The City of Ravens

by Baker, Richard

  “Gentlemen, continue,” the Red Lord said.

  This time, both combatants circled cautiously. Thrust and parry, thrust and parry, the blades clanged against each other with shrill rings. Jack held his own for a time, although he recognized that Panther was a better swordsman than he—and then Lord Panther launched a feint that caught Jack squarely on his weakened left leg, and as Jack’s knee buckled, Panther reversed his attack and whipped the blade of his sword fast and hard against the back of the rogue’s head.

  White lights exploded in Jack’s eyes. He tumbled to the marble floor like a puppet with its strings cut. His right ear was filled with a roaring sound that wouldn’t go away, and the sword went skittering from his hand across the stone. He lay on his back, staring at the bright lights popping in front of his eyes for what seemed to be just a moment. Then he drifted down into deep, soft, darkness.

  The next thing Jack knew, he found himself staring up at a lovely, pastoral scene of green fields and dancing nymphs, his skull aching as if it had been split in two. He was in a small, dark-paneled room, resting on a large, soft divan. The ceiling was painted elaborately and finished with a lovely gold filigree, framing the picture above him. There was no sign of the Red Lord or Lord Panther or any of the other guests.

  “I seem to have misplaced the party,” he announced to no one in particular.

  “The Game’s over for tonight,” said Illyth from somewhere behind him. She sat down beside him and leaned over to study his eyes. “You’ve been unconscious for almost an hour. Do you think you can walk?”

  “Aid me, dear Illyth, and I’ll find out,” Jack said. He accepted her arm and gingerly sat upright. His legs were rubbery but serviceable. Very carefully, he reached up to feel his head, and discovered a long knot the size of a hen’s egg just above and behind his right ear. “Ooooh,” he moaned.

  “A hard blow. I’m surprised you woke up at all.” Disapproval tightened Illyth’s voice, and there was no gentleness in the viselike grip she maintained on his upper arm. “You could have gotten yourself killed, Jack. You’re no swordsman!”

  “It may seem that my talents lie elsewhere,” Jack admitted. “My style is unorthodox, though, and it would be difficult for the untrained observer accurately to measure my skill. Lord Panther simply struck me a lucky blow.”

  “But you refused to back down, even when you could see that your opponent was better than you.”

  Jack’s wits must have been addled from the knock on his head. Without thinking about it, he told the truth. “I couldn’t disappoint you,” he said. “I know you’ve had your heart set on the Game.”

  “Perhaps you should have considered that before you tried picking pockets,” Illyth scolded him. “Honestly, Jack, I’m dumbfounded. You should know better than that!” She walked him toward the door, steadying him with one arm. Jack valiantly ignored the nausea and dizziness and allowed her to lead him through the abandoned banquet hall to the foyer and the driveway outside. Jack’s coach was long gone, but it seemed that the master of the house had hired a couple of carriages for the convenience of his guests, and Illyth had a footman hail one. “I can’t believe you resorted to stealing clues!” she hissed as they waited for the coach.

  “It wasn’t quite like that,” Jack said. They clambered into the carriage and settled themselves. Then the coach clattered off into the night. They rode together in silence for a few minutes. Each jolt of the wheels sent fiery spikes through Jack’s skull; he groaned softly with each rut or misplaced cobblestone. Between bumps he looked over at Illyth, but the noblewoman was glowering out the window at the city streets. Jack winced—he couldn’t allow her to become so upset that she’d drop him altogether. If nothing else, he needed her for the Game. He decided to engage her scholarly leanings and change the subject at the same time. “I found something about Gerard today,” he offered.

  He guessed right; she couldn’t resist an opening like that. “Really?” she asked, looking over at him.

  “I visited the library of the Wizard’s Guild and studied old membership rolls,” he said. “You would have been proud of me, my dear, hours with my nose in a musty old book, trying to ferret out a clue!”

  “Perhaps you might be salvageable after all,” she said. “Go on.”

  “I discovered that the Guild assigned one Durezil to catalog and close up Gerard’s rooms when Gerard did not return from his last adventure.”

  “Durezil? The fellow who was eaten by trolls?”

  Jack nodded in appreciation. “Why, yes, in fact, the very wizard. I’m surprised that you would remember such a thing.”

