Prince of Ravens: A Forgotten Realms Novel

by Richard Baker

  “In other words, I must pay to take possession of this wretched sorcerer, and then pay to be rid of him?” Tarandor said with a sour expression.

  “Far be it from me to meddle in the affairs of wizards,” Jack replied.

  “We are ready, master,” one of the apprentices said. They were finished with the arcane diagram surrounding the man on the floor; the bottle with its great black stopper waited nearby. Jack noticed that the green bottle was now encircled with a fishnet-like covering of fine silver chain, and the stopper was covered with potent silver glyphs; evidently Tarandor meant to ensure that no one would teleport out of it this time.

  Tarandor briefly inspected the circle, and nodded in approval. “Stand back and remain still, if you please,” he said to Jack and the other Blue Wyverns. Jack obliged by taking several steps back. The abjurer murmured a lengthy spell under his breath, weaving his hands in sweeping motions as he spoke, until he finished the last syllables of the spell. There was a shower of greenish-silver sparks that whirled around the unconscious duplicate on the floor. Jack caught a glimpse of some impossible movement, and then the magic circle on the floor was empty, while the bottle smoked and rocked back and forth. One of the apprentices stooped quickly and jammed the stopper in the bottle with a very final thunk.

  “Astonishing,” Jack observed. “I would have simply carried him down to the Underdark while bound and drugged.”

  “There are arcane hazards at work here that must be reckoned with,” Tarandor replied. The abjurer checked on the bottle, where Jack thought he could see a tiny black-clad form lying bound and gagged on the fine white sand, and then motioned for his apprentices to secure the case. “Our business here is done,” he said to Jack. “This was an exceptional meeting, but it is now concluded, and I have no desire to continue our association. Do not contact me again.”

  “I shall abide by your wishes,” Jack replied. He gave a formal bow as Tarandor and his apprentices filed out of the room.

  Arlith saw them to the door and watched for a long moment. “They’re gone,” she finally announced.

  Narm and Kurzen sighed in relief. Halamar emerged from the closet where he had been hiding. “Do you think the dark elves will let him anywhere near their mythal?” the sorcerer asked.

  “I have no idea,” said Jack. “If they do, then Tarandor will inter my double in the stone. If they choose not to, I expect they’ll kill my double in some gruesome fashion. Either way, Tarandor’s business in Raven’s Bluff is concluded, and he’ll be on his way back to Iriaebor where he’ll never trouble me again.”

  “The drow might kill him or take him prisoner instead,” Kurzen pointed out.

  “A chance I’m willing to take,” said Jack. “Speaking of which, our work for the night is only half-done. We should be on our way.” He scooped up Tarandor’s bag of gold and slipped it into his shirt, leaving the mysterious chalked circle on the floor of the office. No doubt Ulwhe and his employees would be quite mystified in the morning, but that was hardly Jack’s concern. They reclaimed the cart on which they’d carried Jack’s simulacrum to the icehouse, and set off through the rainy streets again.

  Mumfort and Company was only a couple of streets over from the icehouse. No one was abroad on such a dismal night, and they saw no one as they made their way through the darkened warehouses. As before, they left the cart by the building’s back door, and let themselves inside. They spread out to search the place and make certain no unpleasant surprises were waiting for them before gathering again in the room where Jack had been trapped by the symbol.

  “Do your plans for Fetterfist remain unchanged?” asked Halamar.

  “More or less,” Jack replied. “I am open to suggestions, if you have any. Otherwise it’s merely a matter of finding good places to hide, and waiting.”

  The small party took the next half-hour or so to study the warehouse layout, reposition a few crates and kegs in useful places, and consider any number of contingencies that might arise. Then they settled in to wait, posting Arlith as a lookout again by the front door and Halamar by the rear entrance. Jack found himself worrying over whether Balathorp would show, and wondered what he would do next if the slaver arrived an hour or two late, or simply didn’t appear at all. But it turned out that his fears were ungrounded; Arlith stirred at her watchpost almost a quarter-hour before the stroke of twelve bells.

  “Three men are approaching,” Arlith whispered. “One looks like he might be the tall yellow-haired fellow you described.”

  “Three?” Jack repeated. He grimaced; of course Balathorp wouldn’t have come alone.

