Prince of Ravens

CHAPTER SIX

The fine old house of Maldridge stood on MacIntyre Path, just between Falyern Way and Turnhelm Street. The cornerposts featured weathered statues of stern knights; a short flight of stone steps led up to a grand front door of black zalantar-wood from the far south, carved in a sylvan scene of dancing nymphs. More of the expensive hardwood was used lavishly to trim and furnish the interior, which included a library, a study, a large dining room whose fine parquet had no doubt seen much use as a dance floor, kitchens, a wine cellar, and upstairs half a dozen comfortable bedchambers. Behind the manor there was a small walled garden with a fountain and a carriage-house. It even came with a small staff of its own: cook, valet, gardener, and a couple of rather matronly maids. The Norwoods were in the habit of keeping the place ready for use by noble relations, allied families from other lands, or other honored guests who found reason to spend a season or two in Raven’s Bluff; all in all, it was easily five times as much house as Jack needed.

Marden Norwood insisted that Maldridge was available for Jack’s use immediately, and no matter how much Jack demurred, he couldn’t avoid accepting the keys the same afternoon they visited the place. Seila lingered just long enough to give him a chaste little peck on the cheek under her father’s watchful eye, and then the Norwoods left Jack to “settle in and be at home,” as the old lord put it. Jack spent a rather restless night in the grand master suite, devising various schemes by which he might entice Seila to visit him without her father in tow, and finally fell asleep well after midnight.

When he rose the next morning, he found his cook waiting to prepare his breakfast and a selection of the city’s various handbills arranged neatly by his place at the table. “I might become used to this,” he said. “Eggs and bacon, my good fellow! And perhaps some Zakharan coffee, if we have anything like that in the house.”

As soon as he finished, his valet-a thin, balding fellow so short that Jack almost wondered if he were part halfling-appeared carrying a silver tray with a stack of envelopes. “This morning’s correspondence, my lord,” he said.

“Correspondence?” Jack replied. “Who would be writing me already?”

The valet inclined his head. “Mostly invitations to various social functions, and calling cards from some of the neighbors,” he explained. “Many of the well-to-do folk of the city are anxious to meet you, my lord.”

Jack frowned in puzzlement, wondering why, and then the answer came to him. “Ah, of course. Word’s got out that Lord Norwood considers himself in my debt. People are seeking to cultivate his favor through me.”

The valet gave a small shrug. “It’s not uncommon in your circles, my lord.”

“Hmm. Well, that might not be such a bad thing. I am anxious to make new friends in turn.” Jack peeked at the stack of cards and envelopes, recognizing some family names and utterly clueless about others. Clearly, he had some studying up to do. He glanced back to the valet. “What did you say your name was, my good man?”

“I am Edelmon, my lord.”

“ ‘Sir’ or ‘Master Jack’ will suffice, Edelmon. The first order of business will be a new wardrobe. Send for a good tailor and see if we can’t arrange to have some measurements taken and a look at some samples this afternoon. My tastes are refined, my standards high.”

“Very good, sir,” Edelmon replied. “I shall see to it.”

“Accept all but the most unseemly or inconvenient invitations; I am happy to make the rounds. Also, see if you can’t find an engraver or limner to draw up my own stationery with the Wildhame arms so that we can return our own calling cards and invitations as soon as possible.”

“Where might I find an example of the Wildhame arms, sir?”

“None exist in the current day. I will provide more specific instructions when it’s time for our engraver to begin work. Next order of business: I will write out a draft for one thousand gold crowns against the line of credit established for me at Horthlaer House. Have them bring over a small strongbox or coffer, suitably escorted.”

“That is a considerable sum, sir.”

“I will take good care of it, I assure you, but I feel the need to have some coin in my purse for sundry and minor expenses that may come up in the next few months.” Jack took a sip of his coffee, thinking for a moment. He’d have to come up with something for his house arms; perhaps something with a noble-looking stag would seem appropriate for Wildhame. What else was there to do? What he really wanted was to find an excuse to call on Seila as soon as possible, but that would have to be handled delicately. In a day or two he might be able to drive out to Norwood Manor by way of thanking Marden in person for the fine house, but the last thing he wanted to do was to appear desperate to attach himself to the Norwood household … or to stay out of sight so long that Seila forgot to think about him. “A letter,” he said to himself. “A friendly note with just the right touch of amorous overtones, a little audacious but not overbearing or saccharine.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Simply speaking to myself, Edelmon. Some paper and a quill, if you please. I’ve a note to compose.”

The valet bowed and withdrew, returning shortly with a stack of good linen paper, a quill, and an inkpot. Jack spent the next half-hour carefully composing a small thank you note to Seila, expressing his delight with the hospitality of the Norwoods and noting how much he looked forward to their next meeting. Then, with no easy way to further ingratiate himself with Seila or her father and most of the morning still ahead, he sat back to consider what other interests deserved his attention.

“I have always been ardent in pursuit of opportunity,” he mused, “but now I find myself virtually ignorant of what opportunities might be available in this day and age. What should I do with myself while my designs upon Seila ripen?” Idly he picked up the handbills and leafed through them. The first broadsheet led with a lurid tale of abductions in the alleyways of Mortonbrace, laying the blame at slavers scouring the city for drunk, homeless, or simply unfortunate souls to sell into slavery. The second handbill was occupied with an investigation of bribery and racketeering among the watch officers of the Pumpside neighborhood; the next reported on the deliberations of the Council of Lords, lamenting their inability to agree to a plan designed to combat the criminal influences in the city and making carefully veiled insinuations to the effect that some councilors might have an interest in keeping things in their current state. It seemed that he had returned to Raven’s Bluff in an age of unusual civic corruption; Jack smiled as he considered the bountiful opportunities that implied.