  “Oh, the great majority of the adventurers I studied died in very mysterious circumstances. Durezil stands out because his companions not only returned to Raven’s Bluff, but they actually recorded the circumstances of his end.”

  “What of the Sarkonagael or any mysterious books in Durezil’s possession?”

  Illyth frowned, thinking. “I seem to recall that Durezil’s companions sold off most of his belongings and split the proceeds,” she said. “I’d have to consult my notes to be certain, but I seem to recall that a wizard calling himself Iphegor the Black might have bought many of Durezil’s old books.”

  Jack grinned. “I know where Iphegor the Black lives,” he said. “My thanks, Illyth! I am in your debt.”

  “I thought you wanted to know about Gerard for some kind of play production, Jack. Is it this book that you’re really interested in?”

  “Oh, from what I’ve heard of Gerard, it was important to him,” Jack said quickly, “and I’m thinking of increasing the role of Gerard in my play. Or maybe I’ll cast the book as the villain and say that it uses its owners to do terrible things. Now what do we know about the Game riddle? Let us pass the rest of the ride by assembling our clues and analyzing them.”

  The coach rumbled on through the city streets.

  The next day passed by Jack in a skull-splitting haze. He tried several times to climb out of his bed but failed on each attempt and finally resolved simply to spend the entire day in bed. He also found himself wishing Lord Panther significant and hopefully long-lasting dysfunctions from the one solid blow Jack had managed during their duel. By early evening he rallied enough to drag himself out for a hot skewer of grilled beef and onions at Nimber’s Skewer Shop, little more than a windowed kitchen on a busy corner of the Skymbles. Eating something served to steady him greatly, and Jack thought about his next moves as he sat under a wooden overhang near the skewer-shop and watched people plod through the mud and the rain. Elana, Zandria, Illyth … he certainly did not lack things to do!

  Jack spent the rest of the evening and most of the day after making inquiries in various quarters regarding Iphegor the Black. He also wandered past the mage’s tower and studied it carefully, thinking about what he would have to do to break in. He considered briefly the notion of knocking on the door and simply asking Iphegor how much he wanted for the book—there might be a tidy profit to be made by acting as a broker in this instance. But three factors dissuaded him from that course of action: first, Elana seemed to be cautious with her purse and probably couldn’t afford to buy the book outright; second, Iphegor’s ill temper was legendary; and finally, Jack didn’t want to put the wizard on his guard by asking openly about the book. If the wizard refused to sell it, of course he would take steps to make sure that the prospective buyer wouldn’t resort to thievery.

  By the end of the day, Jack had a good idea of what he would have to do to get his hands on the Sarkonagael. He deliberately ignored his trepidation about the enterprise, assuming an attitude of supreme confidence. If he believed it possible, then it was surely possible, and nothing could prevent the success of any enterprise he cared to undertake. He headed toward the Cracked Tankard to celebrate his resolve and contemplate his coming reward.

  Briesa was not there (he recalled that the fifth day of the week was her night off), so Jack simply stood at the bar and ordered a hunk of roast beef and a plate of bo
iled potatoes to go with his dark ale. He was just about to dig in when a cloaked and hooded figure moved up beside him and clamped a strong hand on his arm.

  “Hello, Jack. Why don’t we find a quiet table where we can talk?”

  “Elana!” Jack exclaimed around a mouthful of potatoes. “What a pleasant surprise!”

  He seized his plate and his mug and hurried after the swordswoman, who was already threading her way toward a quiet alcove in the back of the room. It wasn’t Jack’s usual spot, but it was perhaps even harder to spy on if not quite as close to the room’s exits.

  As he sat down, Elana drew the privacy curtain shut and lowered the cowl of her hood. Her strong beauty was undiminished—the dark eyes and raven hair, the soft lips, the lean grace. Jack decided that he’d have that book even if he had to fight his way through a horde of guardian demons to get his hands on it. Elana simply watched him for a moment and then smiled sardonically, as if she could guess at what he was thinking and was simply amused by it.

  “Well, Jack Ravenwild, have you found me my book yet?”

  “Possibly,” he said. “I have a very good lead, dear Elana, although I confess I am exceedingly curious to discover why you want it.”

  “It’s good to want things that you can’t have,” she replied. “It keeps your ambition sharp. I see no need to take you into my confidence, Jack, not any deeper than you already are.”

  “Be that as it may, I still don’t know exactly what the Sarkonagael is—”

  “But you know where it is?” she asked, interrupting him.