  “You only mentioned one man when we settled a price last night,” Narm growled. “This, of course, must be taken into account.”

  “Nonsense,” Jack replied. “This is the sort of unexpected development that might arise in any business transaction. We are all exposed to unanticipated risks.”

  “In that case, you are free to deal with all three slavers as you wish,” Narm replied.

  “That is unfortunate,” said Jack with a great show of patience, “since we agreed the balance of your payment for the night was contingent upon Fetterfist’s capture.”

  “Enough, both of you,” Halamar whispered. “We can manage all three easily enough, but not if they hear us arguing from the street. To your places.”

  The half-orc swordsman frowned, but he moved to stand beside Jack. Kurzen hid in a dark space between two large stacks of crates; Halamar in another one farther from the door. Arlith came down from her window and took up a place by the warehouse door. For his own part, Jack drew a blindfold over his eyes—seemingly opaque, but merely translucent—and knelt beside Narm with his hands locked together behind his back, loops of cord loose around his wrists. In his right fist he hid one of the expensive vials he’d purchased during his hectic morning preparations, wrapped in a fine silk cloth. A moment later there was a sharp knock at the warehouse door. Jack adopted an attitude of defeat, allowing his shoulders to slump and his head to nod on his chest. Narm’s callused hand settled on his shoulder, as if holding him upright.

  Arlith gave the small company a wink and opened the door for Balathorp. The slaver wore the same leather hood Jack had seen him wearing in Chûmavhraele; gone were the fine clothes and effete manners of the nobleman. One of the ruffians with him was a short, hairy fellow with black hair and long arms and the other was a tiefling with skin the color of charcoal. “Well, we are here,” the slaver announced. “Do you have my wares?”

  The halfling looked up at the tall human and snorted. “About time. We’ve been waiting for an hour.”

  “Take that up with the fellow who made the arrangements, not me,” Balathorp answered. His eyes fell on Jack, kneeling beside Narm, flicked to the half-orc, and then returned to the halfling. “So where is our mysterious go-between, anyway? I don’t know either of you.”

  Narm shrugged. “All I know is that we were paid to bring this poor wretch—” he slapped the side of Jack’s head hard enough to make Jack’s ears ring—“to this warehouse and wait for someone called Fetterfist. Is that you?”

  The slaver stood in the doorway for a long moment, and Jack wondered if he was going to back out. Then he shrugged and stepped inside, his thugs following close behind him. “Let’s see if this is who I think it is,” he remarked, and approached Jack. He reached out to pull up the blindfold and peer into Jack’s face … and at that instant Jack crushed the vial with the yellow musk extract in his hand and shoved the seeping cloth up under Balathorp’s nose, while seizing the slaver’s tunic with the other hand to hold him close.

  Jack had taken the precaution of slipping plugs in his nostrils ahead of time, and he was careful to hold his breath … but even so, the faintest whiff of the extract’s aroma tickled his nose, and his head swam as if he’d been drinking half the night. Balathorp cried out in surprise and protest, but in the process he couldn’t help but to draw a breath of the potent aroma. The remaining two ruffians cursed and went for thei
r weapons, but now the Company of the Blue Wyvern leaped out of ambush. Arlith, who stood by the door momentarily forgotten, expertly kicked the legs of the black-haired thug out from under him even though he was twice her size. Narm leaped past Balathorp to pummel the tiefling furiously, his fist wrapped around a solid lead slug. Kurzen charged out of his hiding-place and clubbed the black-haired thug with a short truncheon as the fellow tried to roll to his feet. The thug managed to draw a knife, but the dwarf smashed it out of his fingers with one blow of the club and knocked him senseless with the second and third. Meanwhile, Balathorp’s furious struggles ceased, and his knees began to buckle. Jack kept the soporific extract right under the slaver’s nose and eased him to the floor.

  The tiefling roared in anger and summoned up a blast of infernal fire as Narm struck at him, driving back the half-orc for a moment. He turned and started for the door, but Arlith leaped up, took two quick steps, and yanked the tiefling to the warehouse floor by his cloak. Kurzen and Narm set in at the devil-blooded ruffian immediately, and in a few short moments the last of the slavers was unconscious on the floor. Halamar extinguished the tiefling’s fire with a wave of his hand, and the building fell silent.

