The City of Ravens

CHAPTER FIVE

"You have some dishonest purpose in mind," said Tharzon, splashing through the knee-deep water of the sewer tunnel. "I can tell, Jack Ravenwild. In all the time I have known you, you have never approached me without some perfidious scheme at hand."

"Dishonest is a relative term," Jack replied. He struggled to keep up with his dwarven companion. The heavy spring rains now roared through the old mason-work sewers in a loud torrent, threatening to carry him away if he stepped too far to the center of the channel. "I have no doubt that the man I intend to rob came by his treasure in an underhanded fashion."

Tharzon, on the other hand, seemed to have no concern for the rushing waters. Like all of his kind, the dwarf was as solid as an old anvil, with the strength of a hale human constrained in a thick frame four feet in height. He was a professional acquaintance of Jack's, a master tunneler and lockpick who made his living by burrowing in on his prizes with careful deliberation. "So stealing from a thief is an honest act then?" The dwarf barked laughter, a sound like wet gravel sliding down a hill. "Two wrongs make a right!"

"Today I'll choose to believe so," Jack replied.

He frowned in distaste at his surroundings. He'd replaced the fine clothes and noble trappings of the previous few days with what he thought of as his working clothes-black leather over gray cotton, all veiled in a fine dark cloak of light wool. But his flesh crawled as he contemplated what might or might not be scurrying past him in the rainwater. Jack was more fastidious than he cared to let on, and he would never wear these clothes again without imagining a faint whiff of the sewers in the fabric, no matter how many times he cleaned them. "Are we almost there?"

"Almost," Tharzon replied. "So, what's this dwarf-work mystery you wanted to ask me about?"

"Have you ever heard of Cedrizarun?"

"The master distiller of ancient Sarbreen?"

"The very one. I take that as a yes."

"Of course!" Tharzon said. "I've spent a human lifetime exploring old Sarbreen and studying the lore of my fathers. Cedrizarun's name is still revered among my folk."

"Can you think of a reason why a Red Wizard-leader of an adventuring company-might become intensely interested in Cedrizarun's resting place? Specifically, a riddle or an inscription on or around the tomb?"

"Certainly. Your mage seeks the Guilder's Vault."

Jack looked up so quickly that he knocked his head on the tunnel roof. "The Guilder's Vault? Hold a moment, friend Tharzon, and tell me of the Guilder's Vault."

Tharzon looked back over his broad shoulder. His eyes smoldered beneath his heavy brow, and gold bands glinted in his ringleted beard. He paused in the next intersection, a high chamber where water streamed down from the glow of daylight above, and set his lantern on a ledge high on the wall.

"What do you know of old Sarbreen, Jack?" the dwarf asked, hunkering down on a dry ledge.

"A great dwarven city, built about seven hundred years ago but destroyed soon after. Raven's Bluff sits on top of Sarbreen's ruins. Many of these sewers are old dwarf-work… as are cellars, vaults, and catacombs underneath much of the city."

Tharzon shrugged. "About as much as a human might be expected to know, I guess. Well, let me tell you a little more. These passageways were indeed built by master masons of the City of the Hammer, but carving stone and delving chambers is not all that there is to a city. Dozens of masters skilled in the other arts-armorers, weapon-smiths, jewelers and miners and woodcarvers and glass-blowers and all the others-ruled thousands of skillful craftsmen. That was the wonder and the strength of Sarbreen, my friend. Skill and industry, ceaseless labor in a great thriving city that shone for a brief moment as the richest of all dwarven holds.

"Everyone knows the work of the old stonecutters, but the master masons were only a part of Sarbreen's Ruling Ring. Other masters whose works do not survive today were held in high honor, too-swordsmiths whose blades are scattered from here to Waterdeep, merchants whose wealth now lies in dragon hoards or lost at the bottom of the sea, and others. They were sometimes known as Guilders, since they led guilds of craftsmen.

"Cedrizarun was the master distiller, the maker of dwarven spirits whose fire would consume any lesser mortal who dared imbibe them." Tharzon offered a sere smile. "My folk delight in work well done, but we also delight in strong drink, and it's said that none crafted a better spirit than Cedrizarun. He was an old and honored dwarf when Sarbreen was first built, and he wielded great influence as a Guilder.

