“Everyone knows the work of the old stonecutters, but the master masons were only a part of Sarbreen’s Ruling Ring. Other masters whose works do not survive today were held in high honor, too—swordsmiths whose blades are scattered from here to Waterdeep, merchants whose wealth now lies in dragon hoards or lost at the bottom of the sea, and others. They were sometimes known as Guilders, since they led guilds of craftsmen.
“Cedrizarun was the master distiller, the maker of dwarven spirits whose fire would consume any lesser mortal who dared imbibe them.” Tharzon offered a sere smile. “My folk delight in work well done, but we also delight in strong drink, and it’s said that none crafted a better spirit than Cedrizarun. He was an old and honored dwarf when Sarbreen was first built, and he wielded great influence as a Guilder.
“He died before the fall of the city and was entombed in the old manner, with his riches about him. Few of the other Guilders or the master masons received such honors. Sarbreen was sacked a short time later, and most of Cedrizarun’s peers died in battle, their hoards carried off by the cursed orcs and vile drow who worked Sarbreen’s doom. But Cedrizarun’s tomb has not yet been found.” Tharzon fixed his eyes on Jack. “What do you know of this mage?”
“She’s found Cedrizarun’s crypt. In fact, she’s recorded some kind of inscription or riddle in or around the tomb.” Jack thought for a moment, and then reached into a waterproof pouch at his hip and pulled out the parchment copy of the rubbing. “She’s been trying to figure out what this means,” he said, handing it to Tharzon. “I suspect that she knows that something of great value is hidden nearby. She is desperate to solve the riddle.”
“And you think that I can solve it for you?” the dwarf asked. “Instead of asking me to solve the riddle so that she can loot the Guilder’s Vault, I would prefer that you ask the mage where Cedrizarun’s tomb lies. We can solve the riddle and respectfully remove the Guilder’s wealth ourselves. My people laid it to rest; it is only fitting that I, as their heir and descendant, should bring it back into the sunlight again.”
“I doubt that the mage of whom I speak would find such a plan agreeable,” Jack said.
“Then she should not be advised of its details.”
“Indeed. We can safely assume that my acquaintance will not willingly divulge the location of the crypt to me. That implies that I can only come by the knowledge we require by some means she would resist. I must trick it out of her, steal it from her, coerce her into telling me, or simply watch her closely and see if she leads me to the spot I seek.”
“Throw a sack over her head and tie her up,” the dwarf suggested. “You can hold her feet over hot coals until she’s more cooperative.”
“Subtlety is not your strong suit,” Jack remarked. “Your plan is simple and direct, but I’d rather obtain the knowledge without giving her reason to suspect that I’ve learned her secret. Then she would have no cause to be angry with me, since she won’t know what I’ve done.”
“With my plan, you could just slit her throat and drop her in the harbor when you finished,” Tharzon said. “She might be angry with you, but she couldn’t do anything about it.”
“I am not a murderer, friend Tharzon. There’s no art in it.”
“So you say. Well, don’t rule it out as an alternative if more subtle tactics fail, eh? Pragmatism can be very practical.” The dwarf stood and shook off his heavy cloak, looking at the rubbing from Cedrizarun’s tomb. “Can I keep this?”
“If you like. I have other copies now.”
“Fifty-fifty, if I break the riddle and you find the tomb’s location?”
“I find that eminently agreeable,” Jack said.
What he left unsaid was the obvious: If he cracked the riddle and found the tomb himself, Tharzon didn’t need to be included as a partner. If the dwarf had any brains in his head—and Tharzon did—he must have noted that Jack didn’t mention the identity of the mage who’d found Cedrizarun’s tomb. Jack therefore guaranteed that Tharzon wouldn’t have an opportunity to cut out Jack in just the same manner. One couldn’t make a living at thievery, skullduggery, smuggling, and swindling without a certain willingness to discard obsolete arrangements at need or at least plan for the possibility that would-be partners might do so at their need.
