Jack fidgeted in his seat. The five Kuldath rubies together would have fetched thousands of crowns. Now he stood to gain less than a tenth of that!
“I shall sell the gem at once, then,” he said wearily, “and I will deliver your due share by the end of the tenday.”
“Perhaps I’d better attend to it,” said Anders. “I wouldn’t want you to be troubled with remembering exactly how much you sold the ruby for. It might damage our friendship if you accidentally reported that you’d sold the gem for, say, six hundred crowns when you’d really sold it for seven or eight hundred.”
“I would never—”
“I’m sure. Give me the gem, and I’ll make sure you don’t.” Anders held out his hand.
Jack thought things over for a moment, fuming over the fact that Anders didn’t trust him. The fact that he’d entertained the exact scheme suggested by the Northman was entirely beside the point. On the other hand, he could generally count on Anders to do exactly what he said he was going to do. The Northman was about as honest a cutthroat as you could find. In any event, Jack had several other prospects for success, and he never knew when he might need a big, strong swordsman close at hand.
“Very well, then,” he said with a sigh. He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out the small, hard bundle wrapped in black cloth. “In all seriousness, I think you would be well-advised to wait a few days before you try to sell it.”
Anders grinned. “I’m surprised, Jack. I thought I was going to have to beat you severely in order to make you see things my way.” He scooped up the silk-wrapped ruby with one big, callused fist, then stood and tugged his cowl in place over his face. “Don’t worry about the gem. I’ll ride up to Tantras first thing tomorrow to dispose of it.”
Tantras! What that really meant was that Anders was riding out of town with the entire sum of their take from the previous night, and it would take days before Jack knew if he was coming back or not. Trust of that sort was generally foreign to Jack. He managed to paste a feeble smile on his face and nodded.
“That sounds like a good idea,” he said weakly. “I’ll expect your return in four or five days then.”
“Might be a little longer, depending on the spring mud,” the Northman said over his shoulder as he left.
Jack watched him go, frustrated by the completely unacceptable way things had turned out. He was so preoccupied that he didn’t notice the two men sitting in the opposite corner rise to their feet and casually meander toward him until they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, towering over him.
“Would you be Jack Ravenwild?” said the first. He was a short, stout fellow with a round, sallow face and a small, pointed goatee. His voice purred like a well-fed cat.
“Don’t bother lying,” said the second. “We already know you are.” This one was tall and lean, with long hands and a longer face. His yellow eyes stared out of deep, dark sockets like small, feral creatures hiding under rocks.
The rogue shook himself out of his self-pity and looked up. “Why in the world would you ask me who I am then?”
“Perhaps you could tell us where your large friend is going,” the first man said.
“We know that he told you,” the tall man added.
“Who are you, and why do you care?” Jack asked.
“I am called Morgath,” the fat man said. “My companion is Saerk.”
“Who we are doesn’t matter,” Saerk said. “Who we work for does.”
“We are employed by an organization that provides a type of insurance to various mercantile companies of the city,” Morgath said. “Last night, one of our clients suffered a small loss. We are investigating his claim, so to speak.”
“They were robbed,” Saerk said. “By a large, blond-haired Northman and a small rat of a burglar who knew some magic.”
“That is all very interesting,” Jack said, “but I don’t see what it has to do with me.”
“We have reason to believe that you may have a more intimate knowledge of this case—” Morgath said.
“We know you were responsible,” Saerk interrupted.
“—and we expect you to see to the return the stolen property—”
“Or we’ll kill you if you don’t,” Saerk finished.
Jack looked from the one man to the other. “If I were the man you were looking for,” he said, “I would carefully consider your warning. However, I have no idea what you’re talking about, I don’t have any property of yours or your employer’s, and until just a few moments ago, I’d never seen that barbaric fellow in my life. If you’ll excuse me?” He stood and started to push past the two.