He settled down to read the handbills more thoroughly. On the back of the first bill, an item caught his eye: REWARD OFFERED FOR RECOVERY OF MISSING TOME. He read further, studying the article. “Anonymous patron offers five thousand gold crowns to any person who finds the spellbook known as the Sarkonagael, rumored to be lost in the depths of Sarbreen … the Sarkonagael? By Mask’s shadowed sword, is that old grimoire still about?” Jack knew that book very well. Long ago the lovely and mysterious Elana had commissioned him to find the Sarkonagael, which had led him to the library of the infamous necromancer Iphegor the Black, from whence he’d stolen the book. On delivering the book to the mysterious Elana he’d discovered that she was none other than the Warlord Myrkyssa Jelan. The mage or mages who served her had used the Sarkonagael’s spells to cause no end of trouble during her attempt to seize power in the city. As far as Jack recalled, the Ministry of Art had confiscated the sinister spellbook for safekeeping after Jelan’s defeat … but it seemed that it was missing again, and someone very badly wanted it found.

“Now that is interesting,” he murmured. Once upon a time he had been very good at unraveling riddles of that sort, and even if he didn’t know where to start in the Raven’s Bluff of today, the exercise might help introduce him to the sorts of useful, if shady, people he used to know throughout the city. And who could say that he was at any disadvantage compared to a contemporary investigator? He would, after all, embark on the process with no preconceptions, armed with a mental flexibility few others could match. He had personal experience of the Sarkonagael, which any other seekers in the current day likely lacked. The reward was substantial enough to double his fortune at a stroke if he succeeded … or, if he decided the person seeking the book shouldn’t have it, he could curry favor with the city’s authorities and rulers by securing it for them. “Either way I would continue to burnish my fortunes in this current day,” he concluded.

He read further, noting that the reward was offered through the counting house of Horthlaer-doubtless the interested party wished to publish his or her interest in the ancient book while protecting their anonymity-and made a note to inquire at Horthlaer’s about when the reward had been offered and who was behind it. After all, it was more than a little coincidental that a book that had gone missing back in his own day had resurfaced as a topic of interest at the very same moment in history that he himself had returned to. Then he pushed himself back from his breakfast table, pausing to dab at his mouth with his napkin. “Very interesting, indeed,” he reflected. He would have to look into the Sarkonagael business soon … but for now, he had business at the High House of Magic. Some wizard of a hundred years past had done him a great disservice, and someone from the Wizards’ Guild might very well know the identity of his forgotten nemesis.

He threw on the best of his borrowed Norwood cloaks, chose a jaunty cap, and informed Edelmon that he would return in a couple of hours. Then he ventured out into the streets of Tentowers. It was overcast and blustery, much more typical for springtime in Raven’s Bluff than the fine weather of the previous day, and Jack shivered as the wind bit through his clothes. Fortunately, the High House of Magic was only two blocks south of Maldridge on MacIntyre. A few minutes’ dignified stroll brought him to the foot of a small, spired castle that stood in the middle of the fine houses and well-heeled shops. Jack had always thought the headquarters of the Wizards’ Guild was rather pretentious, and he was not surprised to see that a hundred years hadn’t moderated the tastes of its occupants in the least.

He climbed the steps to the tower door and gave it a firm knock. A moment later the door opened, and an officious-looking chamberlain-a tiefling, to judge by his horns and tail-answered. “Yes?” he said in a sepulchral voice.

“Good morning!” said Jack. “I am a wizard of some skill, and I might be interested in joining this arcane fellowship if a tour of the premises and introduction to the staff convinces me that it would be worth my while.”

The tiefling bowed and showed Jack inside to the dark-paneled foyer without another word. Seven busts of stern-looking mages stood in small alcoves, seeming to study Jack with disapproval. He gave them a casual glance; he was not terribly interested in the Guild’s long-deceased assortment of notables and benefactors. But the tiefling chamberlain paused in the middle of the foyer and addressed the collected statuary. “An applicant for membership, honored archmages,” he intoned.

“A peculiar tradition,” Jack observed. “Still, far be it from me to criticize your quaint superstitions.”

The marble busts stared blankly ahead, and Jack began to form the unpleasant suspicion that he was indeed under some form of examination. The last time he had ventured into the High House of Magic to join the Guild, there had been no such procedure, but of course that had been more than a hundred years ago. He looked more closely at the stone faces, and realized that he recognized a couple of them. Over on the left end stood the lean, bearded visage of Alcides van Tighe, archmage of the guild in Jack’s day, and two busts to the right was a round-faced mage with a thin, drooping mustache and a bored expression-the wizard Meritheus, who’d been a minor functionary in the guild when Jack knew him. Apparently the fellow had succeeded in climbing through the ranks in the decades after Jack’s imprisonment.

Jack grew a little restless as the tiefling waited in silence, and he began to fidget with the buttons on his coat. “Exactly how long will we continue to pay our respects?” he whispered to the chamberlain.

“This sorcerer is known to me,” the bust of Meritheus suddenly said. Its stone visage came to life, eyes blinking and lips moving as it spoke. “Bid welcome to the Dread Delgath, master of time and space, an affiliate member since the Year of Wild Magic. His dues are in arrears by one hundred and six years. And I am reminded that I have a message for Master Silverlocke; please notify him at once.” The statue adopted a sour expression as it regarded Jack.