  “By Cyric’s black heart, that stuff is strong, Jack,” Arlith said. The halfling raised a hand to cover her mouth and nose as she climbed to her feet. “I can feel it from over here.”

  “It should be, given how much I paid for it,” Jack said. He’d nearly drugged himself earlier in the day when he’d applied the stuff to the simulacrum he created. Removing his false blindfold, he carefully took the crushed vial and the damp cloth and dropped them both into a small leather pouch before cinching it tight. “Quite expensive, but far and away the best tool for the job.”

  “Best to secure him, anyway, and the others as well,” Narm said.

  “Of course. I am noted for my attention to detail,” said Jack. He relieved Fetterfist of his sword, dagger, and boots (just in case there were any hidden blades or compartments in the heels), removed a sturdy leather pouch from the slaver’s belt, and pocketed his coinpurse, too. Then he produced a sturdy length of cord from under his cloak and made sure Fetterfist was tightly bound, while Arlith and Kurzen saw to Fetterfist’s associates.

  “That was simple enough,” Halamar observed when they’d finished. “Now what do we do with them?”

  “Now we summon the watch.”

  “Summon the watch?” the sorcerer cried in amazement. “Whatever for?”

  “Why, to deliver the notorious slaver Fetterfist to the forces of law and order and unmask him as the traitorous lord Cailek Balathorp.” Jack drew a large envelope out of his pocket and laid it atop the unconscious slaver. “This is a little note explaining his various crimes and misdemeanors. I also took the liberty of claiming credit for his capture.”

  “You are simply going to give up a prisoner as valuable as this fellow to the watch?” Narm said. “And make an enemy of the Balathorps, as well? You did not mention the rest of us by name in that letter, did you?”

  “Your anonymity is assured, friend Narm. And I do not look at this as giving up a valuable chip for nothing—I mean to buy back Norwood’s favor with Balathorp, here.”

  “If that’s the case, it would be better to drop this fellow on Norwood’s doorstep in the dark of night,” Kurzen said thoughtfully. “You’d have a better chance of claiming the credit without the involvement of the watch.”

  Jack shrugged. “Norwood might have me murdered on sight by his guards after the whole unfortunate business with Maldridge. I thought it best to arrange a gift for him before showing myself at Norwood Manor.”

  The Blue Wyverns exchanged skeptical glances, but offered no more arguments. Jack nodded to himself and gave Balathorp’s coinpurse a jingle. “Now, I do not know about the rest of you, but I find that my labors this evening have left me with a great thirst. Shall we find some friendly establishment to celebrate our successes? Cailek Balathorp has generously offered to buy the first round.”

  THE NEXT DAY, AFTER NUMEROUS ROUNDS AT THE SMOKE Wyrm and one final uncomfortable night on the hard, narrow plank that served as the bed in the room above the tinsmith’s shop, Jack took his duffel of clothing and his momentarily full purse to an inn billing itself as the Ravenstrand Arms on North Road. The place was half-full, with a mercantile clientele that included Sembian importers, Dalesfolk traders, and even a pair of traveling arms merchants from distant Mulmaster. For his own part, Jack passed himself off as a lord’s agent from Calaunt, tasked with inspecting his master’s investments in Raven’s Bluff. He gave the innkeeper reason to believe that he intended to dawdle and shirk at these duties to the greatest extent possible, enjoying the opportunity to live well on his employer’s stipend for a few tendays. The accommodations were far, far better than the tinsmith’s apartment, if somewhat pricier than Jack might like. He immediately put the place to the test by crawling back into bed and sleeping away most of the day, counting it as a reasonable reward for his recent labors.

  “A more permanent arrangement is, of course, to be preferred,” he told himself as he dined at the Ravenstrand’s common board that evening, “but for a tenday or so, this will serve well enough.” He examined a couple of the daily handbills from the inn’s common room while he ate. The Lord Mayor’s Revel was of course the chief topic of the day; Jack read about the lavish preparations and delightful entertainment planned for the evening. Seila would be there, perhaps expecting him to show up to unmask Fetterfist if word had not yet spread that Balathorp had been turned in to the city watch with serious accusations leveled against him. The thought of crashing the affair to see her crossed his mind, but then he reminded himself that he was trying to stay out of sight until the obnoxious Tarandor Delhame returned to Iriaebor.