"He died before the fall of the city and was entombed in the old manner, with his riches about him. Few of the other Guilders or the master masons received such honors. Sarbreen was sacked a short time later, and most of Cedrizarun's peers died in battle, their hoards carried off by the cursed orcs and vile drow who worked Sarbreen's doom. But Cedrizarun's tomb has not yet been found." Tharzon fixed his eyes on Jack. "What do you know of this mage?"

"She's found Cedrizarun's crypt. In fact, she's recorded some kind of inscription or riddle in or around the tomb." Jack thought for a moment, and then reached into a waterproof pouch at his hip and pulled out the parchment copy of the rubbing. "She's been trying to figure out what this means," he said, handing it to Tharzon. "I suspect that she knows that something of great value is hidden nearby. She is desperate to solve the riddle."

"And you think that I can solve it for you?" the dwarf asked. "Instead of asking me to solve the riddle so that she can loot the Guilder's Vault, I would prefer that you ask the mage where Cedrizarun's tomb lies. We can solve the riddle and respectfully remove the Guilder's wealth ourselves. My people laid it to rest; it is only fitting that I, as their heir and descendant, should bring it back into the sunlight again."

"I doubt that the mage of whom I speak would find such a plan agreeable," Jack said.

"Then she should not be advised of its details."

"Indeed. We can safely assume that my acquaintance will not willingly divulge the location of the crypt to me. That implies that I can only come by the knowledge we require by some means she would resist. I must trick it out of her, steal it from her, coerce her into telling me, or simply watch her closely and see if she leads me to the spot I seek."

"Throw a sack over her head and tie her up," the dwarf suggested. "You can hold her feet over hot coals until she's more cooperative."

"Subtlety is not your strong suit," Jack remarked. "Your plan is simple and direct, but I'd rather obtain the knowledge without giving her reason to suspect that I've learned her secret. Then she would have no cause to be angry with me, since she won't know what I've done."

"With my plan, you could just slit her throat and drop her in the harbor when you finished," Tharzon said. "She might be angry with you, but she couldn't do anything about it."

"I am not a murderer, friend Tharzon. There's no art in it."

"So you say. Well, don't rule it out as an alternative if more subtle tactics fail, eh? Pragmatism can be very practical." The dwarf stood and shook off his heavy cloak, looking at the rubbing from Cedrizarun's tomb. "Can I keep this?"

"If you like. I have other copies now."

"Fifty-fifty, if I break the riddle and you find the tomb's location?"

"I find that eminently agreeable," Jack said.

What he left unsaid was the obvious: If he cracked the riddle and found the tomb himself, Tharzon didn't need to be included as a partner. If the dwarf had any brains in his head-and Tharzon did-he must have noted that Jack didn't mention the identity of the mage who'd found Cedrizarun's tomb. Jack therefore guaranteed that Tharzon wouldn't have an opportunity to cut out Jack in just the same manner. One couldn't make a living at thievery, skullduggery, smuggling, and swindling without a certain willingness to discard obsolete arrangements at need or at least plan for the possibility that would-be partners might do so at their need.

"Good," Tharzon grunted. "Now to the other business of the day. This wall here stands between you and the wizard's cellars." He rapped on one decrepit masonry wall, off to one side of the sewer chamber. "My guess is a foot of hard stone, four or five feet of fill, and then another foot of stone in the cellar. This is old dwarf-work, built to last."

"We're here already?" Jack studied the obstacle. It would take a solid day of digging, and the noise would be considerable-especially breaking through the cellar walls on the other side. And who knew what sorts of magical traps or horrifying monsters might be locked up in a wizard's cellar?

"I have to admit that I'm surprised. Digging in the sewers isn't your normal method, so to speak."

"Iphegor's tower unfortunately offers no windows, and the rooftop is steeply pitched and sheathed in copper. Making use of the front door-the only entrance visible from the street-seemed to be somewhat rash." Jack offered the dwarf a predatory smile. "However, I should think that, were I a powerful and suspicious necromancer, I might want more than one exit from my tower. Let us search the area and see if we can't spot a secret door in this vicinity."

"I've already earned my forty crowns by leading you to this spot," Tharzon said. "If you want my assistance in breaking in, you'll have to cut me in on the take."

Jack rolled his eyes, but he reached into the folds of his cloak and retrieved a small purse. "Your fee, good Tharzon. I will point out that I'm offering to cut you in on the Guilder's Vault, which is a far more valuable prize than the musty old book I seek today. And I'll also point out that if you simply help me find Iphegor's bolt-hole but choose not to dare the perils of the tower's interior, you aren't really helping me break in-you're still guiding me to Iphegor's tower, which is what you agreed to do for these forty crowns."