“Good,” Tharzon grunted. “Now to the other business of the day. This wall here stands between you and the wizard’s cellars.” He rapped on one decrepit masonry wall, off to one side of the sewer chamber. “My guess is a foot of hard stone, four or five feet of fill, and then another foot of stone in the cellar. This is old dwarf-work, built to last.”
“We’re here already?” Jack studied the obstacle. It would take a solid day of digging, and the noise would be considerable—especially breaking through the cellar walls on the other side. And who knew what sorts of magical traps or horrifying monsters might be locked up in a wizard’s cellar?
“I have to admit that I’m surprised. Digging in the sewers isn’t your normal method, so to speak.”
“Iphegor’s tower unfortunately offers no windows, and the rooftop is steeply pitched and sheathed in copper. Making use of the front door—the only entrance visible from the street—seemed to be somewhat rash.” Jack offered the dwarf a predatory smile. “However, I should think that, were I a powerful and suspicious necromancer, I might want more than one exit from my tower. Let us search the area and see if we can’t spot a secret door in this vicinity.”
“I’ve already earned my forty crowns by leading you to this spot,” Tharzon said. “If you want my assistance in breaking in, you’ll have to cut me in on the take.”
Jack rolled his eyes, but he reached into the folds of his cloak and retrieved a small purse. “Your fee, good Tharzon. I will point out that I’m offering to cut you in on the Guilder’s Vault, which is a far more valuable prize than the musty old book I seek today. And I’ll also point out that if you simply help me find Iphegor’s bolt-hole but choose not to dare the perils of the tower’s interior, you aren’t really helping me break in—you’re still guiding me to Iphegor’s tower, which is what you agreed to do for these forty crowns.”
The dwarf scowled. “A fine distinction, if one exists at all.” But he started to examine the masonry wall closely, rapping his thick knuckles against the bricks and running his massive hands over every stone in reach. Jack joined him, working slowly along the passageway for a fair distance both up and down the tunnel. After a moment, Tharzon harrumphed. “A hollow space here, Jack, but I think that your wizard has used some magic to conceal the door, since I cannot find it.”
Jack hurried over and worked the spell that rendered magical emanations and auras visible to him. As he expected, a five-foot-tall section of wall about two feet in width glowed with the unmistakable stigma of an enchantment. “Good work, Tharzon.”
“Is it covered by some kind of illusion?”
“I’ll see,” said Jack. He frowned and worked the spell that undid other magics, muttering the words and making the gestures he’d learned to shape the spell. He concentrated on the door’s ensorcelment and sharpened his will into a white-hot blade, seeking to sunder Iphegor’s concealing spell, but Jack’s spell of negation failed, unable to pierce Iphegor’s handiwork. “That is not fortuitous,” he murmured.
“You can’t undo the spell?”
“No, Iphegor appears to be too strong for me, but I have other ways of opening recalcitrant doors, including some that don’t try my strength directly against the wizard’s.”
Jack licked his lips and tried again. This time he simply worked a spell of opening that was designed to bypass Iphegor’s defenses, not overwhelm them. Green chaos swirled and danced around his hand, soft wizardlight twisting into strange shapes and formless energy.
The wall shimmered and warped as the secret door swung open, spoiling the illusion. A dark passageway led inwards from the sewer. Jack grinned.
“Not so hard after all,” he said. “I shall return in a few minutes, friend Tharzon.
Tharzon?” He turned to look for the dwarf.
Tharzon hurried down the sewer away from Jack. “This is where we part ways for now,” he called over his shoulder. “If things go poorly inside, it would be advisable for me to be well away from here. I don’t need to wait on the appearance of an angry archmage looking for accomplices!”
“Your confidence in my abilities bolsters my courage and steadies my hand,” Jack grumbled. “What if I need your help?”
“I’m sure you’ll do just fine,” Tharzon said. “Farewell!”
Jack sighed and turned back the doorway. He worked spells of dark-seeing and invisibility, then another that would miscue any divinations cast upon him … say, by an angry wizard trying to locate an intruder and call down some horrible doom upon him.
With one hand on his sword hilt, he ducked his head and stepped into the darkness.
