The City of Ravens

CHAPTER NINE

Jack, Anders, and Tharzon celebrated their escape from the Guilder's Vault with steins of beer and flagons of wine for most of the rest of the day. Between the three of them, they had pocketed a handsome amount of dwarfwork valuables. Jack did not see fit to mention the small brandy bottle nestled safely inside his jacket. He didn't know whether to sell it (Cedrizarun's work was doubtless worth many hundreds of gold crowns, possibly thousands), share it with his comrades, drink it himself, or give it to that old sot Ontrodes for a lark.

"That weighty decision must be delayed until I have given the issue due consideration," he told himself. "The tragedy of using this irreplaceable liquor poorly would haunt me for the rest of my days."

Now that he'd had some time to reflect on their narrow escape, he seemed to recall that a month or two back the Lady Mayor had issued a proclamation offering a generous reward, a very generous reward, to the plucky soul who braved Sarbreen's awful dangers and hungry deep dragons in order to recover various artifacts from the depths, including the Orb of Khundrukar. Something to the effect of a noble title and ten thousand gold crowns for recovering the dwarven device…

"Perhaps she might pay handsomely for a ring, a dagger, and a bottle of the most superior brandy residing in mortal hands today. Failing that, perhaps she might pay handsomely to learn that the Red Wizard Zandria had recovered the Orb or perished in the attempt," Jack mused.

Jack bid his partners a good night and left to find a bed. He even left his fair share of the night's tab on the table and sauntered off into the cool spring evening, humming a merry air as he strolled down the streets leading toward home. Perhaps he'd purchase a small manor out in the countryside, nothing ostentatious or crass of course, a few dozen acres and servants to maintain his modest yet comfortable lifestyle.

"Women such as Illyth or Zandria might prove eager to attach themselves to a person of my status and dignity," he mused. "Why, I might-"

Someone threw a cloak over his head from behind and wrapped it tight in the blink of an eye. A flurry of punches and jabs battered Jack through the heavy coat, and he was wrestled and dragged a few steps only to fall into a muddy, foul-smelling pool of water. He flailed about, trying to defend himself, but hard-driven fists hammered into his head, shoulders, and back, knocking the wind out of him and pounding him mercilessly. Jack gibbered in panic.

"Wait! Stop-unh! Who-agh! Stop!"

"Well, well, well. If it isn't-"

"Jack Ravenwild. Where's the ruby, Ravenwild?"

"You know, dear sir, we've been quartering the city looking for you. We've discovered that the ruby stolen from House Kuldath was sold in Tantras a few days ago. Perhaps now you may be inclined to-"

"Tell us where the money is, or we'll slit your throat."

Twisting in agony, Jack managed to wriggle out of his cloak. He rolled over on the cold cobblestone and found himself staring up at Morgath and Saerk. The two thieves stood over him, short truncheons in their hands.

"Your persistence astonishes me, gentlemen," he gasped. "I thought we understood that I had nothing to do with your employer's unfortunate loss."

"You were seen taking money from a big, blonde-haired Northman-" Morgath began.

"— who was observed selling a ruby the size of a pigeon's egg to a dealer in Tantras for the sum of thirteen hundred Ravenaar crowns," finished Saerk. "The Northman fenced it for you. Now how do you think we can satisfy our employer's demands for justice and the gem's return?"

"Clearly, we cannot return the gem, so we should discuss the issue of reparations," Morgath said. "Now, let's start with what's in this satchel."

Thirteen hundred crowns? Why, Anders cheated me of almost two hundred pieces of gold! Jack thought first of all. Then the rest of the thief's statement reached him regarding the disposition of Jack's satchel. Jack shook his head, trying to clear it of intoxication and pain, and looked up. Morgath was holding the pouch in which he'd stashed the pick of his pickings from the Guilder's Vault! Slowly he levered himself up off the street and carefully brushed off his clothes.

"That," he said slowly, "has nothing whatsoever to do with you."

"Oh? If it's valuable and it is yours, then it might very well have something to do with us-"

"We'll just keep it until you produce the ruby." Saerk laughed. The thin thief was really an unpleasant fellow, gaunt and bony, and his laugh sounded like the shrill whinny of a skeletal horse. He dropped the truncheon and pulled out a wicked knife. "I think we'll keep a couple of your fingers, too, by way of thanking you for the trouble at the Tankard last week."

Jack was not about to let these two filchers walk off with his hard-won loot. He drew himself up and looked at the two men, then glowered, then scowled. "I believe," he said clearly, "that I have had all that I care to stand." He muttered a spell, the spell of seeming, and slowly began to alter his appearance. "You see, gentlemen, I am not as I appear. Until now, it has suited my purposes to disguise my true form, but you, you have given me cause to forget my restraint and resort to more direct measures." He grew taller, heavier, more gaunt. His skin darkened to an infernal coal black as his ears assumed wicked points and long, sharp tusks thrust their way out from his lower jaw.

The two thieves took a half-step back, fumbling for their weapons. "Stop that," squeaked Morgath. "You can't fool us with a simple trick like that!"

