Prince of Ravens: A Forgotten Realms Novel

by Richard Baker

  “It will take Tarandor some time to negotiate access to the mythal stone from the dark elves,” the rogue mused. Hours, at the very least, and more likely a day or two. With nothing else to occupy his time, Jack made himself comfortable and began to read.

  When beginning the study of an arcane tome, it was always wisest to begin at the very first page and take careful note of the frontispiece, foreword, table of contents, introduction, and so forth, and proceed very systematically from one chapter to the next in order. Jack, of course, immediately discarded any such plan. If he had a tenday to examine the book at his leisure he might have done exactly that, but his liberty or life might now be measured in hours; this was no time for caution. He quickly flipped through the book’s front matter, found a table of contents, and puzzled over such obscure topics as “Of Nethermancy and Umbral Magicks,” “Adumbrations and Dismissals,” and “The Seven Darks of Murghmö,” which struck Jack as vaguely ludicrous. But “Abjurations, Enchantments, and Conjurations” seemed more promising, so he flipped to the indicated chapter and found dozens of spells of varying complexity. Jack pored over the material and soon isolated a promising subject: a spell named “The Most Excellent Incantation of Shadow-Walking,” which at least implied going somewhere else.

  Jack drew a breath, and began to examine the spell at greater length. This was in fact the sort of work a wizard excelled at; sorcerers were more spontaneous in their magic, and rarely studied spells in any sort of written form. Still, knowing that a spell existed was an important first step in perfecting it for his personal use, so he set himself to the task of unraveling each of the instructions, building up a mental construct that linked each word, gesture, or syllogism to the desired effect. Time passed, and he began to feel thirst, but he pressed on. After what seemed to be hours, he felt that he was as ready as he would ever be to attempt the spell. With a sigh of relief he straightened up and closed the Sarkonagael.

  “Now, where could I expect to find a suitable shadow?” he asked himself. Well, his closet at Maldridge ought to be in darkness. He gathered up his things, and then fixing the image of the closet interior in his mind, he commenced to recite the spell. The darkness around him seemed to take on a brooding, watchful atmosphere; the strands of shadow magic did not show themselves to his mystic senses as he expected, but instead seemed to press in close around him, unbidden and hungry. Jack shuddered at the icy touch of the darkness but pressed on, speaking evenly through the rest of the spell. With the last words, the darkness seemed to rush in upon him, and his stomach rose almost as if he’d fallen into some great dark pit … but he felt himself lurching into existence again almost instantly. He was in a vast, dimly lit space the size of a cathedral, with a great blinding bar of yellow light on his right side. He raised his hand to shelter his eyes, wondering where he’d managed to transport himself until, suddenly, the distant walls and ceiling began to rush in on him from all sides.

  Jack yelped in surprise and scrambled back, only to find that wall closing in on him, too, even as the floor suddenly shot away. He flailed for balance, and felt his hands catching on tunics and coats and cloaks that filled the shrinking room, until at last he toppled over completely and crashed through the door. He found himself lying on the bedroom floor of his room in Maldridge amid a heap of his own fine new clothes.

  “Of course,” Jack mumbled to the ceiling. He’d been magically shrunk when he was trapped in the bottle; when he shadow-jumped into his closet, he resumed his normal height all at once. “I should have expected it, really.” He slowly picked himself up, still feeling a little shaky on his feet.

  The bedroom door flew open, and more light spilled into the room. Edelmon stood at the threshold in his nightclothes, a lamp in his end. “Who’s there?” the old servant demanded. “Show yourself!”

  “There is no need to fear, Edelmon. It is only I,” Jack said wearily.

  “Master Jack, I beg your pardon, sir. I thought you were out for the evening, and did not hear your return.” Edelmon glanced at the open closet door and the piles of clothing around Jack, but said nothing more.

  “What is the hour?” Jack asked.

  “A little after three bells in the morning, I think, sir.”

  “Very well. As long as you are up, please be so kind as to find a bottle of something strong and a glass. I am very much in need of a drink to steady my nerves.”

  “Of course, sir. Right away.” Edelmon lit the lamp by the door, then hurried off to fetch whatever cordial or brandy he had handy.