The secret passage wound halfway around the cellar, with two right-hand turns before it ended at a strong-looking door covered in dire runes. Working carefully, Jack studied them and disarmed the spells of locking and warning and killing, erasing crucial runes from each without setting off the spells in question. Negating them magically was out of the question; Iphegor was simply more powerful than he was, but even magical traps could be defeated with careful work. It took Jack almost half an hour to get through the secret passageway, but he finally opened the inner door.
He found himself in a small storeroom of alchemical supplies. Shelves full of perfect glassware custom-blown for particular sizes, shapes, or qualities lined the walls. Jack ignored the glass (although it would certainly be quite valuable to the right buyer) and moved to the opposite door, cracking it open and peering outside.
He looked into a long, low vault lined with doors much like the one he was peeking out of. Wizard-lights burned in greenish globes suspended from sconces on the walls. Weirdly enough, a thick haze or fog hung in the air. It surged and welled to the impulse of air movements too subtle for Jack to sense. At one end of the vault a stone staircase with wide steps and ornate carvings led up into the tower proper. Still invisible, Jack slipped out into the main chamber and ventured glances into each of the rooms that opened out into the vault. Most were workrooms or storerooms, jammed with interesting oddities and arcane reagents. I’ll check each in detail if I don’t find a library upstairs, he told himself.
The last door on the right-hand side was ajar. A voice within mumbled and whispered, sibilant echoes rasping over the cold stone floor.
Jack glided silently to the doorway and gently pushed the door open another handspan, peering inside. A tall man in black robes chased with gold trim stood with his back to the door, intoning a spell from a great, musty spellbook. He held a small vial filled with dark liquid high in one hand, while tracing the words to speak with the index finger of the other. The trappings and accouterments of wizardry surrounded Iphegor, beakers and alembics and retorts bubbling and frothing, strange golden hoops drifting through the air. Malformed things slithered and hopped across the floor, incomplete familiars animated through some vile sorcery to serve at their master’s beck and call.
Jack peered at the musty tome from which the wizard incanted. Could that be it? Or was it simply one of Iphegor’s own workbooks or references? He decided that he’d leave the wizard to his work for now and search the rest of the tower while Iphegor was occupied. He’d find a way to search the workroom later if he had no luck elsewhere.
Moving softly through the mist, he crept up the stairs. The steps had the look of dwarf-work, just a couple of inches too shallow for Jack’s comfort and elaborately carved with images of warriors and dragons. The staircase debouched onto a wide, airy hall marked at one end by a strong double door and a gleam of sunlight beside the jamb. “The main entrance,” Jack observed.
He quartered the ground floor and found a small kitchen staffed by two strange, pale serving women toiling monotonously with Iphegor’s pots and pans in utter silence. A small roast was sizzling over the fire, red and cool, just spitted. Good, Jack thought. That won’t be done for two or three hours, so Iphegor isn’t planning on dinner anytime soon. The rest of the floor held a dining hall, a sitting room with sparce furnishings, and a large pantry whose contents seemed unremarkable. Jack continued up the stairs to the next floor.
Here he found what seemed to pass for Iphegor’s personal chambers. A large trophy room filled with all manner of dead things and a curio room dominated by a ticking orrery of bronze and iron made up one side of the second floor; the wizard’s private rooms made up the other side. Jack searched both leisurely, pocketing a few items that caught his interest—a silver urn filled with incense, a funereal mask of gold inlaid with lapis lazuli, and a small statuette of a whitish metal carved disturbingly in the shape of a monstrous being with tentacles and wings. The wizard’s personal chambers seemed comfortable enough if tastelessly furnished with gilt couches and decadent arrases.
The stairs climbed one final time to a conjuring chamber or astrolabe ringed by a series of deep alcoves. Each antechamber contained several bookshelves, and these were filled to overflowing by a vast collection of books, tomes, scrolls, and tablets, gathered together in an untidy clutter.
“Ah-ha,” said Jack. “This is more like it. Now, where did he put it?”
“Here now,” squeaked a high, rasping voice. “Who are you?”