The tiefling remained expressionless as he looked down at Jack. “It seems that you are a member already, Master Delgath.”

Jack stared at the bust for a long moment before answering. “The Dread Delgath bestrides the years as lesser mages might pace across a room. If I have no recollection of joining your guild, it is simply because I have not yet done so. Clearly I will travel to the Year of Wild Magic at some point in my personal future, and join your fellowship at that time.” That struck him as eminently plausible for a master of time and space, and he folded his arms across his chest in a pose of unshakeable confidence. “For that reason the matter of one hundred and six years of dues is not relevant. My dues must be calculated on the basis of my personal experience, not the simple turning of years that signify nothing to the Dread Delgath. Now, shall we continue inside? I have important business to attend in this strange and marvelous year.”

The tiefling looked again at the bust of Meritheus, then frowned at Jack. “Do you know the Master Silverlocke of whom the archmage spoke?”

The name was dimly familiar to Jack; it took him a moment to place it. Silverlocke had been one of the old guild officers back in his proper day, but Jack didn’t recall any dealings with the fellow. Most likely Master Silverlocke was in charge of woefully dated membership rolls or collecting long-owed dues or some such thing, and because he’d just suggested to the chamberlain that he had no memory of joining the guild in the past, he decided not to admit otherwise. “I am afraid I know none of your guild members. Becoming acquainted with your fellowship was indeed the purpose of my visit.”

The chamberlain considered Jack’s reply, then shook his head. “I am uncertain how to proceed,” he admitted. “I do not know any Master Silverlocke. I cannot enroll you again, nor can I excuse the unpaid dues. Please wait here while I summon Initiate Berreth.”

“As you wish,” Jack replied magnanimously. The tiefling departed through a doorway leading deeper into the tower, leaving Jack alone with the marble busts. He wondered if they preserved any of the memories of their originals or if they were instead enchanted to simply recognize members and thus inform the chamberlain about who should be granted admittance to the tower. He occupied himself with trying to perfectly mimic their expressions as the doorman fetched whomever he’d gone to fetch. After a short time, a rather short and studious-looking woman with mousy brown hair and thick spectacles bustled into the room.

“Master Delgath,” she said with a small frown. “The chamberlain tells me that you are a lapsed member?”

Jack decided on the spot to overpower the bookish mage with pure charm. “Why, hello,” he answered with a wide smile. “I suppose that to your records I might seem to be a century in arrears, but things are not as simple as they appear. During my travels I have skipped across the years like a pebble hurled across the surface of a pond. I am, however, now likely to remain in this era for some time, and may be interested in resuming my membership. Of course I would like to look around before making up my mind. I am not a hasty man, oh, no.”

Berreth’s frown deepened. “Chamberlain Marzam said that you had not actually yet joined the guild in your own timeline-”

“I have joined, and I have not joined. Both are equally true; traveling through time engenders many paradoxes. The chamberlain undoubtedly failed to comprehend this.”

“Can you offer some additional proof of your unusual claims?”

“That will prove difficult. I could hop back to yesterday and meet you then, but of course that would become our first meeting, and this encounter would not take place; you would have no memory of this discussion. Or I might time-stride to tomorrow and return, but who’s to say that I didn’t just teleport off and hide for twenty-four hours to give the appearance of having leaped a day ahead?” Jack shook his head solemnly. “Your excellent archmages have already identified me as one and the same with a person who belonged to the guild one hundred and six years ago, and you can see that I am about thirty years of age and perfectly human. Is that not proof enough?”

Berreth’s brow knitted as she listened closely to Jack. “Perhaps it would be easiest if I just marked you down as a lapsed member,” she said.

“Please proceed in whatever manner is most convenient for you.”

The studious mage drew a small ledger from her sleeve and scribbled furiously in it. “That was Delgath?” she asked.

“The Dread Delgath,” Jack corrected her.

“And what can we do for you today, Dread Delgath?”

“I would like to tour the premises, meet the charming staff, and determine whether to renew my membership. You must remember, my experience of the Guild’s facilities-which may not have actually happened yet-is a hundred years out of date.”

“Very well.” Berreth seemed more than a little relieved to close her ledger and turn her attention to a more manageable task than recording the comings and goings of the Dread Delgath. “Please, follow me.”

Jack followed the mage as she led him on a tour of the High House. She provided perfunctory explanations as they wandered through laboratories, lecture halls, scriptoriums, rooms full of curios and exhibits, meeting chambers, and vaults. Jack feigned great interest in everything he saw, and went out of his way to compliment Berreth on the evident depth and variety of her learning. It was difficult to tell if his efforts were bearing fruit, since his solicitude seemed to puzzle her more than anything else; apparently she was not accustomed to being the recipient of such attentions. At one point they paused in a large library, filled with tall bookshelves that were crowded with strange and curious tomes.

“I don’t suppose you have a book known as the Sarkonagael somewhere in your collection?” Jack asked.

Berreth gave him a stern look. “Oh, you’re one of those, are you?”

“One of those?” Jack repeated.

“For three days now the High House has been besieged by fortune hunters who believe that first, any missing spellbook must naturally be in the Wizards’ Guild, and second, we do not read the daily handbills and haven’t noticed the reward offered for the book.”

“Please forgive me,” Jack replied. “I do not demean your perspicacity. I simply believe that one should eliminate the obvious possibilities before proceeding to more obscure solutions. It is my rigorous mental discipline that leads me to ask.”