Morgath and Saerk caught him by the arms and pushed him back down into his seat. “We’re not unreasonable men,” Morgath began with a pained expression. “In fact, we feel that your talents do you credit. Not very many rogues could have pulled off the stunt you pulled off last night in House Kuldath. We’d rather work with you in a mutually profitable arrangement—”
“—instead of cutting you up like live bait and dumping you in the harbor for the sharks,” Saerk finished. “You’ve got three choices, Jack Ravenwild. Sign up, ship out, or sleep with the fishes.” With that, the two thieves sauntered away, smug smiles on their faces.
Jack watched them leave. He picked up the tankard Anders had emptied and swirled it, hoping to find some significant amount of ale left, but the Northman had drained it dry. Then, as the two reached the front door, he muttered a small spell and conjured up an unseen hand. As swift as an arrow Jack directed the invisible presence to the bar and seized a full pitcher of beer. Then he dumped the entire contents on the head of a big, burly longshoreman by the door, dropping the pitcher to the ground right at Morgath’s feet.
Roaring in rage, the longshoreman leaped to his feet. “Why, you—”
Morgath stood staring in amazement at the pitcher. When he looked up, it was just in time to observe the impact of the dockworker’s fist on the end of his nose. He howled and fell. Saerk drew a dagger, as did all three of the longshoreman’s companions, and in less time than it takes to tell, both thieves were involved in a vicious, violent bar brawl complete with knives, chairs, low blows, and cudgel-armed bouncers wading in to break it up.
Jack laughed aloud and slipped out the back door.
The next morning, Jack woke early, bathed himself in bracing cold water, shaved, and then dressed in his very finest clothes—dark blue hose, a shirt of impeccable Mulhorandi cotton, and a stuffed doublet of green and yellow brocade. He donned a short cape that matched the hose and selected a soft, burgundy cap with a long feather in it. Then he pulled on rakish boots of brushed leather and buckled on his rapier and poignard. Jack attired himself with great care every time he visited Lady Illyth Fleetwood.
The day was clear and bright, by far the best day of the spring so far, but Jack hired a coach despite the fine walking weather. He had the coachman drive him six miles beyond the city walls to Woodenhall Manor, the home of the Fleetwood family. The ride took the better part of an hour, which Jack used to admire the scenery outside the city. As far as he could remember, he’d left the city no more than ten times during his entire life, and he’d never been farther away than Woodenhall. He was a Ravenaar, born and bred.
The coach turned into the lane leading to the Fleetwood Manor, rumbling to a stop in front of an impressive veranda before a palatial estate. Liveried guardsmen stood watch over beautiful grounds and hedged gardens, attending a great wooden manor house that was big enough for dozens of family members and three or four times their number of retainers, guards, servants, and guests.
Jack told the coachman to wait for him, then strode up the steps to the nearest servant and said, “Please inform Lady Illyth that the Landsgrave Jaer Kell Wildhame humbly requests an audience this morning.”
The servant bowed. “At once, sir. Would you care to wait in the study?”
Jack made a show of acquiescing. “That will do quite well, thank you.”
He allowed the servant t
o show him to a comfortably appointed drawing room and busied himself with examining the decor while he waited patiently. He noted several small items he might pocket and sell later but restrained his larcenous impulses. The Lord Jaer Kell Wildhame was no petty thief!
“Jack! What a surprise!”
Almost dancing in delight, Lady Illyth Fleetwood swept into the room and embraced Jack. Despite the fact that she was well past her schooling and into the years when a noblewoman was expected to be safely married and already raising a child or two of her own, Illyth had never lost the look of girlish enthusiasm and wide-eyed eagerness one might expect of a lady ten years younger. Where other ladies primped for hours over the exact set of their hair and fretted for days over which dress best suited them, Illyth absently kept her long, black hair in a shoulder-length cascade of soft midnight and favored simple, comfortable dresses more suited to a merchant’s wife than a nobleman’s daughter. Her fingers were habitually marked with faint ink stains instead of painted nails. Illyth was an accomplished scholar and prided herself on her personal library, assembled book by book as her interests carried her from one topic to the next.