  Jack dropped his satchel to the floor, and sat down in a chair by the closet to pull off his boots. Fine white sand poured out of each one as he pulled them off. “How long before Tarandor notices my absence?” he wondered. There was a chance that the wizard didn’t intend to remove him from the carrying case until he stood before the mythal stone and was prepared to magic Jack back into his encystment, which might be days yet. Or he might check on Jack in the morning to gloat a little longer. Now that he thought about it, the rogue almost wished he could be there to see the expression on the abjurer’s face when he discovered that his carefully prepared entrapment had failed to hold Jack for even a single day … but that of course was hard to reconcile with the desire to avoid recapture.

  “I must give some careful thought to exactly how I will inform Tarandor of my freedom; compensation is due,” Jack reflected aloud. But that could wait a few hours; he was suddenly exhausted, no doubt from the exertion of decreasing and increasing his size a hundredfold in the course of a single day, and he could hear Edelmon returning. A strong nightcap, and then to bed, he decided. Wizards, shadowy tomes, suspicious fathers … tomorrow would be soon enough to untangle them all.

  JACK DIDN’T STIR FROM HIS BED UNTIL TEN BELLS IN THE morning. He trudged down the stairs yawning, thoroughly exhausted by the late night and his unusual adventures. He’d spent no small amount of time lying awake as he grappled with the challenge posed by Tarandor and his schemes, to little avail. It would be useful to determine how exactly Tarandor intended to return him to his confinement in the wild mythal, but Jack could not think of a way to do that safely if in fact the Guild itself sanctioned Tarandor’s extreme measures. Wizards could be a bureaucratic and inflexible lot at times, and he could not be certain that the Guild would intervene on his side instead of Tarandor’s. He might be able to find someone to serve as a go-between to broker some sort of truce with the guild, but anybody he dispatched in that capacity could easily be charmed or dominated and turned against Jack.

  “Perhaps it is time I retired,” he thought aloud as he sat down to his breakfast—now a very ordinary plate of toast with butter and jam and a cold mug of coffee.

  The cook was apparently done with wasting time on him. “Or perhaps I should take up Lord Norwood’s suggestion and travel for my health, preferably someplace where dogmatic wizards will not feel compelled to encyst me and throw away the metaphorical key.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?” Edelmon said as he shuffled into the room.

  “I am beset by complications; answers are unclear.”

  “Ah, very good, sir. To what address shall I have your things sent today?”

  “My things can stay right where they are for three more days, by my count, so I would appreciate it if you did not send them anywhere at all.”

  Edelmon acknowledged Jack’s instructions with a small bow, and withdrew. Jack observed that no handbills waited neatly by his place setting, nor was any correspondence arranged for his inspection. Apparently the cook was not the only one anticipating his imminent departure; Jack scowled after the valet for a moment, and drained down his lukewarm coffee with a grimace of distaste. What to do? he wondered. He had an engagement of sorts with Seila in the evening, but between now and then, he needed to find some suitable new address. “And that suggests resolving the question of the Sarkonagael’s reward in order to determine my budget,” he decided. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to part with the tome so soon after finding
a use for its magic, but Tharzon and the Blue Wyverns would be waiting for their cut of the reward; it wouldn’t be wise to give them cause to doubt his trustworthiness.

  Absorbed in his thoughts, Jack retrieved the Sarkonagael in its old wrappings from his satchel and brought it back to the table. “Myrkyssa Jelan caused a great deal of trouble with you once upon a time,” he told the book, “including the creation of an evil duplicate who subverted half the city against me. The last thing I need is another shadowy twin.”