Jack grew taller still, now towering over both men. Wisps of steam escaped from his mouth when he talked, as his voice deepened into a low, menacing rumble. "I am a visitor from a far land," he continued. "I had hoped to pass peacefully among your kind, perhaps observe human customs, learn human ways, but I refuse to be assaulted with impunity, and I refuse to be hectored and badgered and threatened, and I refuse to have the two of you pawing through my personal effects. Despite my best efforts to avoid this, you have forced my hand, and so now I must rend the two of you limb from limb and feast on your steaming organs before your dying eyes!"

He finished by throwing back his head and bellowing in sheer ogrish rage, rolling his eyes and raising his huge taloned hands over his head as if to conjure down upon the two terrified thieves the very instrument of their doom with no further delay.

Morgath and Saerk stood petrified for one awful instant, gazing up like sheep standing under the butcher's knife, and then they broke and ran, abandoning the satchel and their truncheons in their haste to depart the vicinity. Jack roared after them as they fled pell-mell down the alleyway and bolted out in the street. Morgath turned left and Saerk turned right, a prudent tactic had they been in the correct position to execute the maneuver, which they weren't. As it so happened, they collided, the short one upending the taller, and the taller knocking down the shorter. Jack took two steps and roared again, at which point the two thieves yammered in terror, picked themselves up, and ran off screaming into the night.

Jack used the spell to assume the appearance of a uniformed city watchman and picked up his belongings. He could hear the screams of the two thieves, now fading into the cool distance. Sooner or later, the authorities would come running to investigate reports of a berserk ogre mage rampaging through the Anvil, and it wouldn't be wise to wait for that to happen. He changed his appearance back to normal and departed the scene, congratulating himself on his own cleverness. The night was cool and fresh, the air was sweet with rain, and even if he ached in the ribs and shoulders and arms from the drubbing the two thieves had given him, in the end he'd run them off.

He was only a block from his apartment when someone else threw a cloak over his head and pummeled him mercilessly to the cobblestones. Flailing wildly to tear the cloak from his face, Jack's arms were pinned, and then his assailant threw him face first into a hard brick wall, hammering a big fist into his kidneys two, then three times. Jack cried out and fell, only to be savagely kicked several times before he heard a voice through the red haze of pain.

"That's enough, Marcus. We're supposed to arrest him, which implies bringing him in alive."

A heavy boot kicked him once more in the stomach, doubling him up like a broken doll. Then the cloak was pulled away. A large pair of leather-booted feet stared him in the eye, and a little farther back a somewhat smaller pair of leather-booted feet of a more feminine slenderness waited their turn.

"This defies all probability," Jack coughed. "Two beatings in one night, commenced in the exact same fashion. I shall henceforward trust no man wearing a cloak."

"Hello, Jack," purred Ashwillow. The Hawk Knight knelt so that she was able to meet his eyes. "You've been quite a busy burglar of late, haven't you? Dueling wizards in the streets, socializing with the privileged classes, crawling around in Sarbreen doing who knows what… honestly, I don't see how you find the time."

"I know of several black-hearted scoundrels who bear me a striking resemblance," Jack wheezed. His guts ached as if red-hot skewers had been stuck through him. "I would love to help you, dear lady, but I am afraid I cannot be held answerable to their misdeeds."

"What did you steal for Elana?" demanded Marcus. "Where did you meet her? Time's running short, and I am not going to play games with you." To emphasize his point he dragged Jack to his feet and threw him against the wall with great disregard for both rogue and building.

Jack tried to straighten up but couldn't; his stomach hurt too much. He panted for a long moment, trying to master the pain. Someday, he promised himself, I am going to find out where Marcus lives, and then when he is on his way home from a late night at a tavern, I am going to jump out of the shadows and beat him with a board.

He considered whether or not he should tell them the truth about Elana. After all, he hardly owed her any loyalty. Three things stopped him: first, telling the truth was foreign to his nature; second, admitting that he'd unwittingly aided the Warlord Myrkyssa Jelan didn't seem like it would make the Hawk Knights leave him alone; third, and most significantly, Iphegor the Black appeared in a sulfurous belch of smoke and screamed at Marcus, "There you are! Oh, now shall I have my vengeance upon you, wretched thief and craven mouse murderer!"

"I beg your pardon?" Marcus said, blank bafflement in his face.

"Remarkable," Jack managed.

Obviously, Iphegor had used some spell to transport him to the vicinity of the man who'd pillaged his tower and wrought the end of his familiar, because here he stood. But Iphegor did not know, could not know, that Jack was Jack and not Marcus, since the thief had used the seeming spell to take on the Hawk Knight's appearance during the unpleasant affair in the necromancer's tower.

Jack looked at Marcus and Ashwillow and straightened a little bit. "Oh, are you in for it now."

Iphegor, already in the process of casting some dire spell, hesitated half a heartbeat as he glanced sideways at Jack. The two knights goggled in amazement, still trying to grasp the implications of the sorcerer's spectacular appearance. Then Iphegor dismissed the small, well-pummeled popinjay before him as insignificant to his mission, stepped back, and raised his voice, conjuring a horrible doom down upon the unfortunate Hawk Knights. Marcus sprang toward the necromancer to halt his spell, while Ashwillow dove for cover.