The dwarf scowled. "A fine distinction, if one exists at all." But he started to examine the masonry wall closely, rapping his thick knuckles against the bricks and running his massive hands over every stone in reach. Jack joined him, working slowly along the passageway for a fair distance both up and down the tunnel. After a moment, Tharzon harrumphed. "A hollow space here, Jack, but I think that your wizard has used some magic to conceal the door, since I cannot find it."

Jack hurried over and worked the spell that rendered magical emanations and auras visible to him. As he expected, a five-foot-tall section of wall about two feet in width glowed with the unmistakable stigma of an enchantment. "Good work, Tharzon."

"Is it covered by some kind of illusion?"

"I'll see," said Jack. He frowned and worked the spell that undid other magics, muttering the words and making the gestures he'd learned to shape the spell. He concentrated on the door's ensorcelment and sharpened his will into a white-hot blade, seeking to sunder Iphegor's concealing spell, but Jack's spell of negation failed, unable to pierce Iphegor's handiwork. "That is not fortuitous," he murmured.

"You can't undo the spell?"

"No, Iphegor appears to be too strong for me, but I have other ways of opening recalcitrant doors, including some that don't try my strength directly against the wizard's."

Jack licked his lips and tried again. This time he simply worked a spell of opening that was designed to bypass Iphegor's defenses, not overwhelm them. Green chaos swirled and danced around his hand, soft wizard-light twisting into strange shapes and formless energy.

The wall shimmered and warped as the secret door swung open, spoiling the illusion. A dark passageway led inwards from the sewer. Jack grinned.

"Not so hard after all," he said. "I shall return in a few minutes, friend Tharzon. Tharzon?" He turned to look for the dwarf.

Tharzon hurried down the sewer away from Jack. "This is where we part ways for now," he called over his shoulder. "If things go poorly inside, it would be advisable for me to be well away from here. I don't need to wait on the appearance of an angry archmage looking for accomplices!"

"Your confidence in my abilities bolsters my courage and steadies my hand," Jack grumbled. "What if I need your help?"

"I'm sure you'll do just fine," Tharzon said. "Farewell!"

Jack sighed and turned back the doorway. He worked spells of dark-seeing and invisibility, then another that would miscue any divinations cast upon him… say, by an angry wizard trying to locate an intruder and call down some horrible doom upon him.

With one hand on his sword hilt, he ducked his head and stepped into the darkness.

The secret passage wound halfway around the cellar, with two right-hand turns before it ended at a strong-looking door covered in dire runes. Working carefully, Jack studied them and disarmed the spells of locking and warning and killing, erasing crucial runes from each without setting off the spells in question. Negating them magically was out of the question; Iphegor was simply more powerful than he was, but even magical traps could be defeated with careful work. It took Jack almost half an hour to get through the secret passageway, but he finally opened the inner door.

He found himself in a small storeroom of alchemical supplies. Shelves full of perfect glassware custom-blown for particular sizes, shapes, or qualities lined the walls.

Jack ignored the glass (although it would certainly be quite valuable to the right buyer) and moved to the opposite door, cracking it open and peering outside.

He looked into a long, low vault lined with doors much like the one he was peeking out of. Wizard-lights burned in greenish globes suspended from sconces on the walls. Weirdly enough, a thick haze or fog hung in the air. It surged and welled to the impulse of air movements too subtle for Jack to sense. At one end of the vault a stone staircase with wide steps and ornate carvings led up into the tower proper. Still invisible, Jack slipped out into the main chamber and ventured glances into each of the rooms that opened out into the vault. Most were workrooms or storerooms, jammed with interesting oddities and arcane reagents. I'll check each in detail if I don't find a library upstairs, he told himself

The last door on the right-hand side was ajar. A voice within mumbled and whispered, sibilant echoes rasping over the cold stone floor.

Jack glided silently to the doorway and gently pushed the door open another handspan, peering inside. A tall man in black robes chased with gold trim stood with his back to the door, intoning a spell from a great, musty spellbook. He held a small vial filled with dark liquid high in one hand, while tracing the words to speak with the index finger of the other. The trappings and accouterments of wizardry surrounded Iphegor, beakers and alembics and retorts bubbling and frothing, strange golden hoops drifting through the air. Malformed things slithered and hopped across the floor, incomplete familiars animated through some vile sorcery to serve at their master's beck and call.

