling, and bowed. “My lord, you are too generous,” he made himself say. “I did not bring Seila out of Tower Chumavhraele in expectation of any reward.”

“I do not mean to imply that you did, Jack. But it would please me if you would consent to accept something as a token of my esteem. And of course you will be the guest of honor at a grand party we are throwing next tenday in celebration of Seila’s rescue.”

“If it would please you-” it certainly pleased Jack quite well, although he tried to strike the exact right note of accepting a gift in the spirit in which it was intended rather than exulting in his newfound fortune-“then, of course, I shall be happy to accept.” He made a small gesture of self-deprecation, and added, “In all honesty, I may very well be destitute. From what I have heard there is some doubt about whether my family’s lands even survive today.”

“Ah, yes, Seila mentioned that you hailed from the Vilhon Reach. A landsgravate is more or less the equivalent of a barony, is it not?”

“A small one,” Jack answered. “I hope that I shall see Wildhame again someday, but it seems like that is lost to me along with all the years I’ve missed.”

“When you are ready to go in search of Wildhame, Jack, let me know. I will assist you.” Norwood reached out to set a hand on Jack’s shoulder, and gave him a small smile. “Now, there is something else I wanted to speak to you about. Seila mentioned to me that you’d actually spoken to the drow queen below Sarbreen. I want to know everything you can tell me about her.”

“Ah, I see. You intend to exact some retribution against the drow for the suffering Seila endured. I heartily approve.”

“Well, yes, I won’t deny that thought had crossed my mind, but that is a personal matter. No, what I am hoping you can provide me now is information that might help me in a more official capacity.” Norwood paced over to the window, gazing out over the gardens outside. “I am a man of high rank here in Raven’s Bluff-and in the whole realm of Vesperin, to be honest-and I bear certain responsibilities to look after the homeland that has treated my family so well. As far as I can tell, the drow have been under our city for fifty years or more, and they’ve never been more than a nuisance in all that time. Oh, once in a great while a merchant might go missing on the road to Tantras, or an isolated farmstead might be raided. But it was really no worse than the sort of thing common outlaws might do. A tragedy for those affected, but nothing deserving of any determined response on our part.

“But in the last year or so, that has changed. The drow raiders are growing bolder each day. Hundreds of people have been killed or carried off into slavery in that terrible gloomy underworld of theirs. I was quite concerned already when Seila’s caravan was attacked and she was taken away. Her abduction was the final outrage that brought the issue into perfect clarity for me: We are at war with the drow, and no one in this city but me and a few others recognize that unpleasant fact.” The lord looked over his shoulder. “So, Jack-who is my enemy? What manner of woman is she? And how can I strike back at her?”

Jack assumed a gravely thoughtful expression, reaching up to tug at his goatee with his hand. Here at least was an easy way to impress Seila’s father with his insight and resolve. “Your foe is the marquise, not queen, Dresimil Chumavh,” he said. “Her family seat is Tower Chumavhraele, a subterranean castle that lies about half a mile below the city’s northern wall. I could not say for certain when she built the place, but it wasn’t there a hundred years ago when I ventured into that same part of the Underdark.”

“Did you speak with her?”

“Yes, on two occasions,” Jack answered. “She is quite beautiful, highly intelligent, and even a little charming in her own way. When she isn’t wondering aloud about whether to have one fed to a giant solifugid, that is.”

“A what?”

“Hopefully, the question is now moot. To continue, I also met Dresimil’s brothers, Jaeren and Jezzryd. They are twins, and both appear to be very competent sorcerers.” He paused, recollecting his conversations with the drow. “They are, of course, exquisitely wicked, just as the stories say. Dresimil enjoyed toying with me. I felt very much like a mouse in the claws of a cat that had a mind to play with its food. But I must also say that I was struck by their keen curiosity and appreciation for ironic circumstances. Dresimil and her brothers are every bit as cruel and decadent as I might have expected, but it’s an elegant cruelty and a sophisticated decadence. It would be a mistake to think of them as savages. Well, the Chumavhs, anyway. The lower-ranking drow were not quite so refined.”