  The thought of Seila merely increased Jack’s frustration at the notion of outwaiting the master abjurer. With the remains of Norwood’s reward, the Sarkonagael’s reward, the hefty fee he’d extorted from the wizard Tarandor, and the full purse he’d found among Balathorp’s effects, Jack was as wealthy as anyone in Raven’s Bluff who wasn’t a noble or a very successful merchant. In fact, he was rich as he’d ever been in his life, a state of affairs he very much looked forward to enjoying. But that was nowhere as rich as he might be if he could win the hand of Seila Norwood. In fact, as Jack reflected on events, it occurred to him that of the various schemes and designs he’d concocted since his escape from the rothé pastures of Tower Chûmavhraele, the one effort now in the greatest doubt was attaching himself in a real and lasting way to the Norwood fortunes. More to the point, he missed Seila, and found that his thoughts lingered on her merry smile, her enchanting green eyes, her lively wit, the delightful curves, the sweet sensation of her lips meeting his … he gave a small sigh, and shook his head.

  “Clearly, it’s well past time to find my way back into her favor,” he reflected. “The question is, how?” He could invent a story that accounted for why he went to such pains to claim a title—an old curse or enemy he was desperate to avoid, perhaps. The difficulty was that both Seila and her father were now predisposed to doubt any new explanations he offered. If that were the case, would an honest and sincere apology stand the best chance of success? Both sincerity and honesty were somewhat foreign to Jack’s nature, but Seila seemed to have a way of bringing out strange sentiments in him. Perhaps he ought to hire a coach and go out to the Lord Mayor’s palace this very moment and tell her exactly what he felt in his heart … but, of course, he was supposed to be staying out of sight until Tarandor departed. The whole simulacrum scheme would collapse if word somehow got back to Tarandor that Jack was still at liberty.

  Jack scowled to himself; he disliked waiting. Deciding he was in need of more convivial company than that offered by the Ravenstrand, he returned to his room for a cloak and rakish hat, then set out for the Smoke Wyrm. It was only a few blocks away, but he took a circuitous route to throw off any hypothetical tails. The evening was overcast, with a three
-quarter moon that peeked infrequently through the scudding clouds. The rains and cold weather of the last few days seemed to finally be moving on, but the streets still seemed unusually empty, almost as if the city was holding its breath in anticipation.

  The glow of lanternlight and murmur of voices from the taphouse were a welcome improvement. Jack found the Smoke Wyrm perhaps half-full, and paused in the doorway to make sure no one he did not care to meet was waiting for him. The place seemed safe enough, so he made his way to the bar. “A good evening to you, friend Tharzon,” he said to the old dwarf, who was working behind the counter. “A pint of your excellent lager, if you please. There will be no Old Smoky for me this evening.”

  Tharzon snorted. “I never thought I’d live to see you learn a lesson, Jack.” He drew a pint for Jack and set it in front of the rogue. Then he reached under the counter and brought out a large leather belt pouch. “Speaking of which, you left this here last night.”

  Jack looked at the pouch in confusion for a moment before he recognized it as Balathorp’s. He’d taken it from the slaver along with his coinpurse and sword, but hadn’t gotten around to looking through it during last night’s drinking at the Smoke Wyrm. “My thanks,” he said. “I had forgotten all about this.”

  Taking the large mug and the leather pouch, he found a small table in a dark corner where he could watch the door without being easily seen. Carefully he emptied the pouch’s contents on the table. There was a well-worn ledger, a charcoal pencil, a pair of manacles, and finally a strange stone of mottled black and green, about half the size of his fist. He sensed magic in the stone, but its purpose eluded him; after scrutinizing it for a few moments, he set it aside. The ledger was filled out with cryptic abbreviations and columns of figures, marking dates and sums of coin. On a hunch Jack flipped to the pages for the last couple of days, and discovered on the page dated 14 Tarsakh the notation 17 Tars. 12b. Mumfort. Mchd: JR, m, hmn, 30. Source:? Dest: Chum. Val: 500? D. wants this one.