The City of Ravens

by Baker, Richard

  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 Faerûn is a shade?”

  “Not from Faerûn 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?”