  “I’ll know for certain tomorrow,” Jack said. “If all goes well, I’ll have the book in hand by tomorrow evening.”

  “What do you mean, if all goes well?”

  “The book is the property of a person who is likely to object to its removal from his collection.”

  “Who? Who has it?” Elana leaned forward, her eyes burning with intense interest.

  “Why, I can’t tell you that,” Jack said with a laugh. “I told you on the occasion of our first meeting—I work for half in advance, half upon completion of the work. As of this very moment, you have paid me one hundred gold crowns out of a promised five hundred, plus a very generous bonus arrangement should I recover the book for you. But if I let you know exactly where the book is, why, you might forget the balance of our contract—and the attendant bonus—in your enthusiasm to claim your property, and then where would I be?”

  “I don’t go back on my word once I give it,” Elana said in a hard voice.

  “I never said that you would, dear Elana. I merely observe that some of my employers have had difficulty in recalling the exact terms of a bargain once I delivered what they wanted.”

  Elana studied him for a long moment. “You don’t want me to beat you to the book. Very well, I can appreciate that, but I’m going to insist that you tell me something of its whereabouts, so that if something happens to you I won’t have spent my money in vain.”

  “Understandable,” Jack conceded. “In that case, I would ask for an additional one hundred and fifty crowns up front to make up the balance of my advance.”

  The swordswoman’s eyes flashed in anger. “Are you attempting to change the terms of our agreement?”

  “I never agreed to disclose all information as I discovered it,” Jack replied. “You are requesting me to do so now, so I am merely attempting to set a fair value on it. After all, the last thing you said to me on the subject was that you’d pay me the balance when I bring you the book or when I present evidence that convinces you that it cannot be found in Raven’s Bluff. I can’t show you any evidence of that sort, so I’d better produce the book.”

  “You agreed, at least tacitly, to a reduced advance in exchange for the bonus on delivery,” Elana pointed out.

  “True,” Jack agreed. He offered a fierce grin. “A partial or complete payment of the bonus would certainly count toward my advance, but I didn’t want to bring it up unless you did.”

  “I see,” Elana said. Her anger faded, replaced by some emotion that Jack had a harder time identifying—calculation, perhaps? Suddenly, she rose in her seat and leaned across the table, reaching behind his head with one hand and kissing him hard. His whole body jolted as if he’d been shocked.

  Jack recoiled in surprise, but Elana refused to release him, and after a moment he returned her kiss with a building fervor. She teased his tongue with hers, her breath soft and hot on his face. He cupped her face with one hand and boldly extended the other to caress one perfect breast protected by the leather and steel that she wore, and then she pulled away, returning to her seat while Jack strained forward to maintain the moment’s contact.

  Elana smirked at him and then reached into a deep pocket, pulling out a small purse that jingled when it landed on the table. “The balance of your advance, and a hint of your bonus if you succeed,” she said sweetly. “Now, what’s your lead?”

  “Iphegor the Black,” Jack said blankly. He slumped back into his seat, looking up at the ceiling to regain his composure. “A wizard named Iphegor the Black. I believe that he acquired the book from another wizard named Durezil, who may have acquired it from Gerard’s belongings when they were sold off after his disappearance.”

  “Is it reliable?” she asked.

  “It’s guesswork, but it makes sense,” he admitted. “I rarely have the advantage of incontrovertible evidence and confirmed sightings. My gift lies in my intuition for weaving suggestions and suppositions into facts.”

  “In other words, you’re a good guesser,” Elana said. She shook her head and started to stand. “Well, I will allow you to play your hunch, Jack. That’s what I hired you for, after all. If you’re right, bring the book to me three nights from now.”

  “Here?”

  Elana snorted. “Do you have any idea of how many people watch this place? No, I’ll leave word for you. Make sure you wrap up the book or cover it somehow.”

  “My lady,” Jack said in a pained voice, “I am not unfamiliar with exchanges such as these.”

  “I suppose so,” Elana said. “Good luck tomorrow. I’ll be keeping an eye on your progress.” With that, she slipped out of the privacy curtain and disappeared into the crowded tavern floor.

  Absently, Jack counted the coins in the purse and picked at his dinner. To tell the truth, he would have told her anything for the kiss alone.

  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, weaponsmiths, 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.