Jack worked a simple spell and jumped straight up with all his might, carried aloft by dancing emerald energy. He gained the rooftop of Eldritch, Lightfoot, Findrol, amp; Company with one bound just as Iphegor's spell detonated under him, filling the narrow alleyway with black, searing flames that washed out into the street and erupted into the sky overhead. Jack risked one glance below, just enough to see a very singed-looking Marcus seize hold of Iphegor's throat while the wizard raised a very deadly looking wand to smite him again. Sorcerous black flames engulfed both the trading house and the building across the alleyway, burning weirdly without light but igniting the buildings nonetheless.

Ashwillow rose up from behind a high stone curb, only partially singed. She aimed a wicked crossbow in Jack's general direction, but before she could let fly with the bolt, Jack conjured a solid sheet of billowing vaporous fog in the alleyway, obscuring all vision. The knight's quarrel flew off over his shoulder.

"The roof! He's on the roof!" Ashwillow cried.

"Bugger the spy! Help me!" Marcus replied, striving to keep Iphegor's deadly wand from his face.

Jack turned and ran for his life. Behind him, spells thundered and steel rang in the fog and confusion as Iphegor and the Knights blundered and fought in the mists.

"You will not escape me so easily, thief!" shrieked Iphegor once, distantly, and then Jack abandoned the scene altogether.

Since it was clear that his apartments were under the surveillance of various parties that wished him ill, Jack elected to avoid going home. "The hour is late, drink has fogged my wits, and I desperately require sleep," Jack mused, perched on a rooftop several blocks away. A roaring fire filled with golden sparks marked the place where Jack and Iphegor had recently parted ways, and he saw no reason to return to the scene. "My various bolt-holes and haunts throughout the city may be watched tonight, so I need to find a place of comparative safety and seclusion."

He thought hard for a moment, considering and discarding various plans, until he struck upon one that seemed workable. "Ontrodes has plenty of room in his tower. I am sure that a gold crown will purchase a night's stay and cheerful hospitality in an atmosphere of rustic scholarship and charming antiquity." At once Jack alighted from the rooftops and set off toward Shadystreets, splashing through the rain-soaked streets and whistling merrily to ward off cutpurses and murderers lurking in the dark alleyways of the poorer neighborhoods.

He reached Ontrodes's street and picked up his pace, anxious to be inside. Few streetlights burned in this part of the city, and the evening here had a restless, watchful feel to it, as if unseen eyes studied his every move in breathless patience. Jack hurried about halfway down the street and then stopped in confusion.

"Evidently, I am more intoxicated than I thought," he muttered. "Ontrodes's tower is not on this street, which begs the question, which street am I on?"

He halted and looked about to get his bearings. On his right hand stood the Dyddow Barrelworks, exactly where it was supposed to be at the end of Riverview Road, and he'd just passed the Red Ravens firefighters' hall on his left not fifty yards back. This was the right spot, but Ontrodes's tower was not here. Narrowing his eyes suspiciously, Jack turned in a slow circle, studying his surroundings carefully on the off chance that some incredibly ambitious trickster had moved the sage's tower in order to have a hard-earned laugh at his expense. A dilapidated house joined to a shapeless mound of rubble caught his eye.

"Wrack and ruin!" Jack cried. "Ontrodes's tower has finally collapsed entirely!" And indeed, the precarious angle at which the sage's small round tower had leaned for years evidently proved too much for mere stone and mortar to bear. The small house still stood, although it leaned drastically in the other direction now that it had been freed of the tower's pull. The stone archway joining house to tower remained more or less intact and was now covered loosely by a ragged piece of canvas that hung damply in the rain. Books and fragments of books lay crushed beneath the rubble or strewn here and there across the muddy streets.

Jack shook himself out of his amazement and bounded up to the cottage door. He cast one more glance at the stones piled up beside him, and then hammered on the door to the sage's dilapidated demesnes.

"Ontrodes, Ontrodes! Open up! I have urgent business with you!"

There was no immediate response, so Jack decided simply to hammer continuously on the door until he provoked one. Certainly the sage's neighbors began to express their dissatisfaction after a few minutes of Jack's attention, screeching obscenities out of open windows and threatening him with horrible violence if he didn't cease and desist.

After two or three minutes of incessant hammering, the door was suddenly thrown open from within. Ontrodes, dressed in a wine-stained robe, stood there, rubbing his eyes blearily as he stared at Jack. "What harm have I ever done to you, you impudent whelp? Have you not done enough? What is it to be now?"

Jack paused and rubbed the heel of his hand, somewhat sore from pounding on the sage's lintel. Ontrodes stared at him with undisguised contempt, even anger, but that of course was to be expected when waking the old codger in the middle of the night.

"Wise Ontrodes, what has become of your domicile? What catastrophe befell your noble residence?"

The sage's face darkened into a drunken, bitter anger so vehement that Jack took a step back. "You ask me what became of my tower? You ask me? By Gond's wondrous brass balls, Jack, do you think that I find anything amusing about this? I am a peaceable man, a man of wit and learning, but I swear by Cyric's black heart that if I ever catch sight of you again, I will pull off your head and defecate down your throat!"