Jack peered at the musty tome from which the wizard incanted. Could that be it? Or was it simply one of Iphegor's own workbooks or references? He decided that he'd leave the wizard to his work for now and search the rest of the tower while Iphegor was occupied. He'd find a way to search the workroom later if he had no luck elsewhere.

Moving softly through the mist, he crept up the stairs. The steps had the look of dwarf-work, just a couple of inches too shallow for Jack's comfort and elaborately carved with images of warriors and dragons. The staircase debouched onto a wide, airy hall marked at one end by a strong double door and a gleam of sunlight beside the jamb. "The main entrance," Jack observed.

He quartered the ground floor and found a small kitchen staffed by two strange, pale serving women toiling monotonously with Iphegor's pots and pans in utter silence. A small roast was sizzling over the fire, red and cool, just spitted. Good, Jack thought. That won't be done for two or three hours, so Iphegor isn't planning on dinner anytime soon. The rest of the floor held a dining hall, a sitting room with sparse furnishings, and a large pantry whose contents seemed unremarkable. Jack continued up the stairs to the next floor.

Here he found what seemed to pass for Iphegor's personal chambers. A large trophy room filled with all manner of dead things and a curio room dominated by a ticking orrery of bronze and iron made up one side of the second floor; the wizard's private rooms made up the other side. Jack searched both leisurely, pocketing a few items that caught his interest-a silver urn filled with incense, a funereal mask of gold inlaid with lapis lazuli, and a small statuette of a whitish metal carved disturbingly in the shape of a monstrous being with tentacles and wings. The wizard's personal chambers seemed comfortable enough if tastelessly furnished with gilt couches and decadent arrases.

The stairs climbed one final time to a conjuring chamber or astrolabe ringed by a series of deep alcoves. Each antechamber contained several bookshelves, and these were filled to overflowing by a vast collection of books, tomes, scrolls, and tablets, gathered together in an untidy clutter.

"Ah-ha," said Jack. "This is more like it. Now, where did he put it?"

"Here now," squeaked a high, rasping voice. "Who are you?"

Jack paused in midstep, looking around in near panic. No one else seemed to be present. "Never mind," he said, and advanced farther into the room.

"Does Iphegor know you're here?" Again the piping high voice.

"Of course," Jack replied, now seriously alarmed. He carefully scrutinized every corner of the room, searching for the other presence. "I am a mere disembodied voice conjured by his hand. I have no objective existence beyond his passing whim."

"Ha!" said the voice. "I think you are a thief hiding behind a spell of invisibility. Oh, won't you be sorry when Iphegor learns you are here!"

Jack swung his head from left to right, following the voice with his ear. It seemed to be coming from the high corner of a bookshelf… there! A small dark mouse perched between two heavy tomes, was studying him with beady eyes!

"You would be the wizard's familiar, then?" Jack said.

"I am," announced the mouse. "As such, I am very well acquainted with Iphegor's arcane repertoire, and I can assure you that disembodied voices are not to be found among the dozens of spells, enchantments, curses, and blights at his command, so therefore you are a thief!"

"It is, of course, widely known that a wizard's familiar can communicate mentally with its master," said Jack. "I cannot understand why you have deigned to address me instead of summoning Iphegor upon the instant to strike me dead with his terrible powers."

"Oh, I will in just a moment," the mouse said, "but first, I think I would like to see you plead for your life. If I am satisfied with your abject surrender, I may allow you to swear allegiance to me and then permit you to escape unharmed, so that you may serve me another day."

"I fail to see how that furthers your master's purposes." Jack silently glided forward, marking the exact position of the mouse.

"Iphegor represents a temporary arrangement at best," the mouse said, thrusting its whiskered chin into the air. "I have far greater designs than perpetual servitude to such as he. And so I am carefully building a network of daring, skillful, and suicidally loyal agents to aid me as I prepare my ultimate seizure of power. You may perform your obeisance now."

"Before I begin to grovel," Jack said, "I would like to ask a question. Could it be possible that Iphegor is at this moment so engaged in the spell he is crafting that your mental summons to him goes unanswered? In which case you would desperately gamble on the most arrogant bluff you can imagine in order to delay me until you can gain his attention?"