“Well, you may eliminate the High House’s library. No Guild member knows the book or has any idea why it might be so important to whatever party is offering the reward through Horthlaer’s.”

Jack offered a small smile; here was a chance to bait a hook and see what came of it. “Ah, but in that you may be mistaken, dear Berreth. In a past that may or may not come to be, I encountered the Sarkonagael in the library of the necromancer Iphegor.”

The mage peered at him through her thick spectacles. “Indeed? Can you tell us anything about its contents? What is it? Who would want it?”

Jack paused, thinking it over. Any information he shared might help the Guild to recover its lost book, and provide him at least a partial claim on the reward … but he could also use the opportunity to sow disinformation, and perhaps throw the investigators off the track so that he could recover the book-and its substantial reward-himself. “I propose a deal,” he said. “I will tell you what I know about the Sarkonagael, if you will help me find out what became of several prominent wizards I knew back in my previous visit with the guild. I am very curious about their respective fates.”

Initiate Berreth gave him a skeptical look, perhaps wondering if he really knew anything about the Sarkonagael, but she nodded. “The library contains records of prominent wizards and their activities. I think I might be able to help you.”

“Excellent,” Jack replied. “In that event, I will tell you that the book was subtitled Secrets of the Shadewrights, and was a lengthy dissertation on shadow magic. It held a particularly dangerous spell that allowed an unscrupulous wizard to create a simulacrum or copy of somebody else by crafting it from the stuff of shadow. And the tome once belonged to the necromancer known as Iphegor the Black.” All that was true enough, of course. “As to its appearance, it was bound in smoky gray dragon leather, and its pages were made of a strange sort of black vellum. The writing was in a silver ink that could only be read by the light of a magical shadow-lantern.” That was entirely fiction, made up on the spot to confuse any Guild efforts to locate the book by its physical appearance. If he was ever caught in the lie, he could always claim that the book must have been magically disguised when he saw it a hundred years ago.

Berreth pulled out her journal again and added more notes with her quill, scratching away at the yellowed parchment. “Fascinating,” she said. “The archmage and the deans will be very interested in this; you know more about this book than anyone else of this day, it seems.” She shut her book and tucked it back into her sleeve. “Now, let us see what we can find out about these old Guild members of yours.”

Jack spent the rest of the morning with Initiate Berreth, searching through the guild’s ancient records. He’d hoped that he might find some hint or suggestion to identify which of the powerful wizards of his acquaintance had imprisoned him in the wild mythal, but that hope proved ill-founded. The Guild records noted that Yu Wei, the Shou wizard who served Myrkyssa Jelan, was deceased as of the Year of Wild Magic, years before Jack’s imprisonment. That made perfect sense, of course; he’d seen Yu Wei struck down by Zandria’s spell of chain lightning in the final battle against the Warlord and her minions. Still, it was reassuring to know that Yu Wei did not somehow escape certain doom and return to vex him.

Zandria’s fate was more difficult to piece together, because she’d left Raven’s Bluff a year or so after Jack’s adventures with her. Fortunately, the Guild was in the habit of hoarding news of notable wizards wherever they might be. During the Year of the Bent Blade, she was living quite comfortably in Elversult, having recovered some great treasure or another from Chondathan ruins in the area. In fact, it seemed that she had won herself a noble title for her efforts and was counted as one of the city’s high councilors. “Zandria might have returned briefly to Raven’s Bluff to visit some sinister scheme upon me,” Jack mused, “but I simply don’t believe she was that angry with me, especially if her circumstances in Elversult were condign.”

“What did you do to earn this Zandria’s anger?” Berreth asked.

“I solved an impossible riddle for her and helped her to win a legendary treasure, but she was difficult to please,” Jack answered. “What of Iphegor the Black?”

Berreth consulted the appropriate tomes, and in half an hour more Jack had his answer. The story of Iphegor the Black, nightmare of rival sorcerers and plunderer of ancient lore, was quite peculiar. He vanished from the knowledge of the Wizard’s Guild until the Year of the Black Blazon-a full six years after Jack’s imprisonment-at which point he returned to Raven’s Bluff at the head of an army of necromantic mice. He sent his tiny skeletal horde into the home of Marcus, Knight of the Hawk, capering and cackling with maniacal glee in the street outside as the undead creatures devoured the hapless knight in his bed. Then he vanished with the cry, “Thus ever to mouse-murderers!” and was never heard from again.

“What a strange fellow,” Berreth said after reading the account. “Why should he care if this Marcus had killed a mouse?”

Jack grinned from ear to ear. Marcus had been the personal author of two severe beatings upon his person; he was not at all unhappy to discover that the Knight of the Hawk had met his end in an unexpected fashion. “The mouse in question was the beloved familiar of Iphegor the Black,” he told Berreth. “Iphegor always blamed Marcus for the mouse’s death, which was perhaps unfair, because I was more directly responsible. Well, the wheel of a cart had something to do with it, too. In any event, I can rest assured that Iphegor never learned what role I played in the whole unfortunate affair, and he continued to blame Marcus. He had no reason to suspect my involvement, and therefore he was not responsible for what befell me.”

While Jack pondered the question of what other wizard might have acted against him, he heard the distant chimes of the Temple of Holy Revelry announcing one bell after noon. Remembering that he might be expecting the attentions of a tailor at Maldridge, he excused himself to Initiate Berreth … but not until she’d exacted from him the fifty gold crowns to renew his affiliate membership in good standing. He cheerfully paid; it might prove useful to maintain good relations with the High House of Magic, and he might be able to trade other morsels of information about the people, places, and events of his time for additional favors.