With that the sage slammed his door so thunderously loudly that two more stones jutting out from the maimed wall of his home clattered down onto the rubble, and the door-latch flew from its place to land in the mud at Jack's feet.

"That," thought Jack, "was not the expected result of this conversation."

He walked in a small circle, thinking hard. Ontrodes was clearly incensed-no, enraged-at him, but he still needed shelter and he did earnestly desire to understand exactly what he had done, other than waking the man in the middle of the night, that could possibly have earned him such vitriol. He wrapped his arms around his torso and stamped, growing chilled in the damp night air. The old dwarven bottle was round and warm in his coat pocket.

Gingerly, Jack stepped up and rapped his knuckle on the door. "Ontrodes!" he called softly. "I do not know how I have caused you such anger, but I would dearly like the opportunity to make amends. I have brought you a distillation concocted by old Cedrizarun himself, seized just yesterday from the jaws of a dragon in the Guilder's Vault! Please, allow me to make a gift of it to you!"

The sage snuffled and grunted in his cottage, but remained silent for a long time. Jack began to fear that he might not reply at all, but finally the door creaked open again.

"I do not believe you," the sage said through an inch-wide gap, "and there is no liquor on the face of the world that could possibly atone for the wrong you have done, but, just for the sake of curiosity-show me."

Jack withdrew the dark bottle from his coat and held it up for the sage to see. "I found it in Cedrizarun's tomb," he said quietly. "Look at the bottle. It matches precisely the bottle Zandria showed you, does it not?"

"You probably stole it from her, poured out the contents in ignorance, and filled it with swill," Ontrodes said, "but the bottle itself may be valuable. Give it to me!"

"First, wise Ontrodes, noble Ontrodes, I wish to know: Why are you angry with me?"

The sage's face reddened, but with the prize suspended before his eyes, he managed to retain a deadly calm. He waved one hand at the wreckage of his tower. "Is it not obvious?"

"You believe that I caused the collapse of your tower?" Jack snorted in amazement. "Ontrodes, the tower was decrepit. It might have fallen for any number of reasons. I certainly had nothing to do with it."

"Oh? I thought that the magical blasts you used to destroy the beams holding up the second floor hastened my tower's demise considerably!" Ontrodes snapped. "How can you stand there pretending innocence, when not six hours past you were dancing around my crumbling home, singing those inane, insulting limericks and hurling blast after fiery blast into my very home! Why, if I hadn't thrown myself out the window of the study, I would have been killed!"

"I have no memory-" Jack began, and then he halted. Of course he didn't have any memory of wrecking the sage's tower, because he did not do it. But was it not possible, perhaps even likely, that his shadow had been here instead? "Ontrodes, believe this or not, but it is the truth: Two days past I discovered that I have a sinister and malicious copy at large in the city, a spiteful fellow who wears my likeness and apparently delights in tormenting my friends and acquaintances. My doppelganger wrought the ruin of your tower."

The sage merely blinked at him. "You expect me to believe that? What an incredibly convenient explanation!"

"I had thought I might call on you and ask for shelter for the night," Jack continued, stroking his beard, "but now I see that I have need of your professional services too. Here, I freely offer you this rare and exceedingly valuable dwarven brandy by way of apologizing for my counterfeit's uncouth actions." He handed the sage the bottle from the Guilder's Vault and then stepped inside, easily avoiding the old man's groggy attempt to impede him at the door. He would have gone straightaway to the sage's study, but that of course no longer existed, so he turned instead into Ontrodes's kitchen and drew up a chair by the hearth. "Now what are the means by which some villain might copy one's appearance or create an evil duplicate of a person?"

The sage stood by the doorway, bottle in hand, still grappling with the fact that Jack had eluded him and was now ensconced in his kitchen. "Come back tomorrow with one hundred pieces of gold, and I'll consider your question. Until then, Jack, I want nothing to do with you."

"Sample the brandy, then. It is Cedrizarun's work. A chance to savor it should be worth a thousand gold crowns, let alone a hundred."

"I expect that you have simply poured more Sembian horse piss into this noble vessel, hoping to deceive me in that manner," Ontrodes rumbled, but he complied.

He took a pair of sturdy tongs from a hook on the wall and carefully broke the seal of the bottle, removing the cork with surprising deftness and care. Then he held the bottle to his nose and inhaled.

Ontrodes's bloodshot eyes flew open wide, and his mouth fell open. He stared down at the bottle in frank amazement and then inhaled again.

"I do not know if this is Cedrizarun's work or not," he whispered, "but it is surely an old, mature, exquisite and potent dwarven brandy. There can be no doubt of that! Jack, I might almost find it in my heart to forgive you the destruction of my home." He hurried to find a suitable glass.

Jack smiled. "As I said before, what are the means by which a person might copy someone's appearance or create a duplicate of the target for nefarious ends?"

Ontrodes poured a dram of the golden liquid into a fine tall glass on the sideboard. Jack used a minor cantrip to do the same for himself, bringing his glass dancing through the air to his hand. The sage glared at him, but Jack had been careful to help himself to the merest portion.