"That is two questions," the mouse declared, "and no, it is not remotely possible. Rule out any hope of escape, my lackey, and grovel before me in abject terror."

Jack reached into the bookshelf with the speed of a striking serpent and seized the mouse in his invisible hand. The mouse squeaked once in fright as Jack's spell faded, ruined by his sudden motion. The rogue held the whiskered rodent before his face and offered a wicked smile.

"I am not a particularly strong man," he said cheerfully, "but I am quite certain that I could crush every bone in your body by tightening my grasp. Do you agree?"

The mouse gulped. "I wish you wouldn't."

"If I recall correctly, a wizard's familiar not only shares a mental bond with its summoner, but it also shares a link of life energy or vitality. No familiar survives its master's death, I have heard, and a powerful wizard might be rendered virtually helpless by the sudden demise of his familiar, true?"

"Actually, no," the mouse squeaked. "It doesn't work like that at all."

"Oh. Well, then, I guess I have no further use for you. Good-bye, mouse." Jack began to tighten his grip.

"Wait!" the mouse cried. "Please! You were right! I was lying! Please don't kill me!"

Jack grinned. "Very well, I shall not, unless I am startled by the appearance of Iphegor himself, in which case I will kill you in an instant. I advise you to think twice before attempting to summon the wizard here through your mental link." He leered at the tiny creature until it scrunched its eyes closed in fright, and then laughed. "Now, I have business to attend. Perchance do you know where Iphegor keeps the Sarkonagael?"

"Please don't make me tell you that," the mouse whispered, a very small sound indeed.

"The longer we delay, the more likely it is that Iphegor and I meet, and I might be forced to squeeze you until your little bones snap and your little orifices trickle bright red blood and your little eyes pop out of your little head."

"Behind you. The second shelf!" the mouse wailed. "Please don't say things like that! I have a delicate constitution."

Jack searched the alcove the mouse indicated and found, on the second shelf, a large tome bound in black leather with massive silver clasps. With his free hand he fished it out of the bookshelf and examined the cover. It was an ominous-looking thing, with a silver skull embossed in the center and dire runes inscribed at each hasp. The title was stamped out in silver chasing: The Sarkonagael, or Secrets of the Shadewrights. He stuffed it into the pouch at his side and turned to go.

"You're going to let me go now?" the mouse asked hopefully.

"Soon," Jack said. "For now I deem it advisable to travel in your company."

He glanced around the summoning chamber one last time and then retreated down the winding staircase. Green wizard-lights threw strange, twisting shadows against the walls and gave everything a pale, unhealthy luminescence. The rogue quickly passed through the wizard's chambers and followed the staircase down to the ground floor.

No one was around. Jack trotted softly over to the tower's only door and paused a moment to whisper a spell that changed his shape, taking on another face and another appearance. He didn't want someone outside the tower to mark the departure of someone answering to his description. After a moment's thought, he molded his shape into a tall, strong swordsman in leather armor, with black hair, clear gray eyes, and the tattoo of a falcon showing on the back of his hand. Marcus would serve as well as any.

"Any traps or wardings on the door?" he asked the mouse.

"No, not from this side," the mouse answered dejectedly.

"Excellent. You and I shall take a short walk down the street, and when I am well clear of the tower, I will set you free-provided Iphegor does not interfere."

"I haven't told him a thing," the mouse said.

Jack let himself out and strode out into the street, blinking in the daylight. It was gray and overcast, but after the dim shadows of the wizard's tower, it seemed as bright as noon on a summer day. He set his clenched fist near the hilt of his sword, hoping that no one would notice the tiny gray head sticking out between his thumb and forefinger, and slipped into the crowd, walking away from the tower without a backward glance.

He was three blocks away when Iphegor finally caught up to him. There was a flash of light and a puff of sulfurous smoke directly in front of him. The wizard stood before him, livid with rage, nostrils flaring and eyes bright as burning coals.

"Hold right there," the wizard said in a hiss. "Your doom is upon you, defiler of my home!"

Jack thrust the mouse into his face and squeezed a little. "Careful, Iphegor. I have your familiar!"

The mouse squeaked. "Not… so… tight!"

Iphegor the Black, dread bane of mighty swordsmen, nightmare of rival sorcerers, doom of hulking monsters and plunderer of ancient lore, blanched in horror. He gaped openmouthed for a full five heartbeats before collecting his wits.

