The City of Ravens

by Baker, Richard

  Ontrodes squinted in thought and allowed himself a swig of the brandy. “Well, my dear boy, whose idle flattery knows no shame, I do not believe I have ever heard that name before.” The sage laughed harshly, which led to a small fit of coughing. “You may have wasted your ten gold crowns and your cheap brandy this morning.”

  Jack frowned. As far as sages went, Ontrodes was not very reliable. There was a reason he was widely known as the disreputable sage Ontrodes, but he worked for next to nothing, and for exactly nothing some of the time, since his constant dissipations required a steady stream of small amounts of cash. Adventurers, rogues, and other ne’er-do-wells with a shortage of funds could usually obtain some useful scrap of information from the sage, when a well-researched answer from a real sage might cost far more than they could afford. He waved his hand at all of the books stacked head-high in the room.

  “Surely you must have some hint of it somewhere in all this?”

  “My particular area of expertise lies in wines, brandies, cognacs, sherries, and other exotic elixirs,” Ontrodes rumbled. “No living mortal knows so much about such concoctions as I. Anything else I happen to pick up is merely incidental to my study of wines and liquors. I can say without hesitation that the Sarkonagael is not a vintage known to me, nor is it a book in which vintages are discussed, since I should then own it.”

  “That is not extremely helpful. How about a mage named Gerard, who would have made a name for himself as an adventurer about eight or ten years ago?”

  “Can’t say I’ve heard of him.” Ontrodes said after a moment’s thought, “A book called the Sarkonagael owned by a mage named Gerard, eh?”

  “Something like that,” Jack said with a wave of his hand. He had to remind himself to watch where he set it down. “Are you sure you don’t have something about it in one of these books somewhere? I admire your intellect, but I cannot believe you have committed the entire content of your library to memory.”

  “More than you might think,” Ontrodes said. He took another swallow from the silver flask. “For Sembian swill, this is not so bad. It’s a shame you couldn’t get your hands on some real elven brandy. That, my friend, is the very nectar of the gods.”

  “I’ll see what I can do next time,” Jack said. He pushed himself to his feet and discovered that he’d parked his right hand directly amid the mouse droppings. He winced and brushed it off on the other arm of the chair. “I thank you for your time, dear Ontrodes. If your wisdom fails me on this occasion, it is surely due to my inability to ask the right questions, as opposed to a degeneration of your mental faculties brought on by age and excessive drink.”

  “A moment, Jack,” Ontrodes said wearily. “What did you call it again?”

  “The Sarkonagael?”

  Ontrodes scowled and cast one bleary eye over the formidable piles of books littering the chamber. “I’ll take a look, but only if you swear to bring me real elven brandy if I find something.”

  “I so swear, instantly and without reservation,” Jack said. “Thank you, my friend!”

  “Save your thanks. The real brandy costs more than a hundred gold crowns for a flask this size.” Ontrodes sighed and dismissed him. “Now, leave me alone. I have work—”

  There was a knock at the door. “Hello? Ontrodes?” called a woman’s voice from outside.

  The sage mumbled imprecations under his breath. “It appears that everyone desires my wisdom at an unreasonably early hour today,” he said. He shuffled to the door and opened it. “I am Ontrodes,” he said. “Who are you?”

  On the doorstep, a tall woman dressed in red silk and leather waited. A curved dagger was thrust into her belt and a slender wand was sheathed in a special holster on the other side. Her eyes, green and wide, smoldered under a short-cropped shock of brilliant red hair. A fine blue tattoo of an arcane sigil marked her left cheekbone. She crossed her arms imperiously in front of her and glared at him.

  “I am the Red Wizard Zandria,” she said. Her voice was sharp and commanding. “I understand that you know everything there is to know about wines, brandies, and other liqueurs. Is that true?”

  Ontrodes blinked in surprise. “Why, yes. Yes, it is true.”

  “Good. Then perhaps I can retain your expertise in this matter.” Without waiting for an invitation, she marched into the sage’s cottage, studied the armchair doubtfully, and then settled herself on the corner of the desk. She was strikingly handsome, with a pert figure and a challenging strength of character in her fine-featured face. She glanced at Jack and asked, “Your business with the sage is done?”