He strolled back to Maldridge and found that Edelmon had obtained the services of the halfling tailor Grigor Silverstitch. Jack spent the better part of the afternoon with the fussy little fellow, giving thorough attention to every detail of his wardrobe, from boots (five pairs, in various styles and colors) to hats (four of those, including two jaunty caps and two wide-brimmed for inclement weather). Jack always considered himself a bold dresser, and he had a good eye for fashions; when Master Silverstitch departed, the tailor was beaming at the prospect of several hundred crowns’ worth of business that would allow him to showcase his talents in a style that more conservative clients might shy away from.

Jack saw to the strongbox full of gold that had been delivered from his counting house, admiring the coins before locking up the strongbox in the most secure vault he could find in the house, and then he ventured out again to visit a couple of booksellers. He hoped against hope that someone had simply stolen the Sarkonagael from the person offering the reward to fence it, although it seemed unlikely other treasure-seekers would have overlooked something so obvious. The effort proved as fruitless as he expected, although he did meet some of the city’s dealers in rare and ancient tomes-one never knew when those acquaintances might come in handy. Finally he returned home, where he enjoyed a fine dinner of roast beef accompanied by a dry Chessentan red.

After dinner, Jack enjoyed a glass of port by the fire and leafed through a recent travelogue he’d picked up during his foray to the booksellers’ shops with the idea of acquainting himself with the changes in lands and cities wrought by the Spellplague. A discrete knock came at the study door, and the valet Edelmon entered. “I beg your pardon, sir,” the valet said. “The staff has gone home for the evening. If you do not require anything else, I shall retire.”

“Very good,” Jack said. “But leave out this excellent port. I may have another glass.”

“You have a lunchtime engagement with Lady Moonbrace and her family tomorrow. And in the evening there is a reception at the Raven’s Bluff Playhouse to solicit patrons for the troupe.”

“Should I become a patron?”

“It may prove advantageous, sir. Many well-connected people should be in attendance. A gift of perhaps two hundred crowns would be appropriate.”

Jack winced a little. Marden Norwood’s five thousand crowns might go faster than he would like if he kept spending at his current pace; all the more reason to expand his fortune at the first opportunity. “Very good,” he said.

The doorbell chimed out in the front hall. “Ah. Are you still receiving visitors, sir?” Edelmon asked.

“It depends who’s calling,” Jack replied.

“I will see, sir,” Edelmon bowed and left Jack in the study. He heard the front door open and a murmur of voices before the valet returned. “A young lady at the door requests a word with you, sir. She gave her name as Alanda; I asked her to wait in the foyer. Shall I show her in?”

Jack thought for a moment, trying to place the name. He’d met many people over the last few days in Norwood Manor. Perhaps it was a message from Seila? “No, I’ll go speak to her,” he said. “You may retire, Edelmon.”

The valet bowed and withdrew, heading downstairs to his quarters by the kitchen. Jack took a moment to smooth his tunic. Then he opened the study’s sliding door and stepped into the front hall, already beginning a gracious bow to greet his guest before the words of welcome died in his mouth.

There, in his foyer, stood the Warlord Myrkyssa Jelan.

She wore a burgundy doublet over black tights and thigh-high boots of fine leather; her long, raven-dark hair was bound around her brow by a slender golden fillet, and her fine katana-the very sword with which she’d almost killed him once-rode at her hip in a sheath of lacquered wood. “A new standing instruction for the staff,” Jack muttered to himself. “Henceforward I am to be advised if my visitors are armed.”

The Warlord studied him carefully for a moment as he stood there, gaping at her, and then snorted to herself. “It really is you, as unlikely as that might seem,” she said. “Hello, Jack. Have you missed me?”

Jack stared for a long time before he finally found his voice. “Elana,” he said. “Why are you here?”

“I heard rumors that Seila Norwood had been rescued from captivity in Chumavhraele by someone calling himself Jaer Kell Wildhame. I recognized your favorite alias, but I couldn’t believe that the tale was true. So I decided to see for myself if you were indeed the Jack Ravenwild I knew.” Jelan prowled closer, and she locked her eyes on Jack’s. “As it turns out, Jack, you and I have unfinished business.”

Then she drew her katana from its scabbard and leaped across the room at him.

Jack’s feet refused to move for one terrible instant, as he saw his death gleaming in Jelan’s hands. Then he managed to backpedal, slamming the sliding door shut just before her thrust would have skewered him. The chiseled point of the katana burst through the door’s panel inches from his face, and hung there for a moment. Quick as an eyeblink, Jack reversed himself on the sliding door and yanked it open with all his might, pinning her sword in place against the opposite doorjamb. They stood together in the doorway for a moment, Jelan trying to withdraw her sword, Jack locking the sliding door in place with his foot.

“Elana,” he said, panting a little with the effort. “This is an unexpected pleasure. Or do you prefer Myrkyssa? I’m not really sure.”

“Elana will do,” she answered. Then she let go of her swordhilt and threw her left elbow into Jack’s ribs, shoving him out of the doorway. The instant Jack was out of the way, she freed her blade and came at him again, pursuing him into the study. Jack reeled back, gasping for breath from the blow to his side, but he had the presence of mind to kick a small ottoman across the gleaming, polished floorboards right into Jelan’s feet. It caught her in mid-stride, and with a muffled oath Jelan stumbled. That gave Jack enough time to cross the room and draw his rapier from the swordbelt hanging by the desk. He turned to confront her again, somewhat comforted by the weight of the steel in his hand. On the other hand, Jelan was very, very skilled with her blade, and probably more than a match for him.