Jack paused in midstep, looking around in near panic. No one else seemed to be present. “Never mind,” he said, and advanced farther into the room.
“Does Iphegor know you’re here?” Again the piping high voice.
“Of course,” Jack replied, now seriously alarmed. He carefully scrutinized every corner of the room, searching for the other presence. “I am a mere disembodied voice conjured by his hand. I have no objective existence beyond his passing whim.”
“Ha!” said the voice. “I think you are a thief hiding behind a spell of invisibility. Oh, won’t you be sorry when Iphegor learns you are here!”
Jack swung his head from left to right, following the voice with his ear. It seemed to be coming from the high corner of a bookshelf … there! A small dark mouse perched between two heavy tomes, was studying him with beady eyes!
“You would be the wizard’s familiar, then?” Jack said.
“I am,” announced the mouse. “As such, I am very well acquainted with Iphegor’s arcane repertoire, and I can assure you that disembodied voices are not to be found among the dozens of spells, enchantments, curses, and blights at his command, so therefore you are a thief!”
“It is, of course, widely known that a wizard’s familiar can communicate mentally with its master,” said Jack. “I cannot understand why you have deigned to address me instead of summoning Iphegor upon the instant to strike me dead with his terrible powers.”
“Oh, I will in just a moment,” the mouse said, “but first, I think I would like to see you plead for your life. If I am satisfied with your abject surrender, I may allow you to swear allegiance to me and then permit you to escape unharmed, so that you may serve me another day.”
“I fail to see how that furthers your master’s purposes.” Jack silently glided forward, marking the exact position of the mouse.
“Iphegor represents a temporary arrangement at best,” the mouse said, thrusting its whiskered chin into the air. “I have far greater designs than perpetual servitude to such as he. And so I am carefully building a network of daring, skillful, and suicidally loyal agents to aid me as I prepare my ultimate seizure of power. You may perform your obeisance now.”
“Before I begin to grovel,” Jack said, “I would like to ask a question. Could it be possible that Iphegor is at this moment so engaged in the spell he is crafting that your mental summons to him goes unanswered? In which case you would desperately gamble on the most arrogant bluff you can imagine in order to delay me until you can gain his attention?”
“That is two questions,” the mouse declared, “and no, it is not remotely possible. Rule out a
ny hope of escape, my lackey, and grovel before me in abject terror.”
Jack reached into the bookshelf with the speed of a striking serpent and seized the mouse in his invisible hand. The mouse squeaked once in fright as Jack’s spell faded, ruined by his sudden motion. The rogue held the whiskered rodent before his face and offered a wicked smile.
“I am not a particularly strong man,” he said cheerfully, “but I am quite certain that I could crush every bone in your body by tightening my grasp. Do you agree?”
The mouse gulped. “I wish you wouldn’t.”
“If I recall correctly, a wizard’s familiar not only shares a mental bond with its summoner, but it also shares a link of life energy or vitality. No familiar survives its master’s death, I have heard, and a powerful wizard might be rendered virtually helpless by the sudden demise of his familiar, true?”
“Actually, no,” the mouse squeaked. “It doesn’t work like that at all.”
“Oh. Well, then, I guess I have no further use for you. Good-bye, mouse.” Jack began to tighten his grip.
“Wait!” the mouse cried. “Please! You were right! I was lying! Please don’t kill me!”
Jack grinned. “Very well, I shall not, unless I am startled by the appearance of Iphegor himself, in which case I will kill you in an instant. I advise you to think twice before attempting to summon the wizard here through your mental link.” He leered at the tiny creature until it scrunched its eyes closed in fright, and then laughed. “Now, I have business to attend. Perchance do you know where Iphegor keeps the Sarkonagael?”
“Please don’t make me tell you that,” the mouse whispered, a very small sound indeed.
“The longer we delay, the more likely it is that Iphegor and I meet, and I might be forced to squeeze you until your little bones snap and your little orifices trickle bright red blood and your little eyes pop out of your little head.”
The City of Ravens Page 9