Other than Ontrodes, she was the next best thing to a true sage he could consult with, and she would gladly work for nothing at all—if Jack managed to pique her interest in the topic at hand.
“Hello, Illyth,” he said. He bowed deeply. “You are lovelier than ever! I find myself wondering how it is that I’ve allowed two months to pass since I saw you last.”
“Because you’re a fickle and flighty scoundrel,” Illyth said with a smile.
As far as she knew, Jack was the wandering son of a minor nobleman from the Vilhon Reach, seeking his fortune abroad since his older brother had inherited his father’s lands and exiled him into penury to keep him from marrying the woman he loved. Illyth thrived on stories just like that, and Jack had been carefully embroidering the tale of Jaer Kell Wildhame for Illyth’s benefit for the better part of a year now.
“Lovely, wise, and cruel, all at the same time,” Jack said. “How do your studies proceed, Illyth?”
“Well enough. I’ve spent a lot of time over the last couple of months studying the natural environs of Woodenhall—sketching the lay of the land, tracking just how many creatures of what sorts inhabit the manor, keeping records of the weather, things like that. It’s all quite fascinating—but I can see that it would just bore you. How about you, Jack? Is the theater open yet?”
“Oh, I need to find another sponsor or two, and a play worth producing,” Jack replied. He’d met Illyth a couple of years ago, when he was occasionally employed by various theaters in the city. Many of the noble patrons of the arts enjoyed inviting actors, playwrights, and artists of note into their social circle for a time. The rich and powerful engaged in a subtle competition to attract the most interesting personages into their retinue, in the same way that they might bid against each other to own the most striking paintings or to stock the most outrageous menageries. Ingratiating himself among the well-to-do of the city was one of Jack’s favorite pastimes.
“In fact,” he said, “I was hoping you could help me on the matter of the play.”
“Help you? But how?” Illyth asked.
“I know that last year you became interested in the topic of heroes, adventurers, and freebooters who’d made their homes in Raven’s Bluff,” Jack began. “I’ve got an idea for a smashing production based on the deeds of one of these adventurous sorts, but I’d like to verify the details of the story and make sure that I get it all right. Historical accuracy is very important to me.”
“I’m glad to hear it!” Illyth exclaimed. “I can’t tell you how much it annoys me when a playwright doesn’t even bother to do a bit of research. Who did you have in mind?”
“A mage named Gerard. As I understand it, he passed through the city and mysteriously vanished about six to ten years ago. Have you ever heard of him?”
She frowned prettily. “Hmmm … no, I don’t believe so, but I’ve got hundreds of names recorded in my papers. If not there, then I might dig up some information at the Wizard’s Guild, or at the Ministry of Art. What did Gerard supposedly do?”
Jack realized that he’d better tread carefully. He had to give Illyth a good reason for why he wanted to know about Gerard, one that would match his cover story. “I’m not really sure. My play is actually about a rival of his, and I wanted to cast Gerard as a villain. Supposedly, he owned a book called the Sarkonagael,” he said. “Can you look into it for me?”
Illyth thought about it for a moment, and then nodded her head. “I’d be happy to, Jack, on one condition.”
“Oh?”
“I need a partner in the new Game of Masks. It’s going to start in just three days, and they say that the prize is a real Dragon’s Tear! You’re clever, and you’ve worked as a player before. I think you could be very good at it, if you just gave it a try!”
“The Game of Masks?” Jack tried not to wince. The Game was a noble diversion, an ongoing series of playacting events wherein the participants took on various roles and tried to solve puzzles, stumble through a plot, or play at great deeds. He supposed it was fun … but it would take a lot of time, probably one evening in every three or four for the next couple of months. More than that, if he played seriously, and Illyth would demand no less than a serious effort on his part. It would also cost a lot of money to stay in the game, more money than he could put his hands on.
Unless Anders came through with his share of the Kuldath ruby.