  It was more of a command than a question. Jack smiled and bowed deeply, reaching for her hand, but Zandria didn’t offer it. He quickly recovered and straightened. “In fact, I had just concluded my business with Ontrodes. I am delighted to meet you, my lady Zandria. I am called Jack Ravenwild, and I possess no little expertise—”

  “A pleasure to have met you, Jack,” Zandria interrupted. “Perhaps we’ll see each other again soon. Please, do not allow me to delay you any longer.”

  The rogue spread his hands and forced a smile onto his face. He’d suffered through enough condescending dismissals to know one when he saw one. That didn’t trouble him at all; he would have loved to plumb the limits of Zandria’s courtesy by deliberately ignoring her not-so-subtle hints. Not only did he delight in baiting beautiful women, but Zandria was clearly a mage of some skill and confidence—a Red Wizard of Thay, no less!—and she had urgent business with the most inept sage of the city. Jack smelled clandestine deeds and secret doings, and the mystery grew moment by moment into a consuming obsession he was helpless to resist.

  Only one thing to do, then. Jack bowed deeply and swept his hat from his head in a courtly bow. “As it so happens, I have great toils and wondrous works to attend. Farewell.” He turned to the sage. “Ontrodes, I’ll be back tomorrow to see how your search progresses.”

  The old sage was still gaping at Zandria. Apparently he was so used to dealing with rogues and empty-headed swordsmen down on their luck that he’d never expected to have a competent, confident professional seeking his advice again.

  “My search?” he managed to ask.

  Jack sighed. “The S-thing, once owned by the man named G,” he hissed as he passed by.

  “Oh, right, of course, I’ll get right to it,” Ontrodes said absently. Without looking, he waved a hand at the rogue. “I’ll see you later then, Jack.”

  Mustering what dignity he could, Jack made his way outside and stood in the drizzle at the sage’s doorstep, looking up and down the street. He nodded at a passing pair of porters carrying heavy casks on their shoulders, and then dashed quickly around the back of the sage’s house. Splashing through ankle-deep mud, he circled the tower and found a shuttered window facing the alleyway. He scrambled about three feet up the tower’s side, just high enough to lay his ear against the damp wood of the shutter.

  “—the crypts,” Zandria was saying, speaking rapidly in her clipped, clear voice. “The Lady Mayor has taken an unusual interest in the relics of Sarbreen of late, and I have long suspected that the guilder’s tomb conceals an entrance into an extensive hidden vault. But I cannot actually find the place! All I have is this unfathomable riddle of an inscription.”

  “It’s quite odd,” Ontrodes agreed. “ ‘Mark carefully the summer staircase and climb it clockwise thrice.’ That makes no sense at all, does it?”

  “Not really. I’d hoped you would understand it.”

  “Understanding may yet come to me, my lady. Cedrizarun is well-known to me. I have often wished that I had lived six or seven centuries ago, so that I might have sampled some of his works, all handmade and lovingly aged by the old dwarf himself.” The sage cleared his throat; the floorboard creaked as he moved inside. “See here, this part of it: ‘At the center of all the thirty-seventh.’ That clearly refers to Cedrizarun’s incomparable Maidenfire Gold of ’37, claimed by some to be the very finest dwarven brandy ever distilled north of th
e sea.”

  “You mean this?” Zandria asked. “I thought that might be what it meant.”

  Jack could hear Ontrodes’s gasp even through the shutter. “Oh, my lady,” the sage said with awe in his voice, “I will gladly give you five hundred gold crowns for that bottle of brandy.”

  The mage laughed aloud. Her brusque, commanding manner vanished in her laughter; it seemed to bring out a carefree girl Jack never would have suspected. Then the glimpse was gone. “I fear not, sage. First of all, I paid far more than that for this bottle. Second, I will not uncork it or allow it to be uncorked until I am certain that I know the meaning of this riddle. I have a feeling that the Maidenfire Gold wouldn’t fare well in your care.”