  There were some dark and strange spells in the tome, including a number that Jack did not really understand, but it was the spell of making shadow-doppelgangers that most concerned him. He didn’t particularly care if Myrkyssa Jelan or any other interested parties had access to any other part of the Sarkonagael, really. That suggested an obvious if somewhat crude solution. Jack took the tome into the cupboard (a roomy closet, really) and pulled the door shut behind him. He stood there in the dark for a moment until the book’s silver runes began to glow, then opened the book to the spell entitled “Sarkon’s Umbral Simulacrum.” He drew his dagger from his belt, and with great care removed the spell from the book, excising a total of four pages. If the Sarkonagael’s seeker had sinister intentions for that particular enchantment, the absence of the spell should check them quite thoroughly. He let himself out of the cupboard and took the book back to the dining room table for a little more work with better light, trimming the cut pages very close to the binding; it was hard to notice the missing pages without a careful inspection. Finally he took the removed pages, folded them in half, and tucked them into an envelope from his stationery set before hiding it in the inner pocket of his jacket.

  “There,” he said to himself. “The tome is rendered completely harmless, and now I may proceed with confidence.” It occurred to him that he might profit by taking the Secrets of the Shadewrights completely apart and selling it back a page or two at a time … but he reminded himself that the mysterious buyer had been willing to spend a large sum of gold to get his hands on the book, and might be tempted to post another reward to accelerate the process if it became tedious. He decided it would be better to leave the rest of the book intact.

  Satisfied with his precautions, he wrapped up the Sarkonagael again, tucked it back into his satchel, and left his house. The day was unusually gloomy; a low, heavy overcast glowered above the rooftops, although there was no rain to speak of. He strolled south on MacIntyre to Morglar’s Ride, then headed west into Altarside. Few people seemed to be out and about, and those who were had an unusually vigilant and hurried look; Jack began to wonder if he’d slept through some unusual alarm or if some dire news was abroad. He found himself looking down each alleyway he passed and peering into shadows, more than half-expecting to find another cloaked figure dogging his steps or vanishing from sight just as Jack noted a menacing presence. But this time he reached his destination without catching sight of any dark elf spies, real or imagined.

  The counting house of Albrath stood not far from the City Hall. Jack climbed the stone steps to the door and entered; a long counter manned by several clerks stood along the wall, and doors of iron bars led to the offices behind the counter. Jack explained that he had retained the house’s representation in an unusual service, which proved sufficient for one of the counter-clerks to unlock the door and escort him to a small private office inside.

  He waited only a few moments before a portly, bearded merchant in a green tunic and matching cap appeared and took a seat behind the desk. “Good afternoon, sir,” the fellow said in a warm voice. “I am Halden Albrath. How may I help you today?”

  Jack hid a small smile. Halden likely didn’t know it, but he very strongly resembled his great-great-grandfather Embro Albrath, with whom Jack had done business once upon a time. “I am the landsgrave Jaer Kell Wildhame, formerly of the Vilhon Reach, currently resident in the manor of Maldridge,” Jack began. “A couple of days ago I sent a note instructing House Albrath to represent my interests in a delicate negotiation through Horthlaer House. Have you made any progress?”

  “Ah, of course,” Halden Albrath replied. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord.” He put his hand to his mouth and coughed delicately. “Before we continue, I should advise you that we customarily require a five percent fee for such representation. I took the liberty of assuming your consent, because your directions were specific. I saw to the matter myself.”

  Jack bestowed a gracious nod on the moneychanger, but winced inside. That amounted to several hundred gold crowns he’d never see again; he hoped his caution wasn’t completely unnecessary. “I expected as much,” he replied. “What did you learn?”

  “The procedure is quite simple: Produce the book, and after Horthlaer House verifies its authenticity, you will be paid in gold crowns, platinum moons, gemstones, or a letter of credit, as you prefer. You can deliver it yourself, or leave the book with me and I will see to it.”

  “Does Horthlaer’s client agree to pay the additional expenses I set forth in my previous instructions?”

  The merchant offered a half-smile, as if he understood exactly what Jack meant by expenses. “To my surprise, yes. The buyer agreed to pay seven thousand crowns for the book.”

  “Excellent!” Jack grinned in satisfaction; that, of course, was nothing with which he needed to trouble his partners from the Sarbreen adventure. If he had it figured correctly, he now stood to collect twenty-five hundred crowns for his half of the original reward, plus two thousand crowns more for the additional reward he’d negotiated, less Albrath’s three hundred and fifty—so overall better than half again what he’d originally planned on. His prospects were far from displeasing, really. “I insist on remaining anonymous, of course.”