"Harm one hair of that mouse," he said in a deadly quiet voice, "and I shall order your bones to tear themselves free of your flesh and spend the rest of eternity marching endlessly across the face of the world. Now who are you?"

"They call me Marcus," Jack said with a shrug.

"Very well, then, Marcus. You will now put down my familiar, making no sudden moves. If you follow my directions explicitly, I may allow you to live. Any questions?"

Jack nodded sagely, absorbing the threat. He lowered his hand as if to set the mouse upon the ground.

"One question," he said. "Ever see a mouse fly?" Then he hurled the tiny creature as high into the air as he could throw it.

Iphegor looked up, agape in indignation. Jack chose that exact moment to punch the tall wizard in the knob of his throat as hard as he could and then turned to run.

Iphegor goggled in agony, choking for breath as he collapsed like a poleaxed ox. The wizard's eyes stared vacantly up at the airborne rodent, now at the very apogee of its arc. Jack dashed for the nearest corner, sprinting for his life. He didn't think he'd killed Iphegor, and that meant that sooner or later the necromancer would get around to being extraordinarily angry about the whole affair.

"Catch me, Master!" squeaked the mouse in terror as it fell, tiny limbs flailing vainly in the air.

The wizard gurgled and lurched awkwardly, throwing out one hand in a herculean effort. Incredibly, Iphegor managed to catch his tumbling familiar in the palm of his hand before collapsing on his back in the muddy street, spread-eagled. His face was a distinct shade of blue, but he finally managed to draw a great rattling gasp. Passersby glanced at each other, then carefully stepped around the prostrate mage and continued on their way.

"I… I think I'm all right," the mouse piped. "Oh, thank you, Master! Thank-"And that was all, for at that moment the wheel of a passing cart rolled right over mouse and wizard's hand both, crushing each beyond hope of repair. Bones crunched and blood ran; Iphegor, eyes bulging, let out one hideous strangled cry, sat bolt upright for a moment, and then fell back into the mud like a black banner pulled down in battle.

Jack checked his pouch to make sure the loot was still there and then trotted off down the street. He had to hurry if he was going to make it to the Fleetwood estate in time to escort Illyth to the Orange Lord's ball.

Two hours later, Jack and Illyth stood on a terrace overlooking the sea, listening to the gentle strains of music drifting out from inside the white palace behind them. It was sunset. For a few minutes at the end of the day the red sun seemed to hang below the heavy overcast sky and above the slate sea, painting both sky and city with fiery scarlet and brilliant gold. The Game attendants must have marked the masks of the previous session, since Illyth was once again Lady Crane and Jack stood resplendently dressed as Lord Fox.

"We must have twenty clues here, not counting the hearsay, and I still don't feel as if I'm any closer to solving this puzzle," Illyth complained. She scratched notes into a small journal, thoughtfully studying the pieces she and Jack had accumulated so far. "If only some of the clues told you something in the affirmative, instead of the negative!"

"That would be far too easy," Jack pointed out, "and the organizers would quickly exhaust their store of clues. If you provide a clue that so-and-so is the Red Lord, why, you eliminate six of seven possibilities, but if you instead hint that so-and-so is not the Red Lord, you have only eliminated one of seven possibilities. It's annoyingly clever."

Illyth sniffed. "And what of this one? The Black Lord is the brother of Geciras. What are we supposed to make of that?"

Jack smiled. "First of all, it's another way of saying that Geciras is not the Black Lord. You should mark it as such. Secondly, it might be a clue-and-a-half, so to speak. When we find a clue that says Geciras has but one brother, and he is king in Septun, then we'd know that the Black Lord rules Septun."

"We need a lot of clues," the noblewoman muttered. Jack started to reply, but she poked him in the chest with her forefinger. "Oh, no. No more stealing tokens, Jack. I'll win fairly or not at all."

Jack grimaced. "Very well, although I think it likely that others may not feel constrained by your sense of fair play."

"Then I suppose we shall have to try harder."

Illyth finished writing and slipped the notebook into a small purse at her side. Jack had noticed many players similarly equipped tonight. Illyth might not want him to steal anymore tokens, but borrowing someone's journal might be very useful. Or, for that matter, filling a journal with false clues and then leaving it someplace where an unscrupulous player would rifle through it might also be useful. Illyth interrupted his scheming by grasping his hand and dragging him suddenly toward the ballroom inside.

"Come on, Jack! Let's have a dance. I want you right where I can see you."