“Do you have any idea why they have suddenly become so hostile to us?” Norwood asked.

“They seemed to have a desperate need for laborers,” Jack replied. “The drow are engaged in some grand projects below our feet, Lord Marden. They drained the great subterranean lake beneath Sarbreen to expose the ruins of an ancient dark elf city and its forgotten mythal stone, and they’re engaged in repairing its enchantments.”

“Seila said you had been imprisoned in an old drow mythal,” Norwood remarked. “It seems hard to believe that such a thing has been under our feet all this time.”

“Oh, yes,” Jack answered. “Remind me, and I’ll tell you quite a story about my first encounter with the wild mythal sometime. Anyway, the drow were employing hundreds of surface-slaves along with goblins, orcs, bugbears, and all sorts of other creatures to do their work for them. And the dark elves paid in good gold for slavers-such as that unpleasant fellow, Fetterfist-to bring new wares down to the Underdark to keep up their labor force.”

“Fetterfist has a date with the gallows if I ever get my hands on him,” Norwood said, a dark look on his face. “I suspected his involvement from the very first when Seila’s caravan was attacked; no other slaver would have been so bold.”

“I am surprised that such a notorious slaver can operate with impunity in and around the city. Is the city watch incompetent?”

“Fetterfist hides his identity behind a mask; no one knows who he is. And I would not be surprised if he has friends in the city’s administration who warn him when the watch is closing in.” The lord considered Jack’s words for a long time, his brow furrowed in thought. Finally he spoke again, changing the subject. “How is it that, out of the hundreds of captives the drow are holding in the Underdark, you chose to rescue Seila?”

Jack gave a nervous shrug. “My fellow paddock-slaves were orcs, goblins, and such. Seila was the only other human I knew. What sort of gentleman would I be if I fled, and left her to her fate? I had to at least try to secure her freedom as well as my own.”

Marden Norwood nodded. “Of course, quite right,” he replied. He motioned with his arm toward the study door. “I’ve put you through it enough for one morning, I think. I’d like to speak with you again, perhaps have you describe the drow castle and its surroundings for our knights and mages. But now I believe that I’ve kept you from your breakfast long enough, and you look like you could stand a few more good meals. Shall we?”

“Thank you, Lord Marden. I am hungry.” Jack followed Lord Norwood to the study door. Seila’s father didn’t seem like such a bad fellow after all, he decided. He’d have to give some thought to the best way to draw down that line of credit and encourage Norwood to extend more, but he was certain he could finesse the old lord when the time came.

Norwood paused at the study door. “Oh, and one more thing,” he said. “Because it may be some time before you can establish what, if anything, remains of your family’s holdings and fortune after so many years, I would like to offer you the use of Maldridge in Tentowers, a fine house in the city. I expect that you will want to set up in a place of your own rather than making do in our guest room. The house is yours for as long as you wish; we have no real need for it, since Blackyews is a few doors down.”

Jack repressed a grimace. Old Norwood had maneuvered him rather neatly there; he hadn’t exactly thrown Jack out, but Maldridge wasn’t where Jack wanted to be-he would rather have stayed right in Norwood Manor, just a few doors down from Seila. In fact, now that he thought on it, that might have been exactly the reason Marden Norwood had found an empty house miles away in the city for him. Jack could hardly decline the offer without seeming ungrateful or making it very plain that he wanted to stay closer to Seila than Norwood might have liked. “Again, my lord, you are too generous,” he replied. “I remember Maldridge; it is a very fine house indeed.”

The lord offered a small shrug. “If, as seems likely, you are the last of the Wildhames, then helping you to establish yourself here in Raven’s Bluff is the least I can do. Think of it as a temporary arrangement if you like, just until you are on your feet again, however long that takes. Perhaps tomorrow we can drive into town and have a look at the place.”

“Excellent,” Jack replied with feigned enthusiasm. “I look forward to it, Marden.”

“That’s a good fellow.” Norwood beamed brightly again, and clapped Jack on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s find you that breakfast.”