  “Discretion is assured, my lord. If you have the book, we can deliver it this afternoon, and your reward will be available before five bells.”

  “Very good,” Jack answered. He considered the matter one more time, then opened his satchel and set the heavy tome on the table. “Proceed with the arrangements. I will return this afternoon to collect my reward. Please have thirty-five hundred crowns set aside in platinum double moons; the rest of the sum I’ll take as credit against your house.”

  “I shall see to it personally, sir,” Halden Albrath said. He stood and offered Jack his hand. “Until this afternoon, then.”

  Jack shook the merchant’s hand, and allowed himself to be shown to the door. On the doorstep of Albrath’s, he paused to watch the passers-by, porters, and wagons on Morlgar’s Ride as he considered his fortunes. Although he had to find a new residence to replace the uncharitably withdrawn offer to make use of Maldridge, he’d end the day with more wealth than he had ever enjoyed in his life. Of course, he also had a powerful wizard who might try to magic him back into a tiny green bottle; dangerous enemies in Lady Dresimil, Fetterfist, and possibly Myrkyssa Jelan; and a powerful nobleman, Marden Norwood, who expected him to absent himself from Raven’s Bluff, perhaps permanently. “The measure of a man lies in the difficulties he surmounts,” Jack observed to the street, and set off to roam the Temple District.

  He spent the rest of the morning inspecting potential residences in the better neighborhoods of town. Nothing seemed quite satisfactory for a man of his anticipated means, but perhaps some might be comfortable enough with a small staff. The gloomy weather hung over the city for the whole morning, until it finally overcame his high spirits and drove him back homeward. Footsore and tired, he retraced his steps to Maldridge.

  None of the staff bothered to greet him when he let himself in, which gave Jack cause to wish them a variety of minor afflictions and discomforts as payment for their variable loyalties. He started for his study with the idea of pouring himself a small glass of brandy to lighten his mood, but something in the sitting room just to the right from the foyer caught his eye: Two large traveling trunks or wardrobes stood in the middle of the room. Suspicion darkened the rogue’s thoughts immediately; he went over to investigate, an
d found that his collection of fine new garments—really, the entirety of his material possessions, other than the things he happened to be wearing—had been rather carelessly packed away.

  Jack’s umbrage could no longer be contained. He stomped in a circle around the tall trunks, waving his arms in outrage. “Effrontery! Insubordination!” he shouted at the empty room. “Edelmon, present yourself at once!”

  The old valet appeared at the sitting room’s doorway. “You bellowed, Master Jack?”

  “What is the meaning of this?”

  “I have been notified that your tenancy here in Maldridge is soon ending at Lord Norwood’s pleasure, sir. In the interest of rendering your exit as convenient as possible, I have taken the liberty of packing for you.”

  “This is premature! You are immediately dismissed from my service.”

  “Very good, sir,” the old servant replied. “I shall bring the matter to Lord Norwood’s attention the day after tomorrow, and abide by whatever penalty or adjustment he assigns.” Edelmon gave a shallow bow, and shuffled back into the foyer … and at that moment the kitchen door at the rear of the house flew open with a crash.

  “What the devil was that?” Jack demanded.

  “I shall find out, sir,” Edelmon replied. He headed toward the back of the house. Jack paused in his inspection of the wardrobes, waiting for the old servant to report. Instead, the soft snap of bowstrings echoed in the hall; Edelmon let out one strangled shriek, and after that came the unmistakable sound of a human body crumpling to the floor.

  That can’t be good, Jack realized. He looked around, searching for an escape from the sitting room. He could make a break for the front door, but that would take him into the front hall—where Edelmon had just been shot, unless he missed his guess. Or he could dart into the dining room and then to the kitchen and the door through which some unknown assailants had just entered his house. As he stood frozen and indecisive for one critical moment, the question was decided for him: Half a dozen black-clad figures in dark clothing swarmed into the sitting room, and turned their hand crossbows on Jack. Between low-hanging hoods and drawn-high scarves wrapped around their lower faces, the crimson eyes and smooth ebony features of drow warriors fixed on Jack with predatory malice.