"I am not an expert in these matters," the sage said. "My learning lies-"

"I know, I know, Ontrodes. Liqueurs, cordials, wines, and brandies. I seek your advice in this matter fully cognizant of your limitations."

"Fine, then. I can think of five principal methods on first examination: spells of illusion, spells of transformation, magical items permitting the same, the natural abilities of certain monsters such as doppelgangers or demons, and simulacra or clones. There may of course be other means."

"Could we narrow the field by limiting the means to those that would copy abilities other than sheer physical characteristics? For example, personal knowledge or magical ability?"

"That is easily done. Illusions and transmutations do not generally confer any special knowledge or magical ability upon the person changed, nor do magical devices duplicating their effects." Caught by the question, Ontrodes thought for a long moment. "I have heard of doppelgangers that could copy such things, but only by slaying the target and devouring his brain."

"We can rule out that one, thank the gods," Jack said.

"Then I imagine that you are left with two likely explanations: a simulacrum of some kind or one of the more mundane means employed by a mage who has carefully researched the target."

The second made sense-any competent mage could work the magic that Jack had seen his shadowy twin employ, and any competent cutthroat could have observed his comings and goings to learn of his association with Illyth, but the first confused him.

"The latter seems more likely, but I do not rule out the former. What is a simulacrum?"

"A magical construct or creature built from snow, or mud, or something similar and then infused with a kind of pseudo-life. It is perfectly accurate to casual observation, but its abilities are only a pale mirror of the person it is built to resemble. A clone, on the other hand, is a real, living person magically grown from some tiny part of its model. Both of these things are, of course, exceedingly rare and powerful magics, Jack." The sage narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "You're not thinking of trying to copy somebody, are you?"

"Ontrodes, have you heard nothing I have said? It seems that somebody has copied me," Jack said glumly. "Two days past I encountered a rather gray-faced fellow who looked like me, fought as I fight, and even seemed to know some of the magics I know. I cut him once, but he didn't bleed normally. His blood was dark and seemed to vanish after a moment on the ground."

"That is very odd," murmured the sage. "Gray faced, you say? Did he have a different appearance when he stood in shadow and when he stood in sunlight?"

"It would be hard to-wait, no, I think he did. Yes, definitely he did. It struck me as very peculiar."

"Doubly odd," Ontrodes said. With trembling hands he raised the glass to his lips and tried one tentative sip, swilling the liquor in his mouth, an expression of purest bliss etched on his coarse features. "Exquisite, exquisite! Remarkable! Be careful with your taste, my boy, this is potent stuff!"

Jack tried his. The taste was extraordinary, a glimpse of pure fire captured in a stream of gold. The fumes seemed to burn delightfully all the way through his skull, yet the taste was sweet and strong, indescribably so. He grinned in delight, then turned back to the issue at hand.

"What was doubly odd about that?"

"What? Oh, the shadow. You see, that is a characteristic usually observed in a shade."

"A shade?" Jack leaned forward, interested. "Now, what in Faerun is a shade?"

"Not from Faerun at all, dear boy, but the plane of shadow. Another rare and difficult process, in which a person exchanges his own life-force for the stuff of shadow."

"So a mage hostile to me has made himself a shade, studied my habits and appearance, and worked a simple illusion to borrow my appearance?" Jack shook his head. "That seems far-fetched."

"The other possibility is that a mage has found a way to create simulacra using shadow stuff as the working material, so to speak. I suppose it could be done."

"Who would go to that much trouble to discomfit me?" Jack wondered aloud.

Tiger and Mantis were still his first guess, but who else might be responsible? Iphegor the Black certainly had the motive, but he had already demonstrated an interest in a much more direct sort of retribution. Morgath and Saerk almost certainly lacked the magical skills to do such a thing. Marcus and Ashwillow would never move against a noble of the city in order to get at a common thief, and besides, they probably lacked the magical skill as well. Zandria had the skill, but it was not clear why she would strike at Illyth. Of course, there was Elana, who knew people who had the skill, and who might be sufficiently ruthless to order Illyth's abduction.

It didn't make sense. As far as he knew, no mage he'd ever heard of might be a shade. That left the other possibility, that some wizard hostile to him had learned how to make shadow-simulacra.

The Sarkonagael: Secrets of the Shadewrights.

He'd delivered it to Elana, allowed her to reveal her true identity, and then refused her. She might not be a wizard herself, but Yu Wei was in her employ, along with others perhaps. Could Elana have ordered Jack's elimination by means of a spell from the book he'd stolen for her?

"Damn," he muttered. "I'm going to have to track her down, and I'll have to find out if she is really behind this or not."

"Track who down, Jack?" asked Ontrodes.

"Noble Ontrodes, I hesitate to say more lest I endanger you as well," Jack replied. "You are better off ignorant of my affairs."

"That's hardly fair. Knowledge is my livelihood, and you certainly owe me an explanation. When can I learn more?" the sage demanded.