Or he and Illyth actually won the Game prize. A Dragon’s Tear would compensate him quite nicely for his time and trouble. And how hard could it be, really? Most of their competition would consist of foppish noblemen and bored ladies groping their way through a stale plot of some kind. Jack, on the other hand, was a professional. He lied, cheated, stole, and played at being someone he was not as a way of life. He’d cut through their silly Game like a shark in a barrel of codfish.
He looked up at Illyth, a little breathless, a little too fond of her books, but a charming and pretty girl who thought he was romantic, tragic, and entertaining all at the same time. If playing at the Game made her happy, why not?
“All right,” Jack said. “When do we start?”
CHAPTER THREE
As it turned out, the Game was not scheduled to begin until the following night. Jack promised to pick up Illyth at sunset (yet another expensive carriage ride! he lamented), then returned to the city and dined at the Cracked Tankard. Following that, he called on Ontrodes to see if the sage had made any progress in the Sarkonagael riddle, but the old sot hadn’t even started to look into it yet—he was too busy working on Zandria’s dwarven runes. When Jack complained, Ontrodes pointed out that she paid him in real coin, while Jack simply promised a flask of brandy and would undoubtedly deliver the cheapest and most miserable brew he could pour into a nice-looking flask. So Jack returned to his rooms in Burnt Gables and went to bed.
The next morning brought a cool, steady wind off the Inner Sea and a gentle rain that promised to last all day. Jack foraged through his larder for something to eat, discovering a wheel of cheese and a small barrel half full of last fall’s apples, now sweet and wrinkled. While he ate, he considered his next move. He decided to press forward with his investigations on Elana’s behalf. This time, he would go straight to the source.
When he finished his breakfast, Jack turned his attention to his closets. His rooms comprised half of the loft of a warehouse stocking sail canvas, barrels of pitch, great reels of rope, and dozens of other items useful to the Ravenaar shipyards and provisioners. It was an odd arrangement; Jack paid nothing for the space, and in return he was obligated to guard the warehouse from others of his profession. Since no self-respecting thief would try to carry off loot such as planks or ballast stones, he didn’t have to work too hard to protect the place. Jack had furnished a fairly comfortable and well-appointed apartment in the building’s upper story, and if the place was
stiflingly hot in the summertime and intolerably drafty in winter, it was free.
The warehouse offered one other virtue Jack enjoyed—it provided ample storage for anything he stole and wanted to keep. He had almost a dozen closets stuffed full of various knickknacks and odds and ends he’d pilfered. Jack systematically searched through his closets for attire suitable for a visit to the Wizards’ Guild, and found a heavy rune-embroidered robe of dark blue brocade over fine cotton. He pulled the robe on over a pair of baggy red breeches and pointed Calimshite slippers, adding a simple red fez to complete the outfit.
“I need a dangerous-looking staff,” he muttered, critically examining his appearance in the mirror.
He settled for an iron rod about two feet in length, capped by a serpent’s head of copper. He formed a simple spell and placed an invisible rune on the serpent rod, so that it would seem to be magically enchanted if examined by anyone who could detect such things. Then, with one more adjustment to his fez, he trotted down the rickety stairs out into the streets.
“I am a formidable wizard,” he said aloud. “I have urgent business at the High House of the guild. Delay me at your peril!” No one was close enough to note his words. Adopting an expression of stern determination, he stomped off toward the Uptown district.
The High House of Magic was a large building of black stone, designed to resemble a castle in strength and majesty despite its surroundings. It was simply a well-made hall with false turrets and a decorative parapet, but the structure loomed over its neighboring buildings, a stodgy old gaffer knee-deep in disrespectful children. Without hesitation, Jack bounded up the short flight of steps leading to the front door, taking them two at a time. Then he hammered his iron rod against the door in the most imperious fashion he could imagine.
“Open up at once!” he cried. “The Dread Delgath demands admittance this very instant!”
The City of Ravens Page 4