  “On the contrary, my lady, it should fare very well indeed! Who else could appreciate it more than I? Who else could revel in its exquisite bouquet, delight in every depth of its perfect flavor, comprehend with each loving sip the work of a master craftsman at the apex of his art? Oh, it would be a disservice to the world—and to dead Cedrizarun himself—if I allowed any but the most discerning and educated of connoisseurs to sample that liquor!”

  Jack knew in that very instant that, regardless of the consequences to follow, he would have to get his hands on the brandy and drink it with complete and total disregard for its marvelous reputation. The notion struck him as so humorous that he snickered out loud, turning his face into his shoulder to stifle the sound—a moment too late.

  Zandria threw open the shutter with a gesture of her hand, dislodging Jack from his perch on the tower wall. He flailed for balance for one long, comical moment before falling flat on his back in the muddy alleyway behind Ontrodes’s home. Staring up at the gray sky and the gentle raindrops, Jack grimaced in disgust.

  “My new clothes are ruined,” he observed.

  “Count yourself lucky if that’s all I ruin,” Zandria snarled. Jack raised his head from the muck and looked back up at the window. The red-haired mage glared at him, the wand in her hand. “I don’t much care for eavesdroppers, thieves, swindlers, or whatever you are under all that false charm and pretentious manner.”

  Spread-eagled in the mud, Jack adopted the most earnest expression he could find. “I would only insult you if I made any attempt to deny that I was listening to your conversation, my lady. I did eavesdrop, and you have my most humble and sincere apologies.” He smiled in what he hoped was an apologetic manner, and then added, “I only listened in because I so desperately wanted to help you. I allowed my instinct to aid others in need to momentarily overthrow my common sense.”

  The mage blinked in astonishment. “You expect me to believe that?” she said.

  “I never lie,” Jack said. He slowly picked himself up off the ground, doing his best to brush the mud from his clothes. It was of little use. “Why don’t you show me the inscription you were speaking of? And that bottle of brandy? Maybe I can piece together your riddle for you. I have a real knack for that sort of thing.”

  “I believe I’ll solve it without your help!” Zandria rapped her wand sharply on the windowsill. “Now get out of here before I turn you into a toad or a newt or something worse!”

  Ontrodes peered over her shoulder at him. “I believe she means it, Jack,” he said. “Shame on you, listening at my window! My learning is my livelihood. When you make use of it without paying, why, you are stealing from me!”

  “I shall begin to investigate this matter on your behalf this very instant,” Jack assured Zandria. “How else can I demonstrate my good intentions? I’ll let you know the moment I make any progress.”

  “Get out of my sight this instant!” the mage shrieked.

  Jack gestured and mumbled the magical words. He faded into transparency as the spell of invisibility settled over him. “As you wish, my lady,” he called out. Then he squelched off through the mud, phantom footprints appearing one after another as he strode off boldly. He hummed merrily until he was out of sight. “Two riddles, two ladies, and two mysterious prizes! What next, I wonder?”

  Absolutely confident of immediate success, Jack spent the rest of the day visiting every bookseller he knew of, obliquely inquiring after the Sarkonagael. He was careful to come around to his point slowly and without excessive enthusiasm, but as it turned out, Jack’s precautions were wasted. He didn’t find a single glimmer of recognition among any of the six booksellers he spoke to. Grudgingly he conceded the possibility that the mysterious Elana might have already investigated the obvious possibilities. That was unfortunate, since it meant that Jack might have to work and work hard to unearth the book. He considered quitting outright, but then he found himself thinking about her raven-black hair and her perfect face. The prize just might justify real exertion.

  At sundown, Jack turned his steps toward the Cracked Tankard. It was too early for the familiar crowd, but he was hungry and thirsty, and he hoped against hope that he might encounter his lovely employer again. He took his accustomed spot and handed Briesa one of Elana’s five-crown pieces for a huge trencher of beef and boiled potatoes, plus a sturdy mug of the Tankard’s best ale.