“I don’t suppose you would be kind enough to explain why you are trying to kill me?” he asked, carefully sidling out of the corner to give himself room to maneuver.

“It has something to do with the fact that you interfered with designs of mine that were ten years in the making,” Jelan replied. “And in doing so, you left me entombed in stone for a hundred years. Everyone I care for has been dead for decades, Jack. It’s as if you murdered them all.”

“I had no way of knowing what would happen,” Jack protested. He started to say more, but Jelan resumed her attack. She darted across the room, her katana gleaming in lightning-swift slashes and cuts. Jack did his best to stand his ground, parrying and riposting with his rapier. Steel rang shrilly in the dusty old study. His point flew from one contact to the next, and he managed to barely deflect the Warlord’s attack. On the other hand, his counters absolutely failed to defeat her guard. They circled several more times, trading blows, and then Jelan broke off, yielding a step or two.

“I don’t understand,” she murmured. “You are much more skilled than I remember. You always had the speed and eye for swordsmanship, Jack, but where did you acquire your training?”

Jack wondered about that himself until the answer came to him. “To you, it’s been about two months since our meeting at the wild mythal,” he said. “But to me, it’s been four years. I studied some swordsmanship after our last, er, parting.”

“Not very seriously, or after four years you would have been even better.”

He gave a small shrug. “You should know me well enough to know that I do few things seriously, Elana. I am something of a dilettante.”

She paused and studied him again. “How is it that you, too, are alive after all this time?”

Jack grimaced. “In some unfathomable expression of cosmic irony, I was imprisoned in the very same spot where I’d left you, about four years after our little adventure in the Underdark. We were both released from the mythal stone at the same time. You were still petrified. I was not, so the drow put me to work in their fields.”

“Who imprisoned you?”

“I do not know. I have no memory of how I came to be locked in the mythal stone.”

“Fascinating,” she replied. Then she attacked again. This time she changed styles, using a different set of strikes and parries that sorely tried Jack. Her blade bit through his guard to kiss his shoulder-a grazing cut, shallow but bloody. Before he could recover she kicked his knee out from under him. In pure panic Jack reached out for his magic and wove a quick invisibility spell, vanishing from sight. Jelan’s eyes narrowed, and she stabbed at the center of the spot where he’d just been standing; Jack narrowly twisted aside. With uncanny quickness Jelan homed in on his gasp of exertion and the scuffle of his boot, pursuing him closely. Jack swore and abandoned the field, backing off a good ten paces to the other side of the foyer.

“I was wondering when you would resort to magic,” Jelan remarked, cocking her head to one side as she listened for any hint to his location. “Your recent training helps, Jack, but you are still not my equal.”

Jack could think of no good response. His shoulder stung fiercely, and his breath was already coming in pants. The swordswoman smiled menacingly as she caught the sound of his labored breathing and began edging toward him. He could flee the manor, of course, but he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder for Myrkyssa Jelan. On the other hand, he didn’t think he could best her with steel, and no magic of his could touch her. To buy himself a little more time to recover, and to perhaps find a way out of his conundrum, he decided to keep her talking. “How did you escape the drow?” he asked.

“My family’s ancient curse of unmagic finally reasserted itself; the magic that kept me petrified failed,” Jelan replied. She paced forward into the foyer, her katana held in a low guard. “The dark elves on the scene attempted to take me prisoner, but my mail was proof against their poisoned crossbow bolts, and their spells naturally did not affect me.”

“Naturally,” Jack agreed. He held his breath and slipped a few steps from where he’d spoken, hoping to deceive her.

“I took an important-looking fellow hostage, and made him create darkness around us until I could slip away into the Underdark tunnels surrounding their stronghold. It took me five or six days of careful exploration, but I eventually mastered the caverns and passages and found my way back to the surface along the routes the slavers use.” Jelan paused, listening for some sign of Jack. “That, by the way, is one more tally on the score I owe you. I did not appreciate waking up to find myself surrounded by drow, or days and days of hungry monsters and privations as I trekked my way out of the Underdark.”

“The involvement of dark elves a hundred years in the future was something I never could have foreseen during our previous … disagreements, Elana.” Jack moved stealthily again, now sidling into the manor’s large front parlor.

“But you were content to leave me frozen in that damned stone for four full years while you went about your life.”

“Elana, as far as I knew, you were dead,” Jack replied. “And even if I had known that you were alive, I would not have retrieved you from the stone. You were the Warlord, and I am a Ravenaar, loyal to my city-after my own fashion.” He watched as she continued to advance, readying himself to parry or flee if she guessed his location. “If it is any consolation to you, someone has treated me in much the same manner that you feel I treated you. I, too, have lost a hundred years and many friends. A certain sort of justice has already been rendered on my actions; there is no need for you to seek further redress.”

To his surprise, Jelan halted her advance. She stood in the doorway, peering toward a place uncomfortably close to where Jack actually stood with her eyes narrowed in thought. Jack decided to press his point. “If you could have picked any punishment short of running me through, wouldn’t you have inflicted on me exactly the fate you endured? For good or ill, you and I are bound by this common experience. Who else understands what you have lost?”