Jack stood suddenly and drained the rest of his brandy. His head reeled pleasantly, despite the fact he'd had only a swallow. "Strong stuff, indeed," Jack said. "With luck, I may be able to explain more in a day or three. But first, I have a shadow to catch." He let himself out into the night and stood outside Ontrodes's ruined tower, thinking about where to spend the night.

Rooming with Ontrodes was clearly out. The sage had formerly commanded room to spare in his tower, but that was clearly no longer an option. Jack was hesitant to return to his apartment. Fortunately, he'd made plans for an emergency of this nature. Despite the late hour, he retraced his steps westwards on Riverview to Sindle, cut north one block to Thavverdasz, and followed the road to the point across from the Ladyrock. There he hired a boatman waiting on late fares to ferry him over to the island-neighborhood for the exorbitant price of two silver talons. After a short scull of perhaps two hundred yards, he climbed out of the ferry onto the wharves of the Ladyrock in the middle of the river mouth.

Several months ago Jack had discovered that one of the smugglers living on the island was dead, and that no one else was likely to know that he was dead, and that no one in particular was likely even to miss the departed. He left a cottage of three rooms, sited very near a small paper mill that created a perpetual miasma of stench in this portion of the islet. The cottage itself was not in particularly good condition, with walls that didn't run true and a roof covered in wooden shakes that curled up at the edges like dried old leaves, admitting an unfortunate amount of weather and vermin into the place, but it was otherwise a good place for Jack Ravenwild to drop out of sight for a time. He made up the bed, trying not to pay attention to the heavy scent of mildew from the straw-stuffed mattress, and built a small fire in the hearth to warm the place and dry it out a bit. Then he stretched out on the damp, cold pallet and drifted off to blissful sleep.

The next day, the beginning of Tarsakh, was windy and bright, although the cool, damp air of spring still left an unpleasant chill in the shade. Jack stocked his new residence with nonperishable hardtack, dried sausage, cheeses, and jerky, just in case he might have to stay out of sight for a few days. Then he dressed as an adventuring swordsman in a shirt of fine mail and spent most of the afternoon making inquiries across the city regarding the whereabouts of a short, wiry fellow dressed in black with an impudent manner and a marked predilection toward chaos, mayhem, and murder. He spoke to innkeepers by the score, tavernmasters restaurateurs, fences and (carefully) city watchmen, harlots, strumpets and fishwives. He soon discovered that while a person answering to that general description had been seen in half a dozen places throughout the city, no one knew the dastard's whereabouts. So Jack's investigations were checked for the day. As the sun vanished behind the late afternoon fog banks rolling in from the Inner Sea, he returned to the Ladyrock in order to prepare for the Green Lord's banquet.

"I will surely apprehend that villainous duplicate, that duplicitous villain, at my earliest convenience tomorrow," he muttered angrily, dressing for the Game. "I simply have more important business to attend at the moment than dealing with the likes of him. The charming Lady Illyth awaits, and I cannot disappoint her."

He caught the public ferry departing the isle a half hour before sunset and hired a carriage on the Bitterstone wharves to take him out to Woodenhall. The six-mile trip was becoming quite familiar by now, and Jack had long since tired of watching the scenery. Still, he bounced out of the coach with a lively step and donned his most charming grin when they arrived at the manor to pick up Illyth for the evening.

"My dear Illyth!" he cried. "I presume no uncouth blackguards have troubled you today?"

Illyth climbed up into the coach, taking Jack's hand, and settled in the plush seat. She was dressed in a beautiful dress of green brocade, trimmed with white lace at collar and cuff.

"Your ill-mannered twin hasn't shown himself in three days," she said. Then she reached behind her back and drew out a slender wand of dark wood, tipped with burnished brass. "But, just in case, Father bought me a wand charged with a dozen lightning spells. I hope the rascal shows himself again!"

"I didn't know you had any talent for wizardry, my dear." The coach rolled off across the cobblestones and into the humid night.

"Very little, I'm afraid, but I know enough to discharge this wand. There are a couple of elm trees in the woods behind our house that are somewhat the worse for my practicing." Illyth returned the device to whatever hidden pocket she'd removed it from and then turned her dark, serious gaze on the rogue. "So, what have you been up to for the last three days, Jack? Have you learned anything more about the shadow, or the doings of Tiger and Mantis?"

Jack shrugged, choosing his words with care. "A fruitless investigation into the nature of my enemy," he said, which was not entirely untrue. "I didn't learn much." He cobbled together a largely fictional account of the last several days, emphasizing the frustrating and hopeless search for his shadow-copy. It was not his best work, but Illyth skeptically accepted it, until the coach clattered up to the Raven's Glory. "Excellent!" said Jack. "And look, we are here."

The Green Lord's banquet was to take place in the pretentious restaurant, ballroom, and tavern known as the Raven's Glory. Three stories high, the establishment had been rented out in its entirety to the Game of Masks for the evening, no doubt enriching the fat coffers of the equally fat Veldarno Khalabari even more than hundreds of patrons engaged in a wild evening of expensive dinners, free-flowing wine, and festive dancing would have done. Jack and Illyth were helped down from the coach at the front door of the banquet hall by two manservants in pristine livery and walked inside to robe for the Game.