  “Keep it,” he told the barmaid. “We’ll call it a line of credit.”

  “Don’t you owe us some money already, Jack?” Briesa said with an impish smile.

  “No more than a silver penny or two. That should more than address the balance of my debt, in addition to any small charges I incur over the next month or so,” he replied.

  Briesa took the five-crown piece and set off on her rounds. When she returned a little later, she informed him that the proprietor had told her in no uncertain terms that five crowns covered Jack’s tab from nights past and his meal tonight. No line of credit was forthcoming, however.

  Jack was just mulling over the possibility of changing taverns to some more trusting establishment when a huge figure in a dark cloak appeared at his table and hauled out the opposite chair without invitation. He looked up, a protest forming already, but he was silenced at once by a massive hand clamping down on his wrist. With a furtive look to the left and the right, the figure lifted the cowl of the cloak just enough for Jack to catch a glimpse of blue eyes and a somewhat singed blond beard.

  “Anders!” he said in surprise.

  “Shhhh!” hissed the big Northman. “I’ve been followed all day. Don’t give me away!”

  “Of course, of course,” Jack replied. “Tell me, how did you fare when the brothers Kuldath drove us from our rightful take?”

  “It was a harrowing escape, my friend,” Anders said. “The storeroom door held against the demon just long enough for me to climb back up to the rooftops. I fled at once, darting from housetop to housetop, but the demon pursued me! Did you notice that it had wings?”

  “Now that you mention it, yes, I do recall wings. The high road was perhaps not the best choice of escape routes, given a pursuer who could fly.”

  “I was forced to find refuge in the waters of the harbor, where I remained until sunrise, when the creature gave up and returned to its masters’ home. That was a long, cold night.”

  “I waited for you here,” Jack said. “For what it’s worth, the ale was decidedly inferior last night, and they let the fire burn down to a small, sad pile of embers that didn’t warm the room in the least. You were really better off in the harbor.”

  Anders let the remark pass without comment. His eyes had fixed on Jack’s sizable plate of steaming beef and potatoes. “When I climbed back to the wharves this morning, I was spotted by Kuldath agents. They reported me to the city watch, and I spent the whole day eluding their search. As it so happens, I never found an opportunity to replenish myself after shivering in the cold, foul waters of the inner harbor all night long. You wouldn’t mind if—?”

  “Please, be my guest,” Jack said generously.

  It was easy to agree, since Anders was already attacking his dinner with the ferocity of a ravenous bear. He winced as the barbarian devoured the entirety of Jack’s one-crown dinner, and washed it down with great gul
ps of Jack’s fine ale.

  “So,” Anders managed between gulps, “do you have my ruby on your person?”

  “Your ruby?” Jack managed. “Friend Anders, did I not tell you that I failed to carry off any of the rubies? My ill-timed collision with Aldeemo scattered the rubies all over the floor, and I was forced to flee ere I recovered any of them.”

  “Odd,” Anders said. “I am certain that I saw you pocket one ruby before you left the scene. Shall I help you check your pockets to make sure you haven’t forgotten anything?”

  “Oh, that ruby! Well, yes, of course I managed to get away with the ruby you saw me pick up.”

  “Excellent! You may deliver it to me at your convenience.”

  “Well, I had thought that I would wait a couple of weeks and then fence the thing, so that we could then split the loot. Sixty-forty, as we agreed.”

  “I look at it like this,” Anders said. “You promised that, if I happened to fight the demon, I should get three gems, and you should get two. To put it another way, I should get one more of the rubies than you. Since we have in our possession only one ruby, then it seems clear to me that I should keep it. Thus, I would have one more gem than you.”

  “What you propose is completely intolerable!” Jack protested. “I would see no reward at all for weeks of exhaustive planning, endless nights of scrying and spying, and of course the sheer physical peril of the adventure itself! I cannot be left empty-handed!”

  “You are correct, friend Jack,” Anders said thoughtfully. “We must sell the gem and split the proceeds. I will take sixty percent in lieu of my three gems, and you may have forty percent in place of your two.”