They joined a sea of gracious, swirling figures gliding across the marble floor, arm in arm as they paced through the measured steps of a stately quadrille. Jack didn't know the steps, but he watched the noblemen around him and picked it up fast. He'd always had a knack for dances, even if his tastes ran more to reels and kicks. And it made Illyth happy; she laughed in delight at each turn and pirouette. Jack shrugged to himself. There were worse things that making Illyth happy, even if she had too much money to court honestly and too much sense to seduce dishonestly. But for a short time he could imagine that he belonged among a shining company like this with a beautiful noble lass like Illyth on his arm.

"So did you find what you were looking for?" she asked him suddenly as they promenaded across the floor.

"I beg your pardon?"

"About Iphegor, Durezil, and Gerard. The play you're working on."

"Oh! Of course." Jack thought of the Sarkonagael, currently hidden in a very secure spot with several spells of concealment on it. He wasn't supposed to meet Elana for two nights yet, but the book ought to be safe enough. "I am very close to finishing the script," he laughed, "and I expect a very handsome fee when I deliver it to the person who commissioned my work, a very handsome fee, indeed."

Illyth offered a wry smile. "And I thought you worked only for the love of the art. All right, Jack. The curiosity is driving me insane. What are you really up to? There's no play, is there?"

"If I told you that I am at this very instant furiously plotting the last scene, would you believe me?"

"Probably not," Illyth admitted.

"Then I had better not tell you that," Jack replied. The dance ended, to a spontaneous patter of applause from the dancers. Jack and Illyth clapped politely as the musicians bowed and set down their instruments. "The terrace again? It's warm in here."

"In a moment," Illyth said. "I must visit the powder room first."

"I'll be outside," Jack said.

He strolled back out to the terrace and looked out over the city. The palace was located in the Foreign District, a fine ambassador's house that was virtually a fortress within the city's walls. Orange flickers of light danced along the streets below as lamplighters made their rounds in the shadowed streets. He leaned on the balustrade, listening to the sounds of the city settling in for the evening-the distant clatter of dishes, a carriage passing along the cobbled streets nearby, a dog barking a short way off. Absently he paced the length of the terrace, down to a small private garden where smooth stone benches rested in a bower of green ivy.

Voices murmured ahead of him. "Indiscretion engenders opportunity," Jack said softly to himself. And Illyth had said that she wished for more clues, hadn't she? Eavesdropping was certainly less questionable than pickpocketing. Jack stealthily glided closer, straining his ears to listen.

"— that be enough?"

"Few will be armed. We can determine which of them are carrying weapons early in the evening, and perhaps drug their wine before we move. It shouldn't prove difficult to place our own men among the serving staff." Jack heard a man's voice, low and confident.

"What of the Watch? We'll need at least half an hour to be thorough, and we won't be able to afford any interruptions." A woman, her voice as sharp as a shard of glass.

"We'll create a distraction, a tavern brawl on the other side of town, or perhaps a riot. Yes, a riot. That would be an effective diversion."

"I hope you understand the risks I am taking," the woman said. "We will get only one chance. If we fail, all our heads will roll."

"Such is the price of failure, my lady. We must-"

"Jack! Where are you?" Illyth called from the terrace nearby. Jack quickly retreated toward her, holding up his hand to warn her, but she didn't notice. "Oh, there you are. Where have you been hiding?"

Someone moved behind him. Jack whirled; from the shelter of the high green hedges a man and a woman appeared, their features covered by the illusory masks of the Game. The man wore the orange and black stripes of a tiger, while the woman wore an elegant emerald shimmer that was reminiscent of a mantis. They regarded him coldly for a long moment, and then walked away, retreating back into the crowded ballroom as he watched them go. Illyth moved up beside him, and set her hand on his arm.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Those two," Jack said. "They were plotting something, my dear. I overheard them talking about how they would divert the Watch when they were ready to strike."

"Strike? Against whom? For what?"

Jack frowned. It was almost certainly none of his business, but what were they up to? He hated it when he discovered plots that were not his own. An assassination, perhaps? A coup? A simple robbery or theft?

He shook his head. "I do not know, Illyth, but they marked Lord Fox and Lady Crane as they left. We should be careful about protecting our identities from this point forward. They might not want us to find out what they were talking about."

"Ah!" said Illyth. "A new plot within the Game!"

"I do not think so," said Jack.