Masked as Lord Fox and Lady Crane, they moved on into the great room. The floor was crowded with several dozen Game-goers in their magical masks, a splendid sight. The proprietor Khalabari, short and sweaty, dashed from place to place like a lump of butter on a hot skillet, hardly tending to one task before another caught his attention and whisked him away in a flutter of unctuous courtesy.

Jack and Illyth climbed up to the balcony overlooking the dance floor, keeping their eyes open for Tiger and Mantis. The conspirators had not yet made their appearance, which unnerved Jack greatly. If the two plotters simply didn't show, he would have no way to find out whether they were surprised to see Illyth and him together at the revel. Beyond that, he lacked any more sophisticated plan.

"I am afraid that I am considering this whole affair to the point of distraction," he said aloud.

"Murder? Kidnapping? Impersonators and shadow wizards?" Illyth shook her head. "Jack, I do not see how you can possibly give the matter too much attention. What shall we do when Mantis and Tiger show up?"

Jack thought on that for a moment. "They've been careful to cover their identities so far. What if we simply unmask them and discover who they are?"

"We would be disqualified at once," Illyth pointed out.

"Perhaps we could lure one or both somewhere out of sight, where we could quickly identify our antagonist without revealing our own identities?"

"All we might do is start a scuffle, in which we are as likely to be unmasked as they. And if Tiger and Mantis report that we have unmasked them, we might be disqualified anyway."

"Why, then it should be their word against ours, and that rarely carries the day in any dispute," Jack replied.

"You mean we would blatantly deny having anything to do with them?" Illyth seemed honestly repelled by the idea.

"Correct, my dear. Besides, I may have a trick or two to ensure that no scuffle ensues." Jack scanned the crowd again but did not spy the familiar masks. "I see no sign of them yet. Do you perchance have your Game journal with you?"

"Yes, but playing the Game-"

"— is exactly what we came here to do, dear Illyth." Jack took her by the elbow and steered her toward the buffet table. "So, what do we still need to learn?"

Illyth showed him the book, holding it close so that no one nearby could easily see its contents. She'd recorded each clue they had actually seen in one section, and then the clues they'd traded through hearsay a little farther on. In the last part, she'd carefully drawn a large table across two pages, showing by each title the kingdoms and names. With a charcoal pencil she'd filled in the information they knew, and the information they suspected. "We need a number of clues yet," she said. "I fear we've fallen too far behind by missing the Yellow Lord's tournament."

"Shall we attempt to garner more clues, then?" Jack asked.

Illyth reluctantly nodded, looking about for any sign of Tiger or Mantis. "I suppose so. We-oh, wait. What's this?"

With a sudden fanfare on the ballroom floor below, a pair of coronets sounded. Randall Morran, the chief game judge, cleared a small circle in the center of the dance floor. "Ladies and gentlemen! A contestant chooses to attempt the solution of the Riddle of the Seven Faceless Lords!"

"Oh, dear," said Illyth. "We're too late!"

"Not necessarily. Be ready to write down the answer given; if it is wrong, we may learn a clue through elimination," observed Jack.

On the floor below, a stout lady with a goldfishlike mask stepped forward, escorted by a tall gentleman with the noble features of a lion. "Attend, please, the Lady Carp and Lord Lion!" the Master Crafter called.

Lady Carp turned and curtsied to the waiting assemblage. She withdrew from her sleeve a slip of paper, examined it for a moment, and then began to read: "Here is my solution," she said. "The Red Lord is Buriz, his kingdom Pentar. The Orange Lord is Fatim, his kingdom Quarra. The Yellow Lord is Dubhil of Trile. The Green Lord is Alcantar of Unen. The Blue Lord is Erizum of Dues. The Purple Lord is Geciras of Septun. And the Black Lord is Carad of Hexan. Is it solved?"

Randall Morran made a great show of consulting a small parchment sealed in a ribbon-wrapped envelope, standing clear of any observers. He allowed the wait to become deliriously long, and then shook his head. "Alas, Lady Carp, your solution is incorrect in four particulars. A noble effort, but not enough to win."

The Green Lord strode up beside the Master Crafter and stood before Lady Carp, silent and tall. He pointed at Carp and Lion solemnly, and then drew his finger across his throat ceremonially.

Morran bowed and said, "For your failure, the Green Lord condemns you to death. You may unmask and remain to enjoy the festivities if you wish, or you may depart and retain your anonymity."

Lady Carp sighed. "Oh, it's a silly game anyway." She drew off her mask. Jack didn't recognize her, or her escort, an older gentleman with a white goatee. "Better luck to the next!" she called to the crowd, and then she and her date departed to the polite applause of the crowd.

"Did you record her solution?" Jack asked Illyth.

"Yes, but we don't know which part was wrong. Which four parts, in fact."

"True, but look here-her solution for the Orange Lord matches our own, which we have confirmed completely with real clues. Therefore, the four errors in her solution must lie elsewhere." Jack grinned. "I think that we can use her solution in its entirety as the basis for our own, simply asking ourselves for each item: was Lady Carp right or wrong? Then we examine our own evidence item by item to see if we can confirm or refute her solution. We will be left with a small number of yes-or-no guesses with which we can attempt the solution."