“I have no use for your sympathy,” Jelan snarled. She glared at the parlor for a good ten heartbeats … but then, with a single angry motion, she slammed her katana back into its sheath. “Yet even a fool may err and speak wisely. If you are telling the truth-which is hard to believe in and of itself-then perhaps fate has indeed balanced the debt in the matter of my imprisonment. It is not for me to defy the wheel of fate, no matter how much I dislike its turnings. I was the Warlord of the Vast; kingdoms trembled at my footsteps. Now that glory lives only in my memory, and yours.”

Jack lowered his rapier cautiously. His shoulder burned where Jelan’s steel had touched him. As strange as he might find his circumstances, at least he hadn’t lost a throne at the same time he’d lost a century. What might that do to a person, even someone as rational and redoubtable as Myrkyssa Jelan? He allowed his invisibility spell to fade away-he couldn’t hold it much longer in any event, given his limited magical strength at the moment-and slowly returned to view. He studied her fierce features for a moment, and asked simply, “What will you do now?”

Jelan snorted. “The same as I have always done. I mean to win the highest place my ambitions and opportunities allow me.” She strode past Jack toward the door, pausing just long enough to poke one mailed finger into his breastbone. “Enjoy your good fortune while it lasts, Jack. Tomorrow may tell a different tale.”

She pushed past him and stormed out into the night. Jack stood staring after her, absently rubbing the sore spot in the middle of his chest where she’d poked him. After a long moment, he recovered enough presence of mind to shut the front door and bolt it securely. “Two things are clear,” he muttered aloud. “One, Edelmon is either hard of hearing or exceptionally discrete. Two, I shall have to issue another standing directive to the staff: Swordplay in the house is always to be investigated immediately.”

With a sigh, he went to go rouse Edelmon to have someone stitch his cut.

After the physician left, Jack spent a very restless night tossing and turning, kept awake by the fresh stitches in his shoulder and the possibility that Myrkyssa Jelan might change her mind and return to murder him. He had no idea what opportunities or ambitions she entertained, but he remembered all too well what she’d once made of herself-conqueror, revolutionary, subversive, enemy to all of Raven’s Bluff. Would she abandon her old designs and start over again somewhere else? Or did she still nurse dreams of making Raven’s Bluff the seat of a kingdom won through her own indomitable will? And if so, how would she proceed? Her formidable network of spies, secret supporters, and devoted henchmen had been shorn away by the passage of the years, but somehow Jack doubted that would daunt the Warlord for long. In fact, if Tharzon was correct in his suspicions about the Moon Daggers-whoever they were-she might already be at work building a new base of power.

Jack was very comfortable in his current situation, with bright prospects indeed. The last thing he needed was for Myrkyssa Jelan to begin stirring up trouble again. Jack had no wish to cross her, but any way he considered the question, he could only conclude that she hadn’t given up on her schemes. If Jelan had escaped the Underdark a few days after Dresimil Chumavh had ordered Jack to recount what he knew of the Warlord, then she’d had at least three or four tendays to settle in to Raven’s Bluff. What had she been doing during that time?

“She’s established enough to catch wind of Seila Norwood’s return and the part I played in it,” he grumbled at the gilt ceiling over his huge bed. “And it seems likely she has something to do with the Sarkonagael and the offered reward.” It was simply too great of a coincidence that the Sarkonagael should be publicly remarked upon in the very month when both Jack and Myrkyssa regained their freedom. Who else would have recognized its importance? Had she stolen it from the poster of the reward? Was she herself the poster? Or was there some other, less obvious connection between them? If Jelan didn’t have the Sarkonagael, she’d be looking for it. And if she did have it, then that was something that would be very good for him to know.

Jack finally drifted off into a fitful slumber. When he woke, he hurried through his breakfast and the morning correspondence-taking note of the engagements that were already beginning to dot his social calendar-then dressed quickly. Sometime during the night he’d come up with an idea that might determine the Sarkonagael’s whereabouts with comparative ease, and he was anxious to test it. He set out from Maldridge before nine bells had struck on a gray and rainy morning. A six-block stroll north on MacIntyre Path brought him to a weather-beaten building of sandstone and brick, covered in peeling gray plaster. A tarnished nameplate over the single street-facing door read Seekers’ Guildhall.

“It seems that the years haven’t been kind to the Diviners’ Guild,” Jack reflected aloud. Still, he might as well see what he could learn.

He tried the door and found that it opened with a wretched creaking of its hinges. A hallway paneled in dark wood led deeper into the building. “Good morning,” Jack called. “Is anybody here?”

He was answered by a disembodied voice that echoed through the hall. “Enter, seeker,” it intoned. “Your coming was foretold.”

“If that is the case, one might have expected to be greeted by name at the door,” Jack remarked.

“Your skepticism was foretold as well. Advance to the end of the hall. All your questions have their answers here.”

Jack did as he was instructed. As he neared the end of the hall, a concealed panel slid aside, revealing a small room lavishly decorated with purple drapes, hanging censers from which ribbons of aromatic smoke rose, and a table on which rested a sparkling crystal ball bigger than Jack’s head. At the head of the table sat a white-bearded old gnome who wore a shapeless baglike hat of purple felt decorated with silver moons and stars. “Please, seeker, be seated,” the gnome said.

Jack nodded and took the seat opposite the gnome. He folded his hands in his lap and waited in silence until the gnome frowned and peered more closely at him.

“Well?” the small wizard said. “What is it that you seek?”

“Oh, I didn’t realize that I needed to tell you,” Jack answered. “My coming was foretold, so I thought my business would be equally apparent.”

The gnome glowered. “It is not wise to test the powers unseen, young one! Know that I am Aderbleen Krestner, Master Diviner. To pay proper respect to the unseen powers, speak your name and business, if you please.”

“I am the Landsgrave Jaer Kell Wildhame, and I am in need of a divination,” said Jack. “I seek a book called the Sarkonagael.”

The gnome laughed at Jack. In fact, he laughed so long that his guffaws became dry whistling gasps and tears ran down his wrinkled cheeks. Jack glanced around, wondering if there might be some other object of humor in the cluttered chamber, and he finally crossed his arms and tapped his toe. “I fail to see what provokes this unseemly display,” he snapped.

“First,” the gnome wheezed, “You are the fifth treasure-seeker, troubleshooter, or bored dilettante to ask for my assistance about this matter, as if I couldn’t read the handbills and spot a reward notice for myself. Second, why in the world do you believe the tome’s location can be divined? If the book could be found by divination, someone would have done so already, and no reward for you.”

“Ah, but I possess an advantage that other seekers likely lack,” Jack said.

“Advantage? What advantage?” Aderbleen asked, frowning suspiciously at Jack.

“I have seen the book they are looking for,” Jack replied. “In fact, I have handled it at length, although that was a long time ago. If I recall correctly, it is much easier to divine the location of something that has been handled and studied than something that is simply known about. None of your professional colleagues have even the slightest clue what it looks like.”

Aderbleen’s bushy eyebrows rose. “That may prove significant,” he admitted. “I am willing to make the attempt; my customary fee is five hundred gold crowns. The spirits advise me to require payment in advance.”

“The spirits are a grasping and suspicious lot,” Jack answered. “Perhaps they’d be inclined to accept one hundred crowns in advance, and a ten percent cut of the reward when I collect it?”

“The spirits dislike your stinginess,” the gnome shot back. “They refuse to be consulted for less than four hundred crowns. After all, your ability to successfully utilize the information they impart is unknown at this time.”

“Perhaps the spirits should augur the odds of my success, then.”

“That is another divination altogether,” the diviner replied. They dickered back and forth for a few minutes, and finally agreed on two hundred pieces of gold, with a bonus should the tome be recovered.

Satisfied, the diviner rubbed his small hands together and motioned to the crystal ball at the center of the table. “Lean close, resting your hands on the table,” he intoned. “Gaze into the orb, and bring to mind everything you recall of this book-its look, its feel, the smell of its pages, words or passages you recall. We shall see what we shall see.”

Jack complied, concentrating on his memory of the Sarkonagael with all his might. The gnome chanted softly, summoning his magic; the room seemed to grow dim and the crystal ball grew brighter. He remembered the weight of the book in his hands, the black leather cover with an embossed silver skull, the title stamped out with silver chasing. In the crystal orb a misty image began to take shape, a dark book lying on a large stone table. Parchment and lesser tomes lay scattered around it.

“Ah, you have indeed seen this book before,” Aderbleen whispered. “No other attempt gained even the faintest glimpse. Let us draw back and see more of the surroundings.” He murmured softly, continuing to shape his spell, and the image in the orb shrank and slid out of view just as if Jack had stepped back and turned his head in a different direction. Now he could see something of the surroundings: A large chamber of dressed stone blocks, the floor made of gleaming yellow marble, crimson pillars carved in the shape of heroic dwarves supporting the ceiling high above. At one end of the hall or chamber there stood a dais crowned by a great altar in the shape of an anvil; a mosaic on the wall behind the altar displayed the image of a huge hammer surrounded by fire and lightning. Bookshelves and work tables were arranged haphazardly throughout the grand hall. The whole scene was illuminated by gleaming golden crystal-lamps worked cunningly into the pillar-sculptures of the dwarf heroes.

“The book lies in Sarbreen, somewhere beneath our feet,” Aderbleen said. “Find this chamber, and you will find the book.”

“Sarbreen is a very large place, full of monsters and ancient traps,” Jack protested. “I can hardly search the entire ruin for a single chamber, no matter how grand.”

“Well, I can also tell you that the tome lies about eight hundred and twenty-five yards in that direction,” Aderbleen said, pointing at a shallow angle toward the floor behind Jack’s back. “However, there is no way to know which entrance to the ruins is actually closest to the Sarkonagael’s location once the twists, turns, and blind alleys of the ancient city are taken into account. Try somewhere in northern Sarbreen, about two or three levels down.”

Jack peered again at the image in the crystal ball. He thought he saw a shadow of movement … but it was gone almost at once. He didn’t know where in Sarbreen that chamber might lie, but he knew someone who might. “Very well,” he said. “That is certainly more than I knew before I arrived on your doorstep as foretold.” It was also a strong indication that the Sarkonagael was not currently in Myrkyssa Jelan’s hands, nor in immediate danger of discovery by some other treasure-hunter. “Need I remind you that what we have seen in your crystal ball should remain strictly confidential? If someone else should reach the book before I do, you will not receive the bonus we agreed upon.”

“The spirits are not stupid,” Aderbleen replied.

“Very good.” Jack stood up, and bowed to the small mage. “With luck the spirits will soon reveal to you our mutual success. Now, will the unseen powers lead me forth, or should I just show myself out the door?”

“Oh, just go back the way you came in,” the gnome snapped. He hopped down from his chair and pointed Jack to the door. Jack bowed his head again to Master Aderbleen, and left the Seekers’ Guildhall whistling a merry air.