"Clearly, Lady Carp guessed on at least four points, probably more, and got them wrong," Illyth said.

"Yes, but I promise you that someone else will attempt that very strategy later in this session," Jack said. "I doubt that we have the luxury of solving the puzzle in its entirety. Someone will narrow the solution down to a few guesses and hope they get lucky in the interest of solving it first."

Illyth frowned. "I prefer a more deliberate solution."

"Faint heart never won fair lady or the Game of Masks," Jack said. He studied the crowd below one more time and straightened. "Or caught a conspirator. Look, there's Tiger now."

"What do we do now?"

"Stay with me, and follow my lead," he told her.

Jack glided across the room and down the wide stairway, moving casually to intersect Lord Tiger. Illyth hesitated, mustering the courage to follow, then hurried after him. Jack caught the tall lord just as the fellow reached the foot of the stair and deliberately stepped in front of him, halting his progress.

"Hold a moment, my lord. I would like to have a word with you."

Tiger studied him, his feral eyes gleaming in his predatory mask. "To what end?" he snarled.

"You know as well as I," Jack ventured. The lord hesitated, perhaps trying to gauge the depth of Jack's confidence. The rogue decided to set the hook. "It pertains to your conversation with Lady Mantis."

Now the conspirator guarded his response. "What do you think you heard?"

Jack glanced at the surrounding revelers. "Shall we discuss it here, or should we adjourn to one of the private chambers upstairs?"

Behind the mask, Lord Tiger seemed to glower. "Very well, then," he spat.

Without waiting, he pushed past Jack and hurried up the staircase, past the dining hall on the second floor to the quiet, dark reaches of the uppermost floor. Here, Veldarno Khalabari had created a dozen small rooms for private dining and other entertainments secluded from the revelry below. Few Game participants were on this floor at the moment, although as the evening grew old a number would doubtless avail themselves of the facilities rather than endure a long, cold carriage ride home. Tiger went to the first open room and stepped inside, turning warily to keep an eye on Jack and Illyth.

"Speak your piece and be quick about it," the lord snapped.

"Your hostility is unbecoming, sir," said Jack. He advanced into the room, Illyth a step behind him. Lord Tiger folded his arms across his broad chest and glared at him. "In particular, I found my shadow-double to be a particularly obnoxious assailant. I believe you owe the lady an apology for the liberties it attempted to take with her person."

Tiger looked from Jack to Illyth, his anger fading into a sullen glower. "What in Cyric's screaming hells are you talking about?"

Jack waved his hand. "You lie poorly, sir. We survived your assassin's attack. Now explain to us why you sent him, or we shall have no choice but to remand the entire matter into the hands of the proper authorities." Behind his back, he tapped Illyth's waist; the noblewoman picked up on her cue at once and moved a step, separating herself from Jack and dividing Tiger's attention.

"I do not have to answer to your delusions," Tiger snapped. "You threaten to expose me? Fine. I call your bluff. You are nothing to me, but if you continue to pester me, you will be eliminated from the Game and more. Do you understand me?"

Illyth took another step and then said something that shocked even Jack. "Lord Tiger, you should answer to my companion. Otherwise I shall have to arrange for the Watch to receive evidence implicating you in a conspiracy to commit murder under the cover of the Game. You remain free only on my sufferance."

Tiger wheeled on her. "Evidence? What evidence?"

"If we told you, you might be tempted to rash actions and desperate measures," Jack replied, stepping in to cover Illyth. "Rest assured that it is completely incriminating."

"If that is the case, why are you speaking to me?" Tiger said after a moment's pause. "A bluff, then. You know nothing, just as I thought." He drew himself up and strode to the door, shouldering Jack out of the way and turning his back on Illyth.

In that moment, Illyth reached out and snatched his mask from his head. The Tiger illusion vanished; the man whirled in rage, reaching for the sword at his side. He was young and dark complected, with a scalp shaved down almost to stubble and fierce bright eyes.

"Damn you! Give me that!"

Jack seized the light slip of cloth from Illyth's hands and hurled it over Tiger's shoulder. It cleared the railing and fluttered down to the dance floor below. "Careful, Lord Tiger! You seem to have lost your mask."

The man started after the mask and watched it fall. He turned a venomous glare at Jack. "If you think that trick will spare you-" he began.

"Of course it will!" Reaching for Illyth's hand, Jack worked the transport spell and blinked them both across the hall to a dark stairwell across the ballroom. He turned and looked back; Lord Tiger was casting about for them furiously, a glint of steel in his hand. Jack grinned and kissed Illyth on the cheek. "Well done, dear Illyth! Perchance did you recognize him?"

The noblewoman still seemed amazed by the turn of events. "I think so," she said slowly. "A merchant's lieutenant named Toseiyn Dulkrauth, of the Storm Dragon House, I think. You realize that we have made an enemy of him now?"

"Yes," laughed Jack, "but now we know who our enemies are!" He tried to ignore the way Illyth's silence seemed to speak louder than his own bravado.