Despite the fact that he was really quite comfortable in the great feather bed, Jack’s curiosity asserted itself. He was not yet fully recovered from his toils in Tower Chumavhraele-he could stand to regain another ten pounds or so, in his judgment-but his curiosity about this new age in which he found himself had been growing each day. “An excellent suggestion, my dear,” he said. He threw off the coverlets and climbed to his feet; Seila obligingly turned her back while he changed from his sleeping robe into the borrowed clothes the Norwoods had found for him, pulling on warm gray woolen breeches and a padded vest of fine blue velvet over a cream-colored shirt. He paused at the washbasin to splash some water on his face and quickly check the trim of the neat goatee that had replaced months’ worth of scraggly beard growth, then threw a heavy scarlet cape over his shoulders and selected a feathered cap.
When he was ready, he followed Seila down to the manor’s foyer and out to the waiting buggy, where a liveried driver waited with a dapple-gray mare in harness. They climbed into the seat and spread a blanket over their laps before the driver clucked to his horse and set off at an easy trot.
Norwood Manor stood about five miles north of the city, on a fine piece of land that stretched all the way to the bluffs overlooking the Dragon Reach. Jack settled in to enjoy the ride, taking in the scattered estates, manor houses, and country homes of the Ravenaar nobility, broken up by small farmsteads and wide swaths of woodland. “So far it seems much the same,” he said to Seila after a mile or so. “Most of these grand old houses were here back in my day. That one there is Daradusk Hall, is it not?”
“It is. Baron Ostin Daradusk is the head of the family these days.” Seila tapped the side of her head. “A very eccentric fellow by most accounts. The man is terrified of vampires and never ventures from his house after sundown.”
“Have he or his family suffered from a vampire’s attack?”
“Not that anyone knows of, but Baron Daradusk claims that only proves that his methods are effective.”
Jack chuckled. “I suppose he also takes credit for keeping away the elephants, too.” He pointed at another manor, this one a lofty house on a high knoll of the mountain that crowded in on Raven’s Bluff from the northeast. “And that is Daltabria, isn’t it? One of the De Sheers’s estates?”
“No longer. It belongs to the Hawkynfleur family now. The De Sheers died out thirty or forty years ago when old Lady Niune passed without children.”
“Niune, really?” Jack shook his head. “I knew her. Not well, mind you, but I could pick her out of a crowd even if she wouldn’t have known me.” Strange to think that a young noblewoman with scarcely twenty-five winters to her had lived out her entire life and died as an old woman in Seila’s time-well, the time of Seila’s parents, anyway. He wouldn’t be surprised if Idril Norwood or her husband had met Niune when they were younger, because they were practically neighbors. Why, there might be very old people today who’d been babes when he was so strangely imprisoned. “Or, for that matter, any number of dwarves or elves,” he murmured aloud.
“What was that?”
“It just occurred to me that while there are probably no humans alive who knew me before, there might be some nonhumans who remember me. Dwarves and elves and other such folk live much longer than we do, after all.”
“Did you know many?”
“Only a handful, really. Still, we should try to look up one or two.” Jack grinned at her. “If nothing else, I would dearly love to offer some proof of my outrageous claims.”
“I believe you, Jack.”
“Which I greatly appreciate, my dear, but I suspect that many others will find my story harder to credit.” He leaned forward to address the driver. “My good fellow, by any chance do you know where a taphouse called the Smoke Wyrm stands? It used to lie on an alley off Vesper Way, in Torchtown.”
“It’s still there, sir. They brew a very good stout, but one to be enjoyed in moderation.”
“Drive us there when we enter the city. If I recall, it’s hard by the north gate, anyway.”
“Do you think someone you know might still be found there?” Seila asked.
“It seems unlikely, but one never knows. If nothing else, the current owners might know what became of him.”
As they neared the city’s northern gate, Jack noticed that the woods that had once grown close up to the city walls had been cut back by a bowshot at some point in the past. The small cluster of buildings that had once stood just outside the gate was gone as well. Evidently Raven’s Bluff had faced some threat from the northern road, and readied itself to fight off an attack. He added it to the long list of questions he had about what had transpired in the years he’d been absent. The driver paused at the gate, where a half-dozen guards questioned everyone entering the city, but they were quickly waved through-the soldiers knew the Norwoods by sight and were careful not to annoy an important noble family.
The Tantras Road became Manycoins Way at the city gate; Jack looked about eagerly, noting many details that he’d missed in his exhaustion and light-blindness when he and Seila had found a carriage to take them to her family’s manor a few days before. Raven’s Bluff was surprisingly unchanged, for the most part. Perhaps four in five of the buildings Jack remembered from his own time still stood, although some had fallen into disrepair and others had been reshingled or painted in new colors. Most of the businesses and shops seemed to have changed hands at least once.
His wonder must have shown; Seila watched him with a wide smile on her face. “You seem overwhelmed,” she offered.
“I am. It’s very much the same, but different in so many of the details,” Jack answered. “There was a guide service in that barrister’s office, and that building under the sign of the Blue Basilisk Coster I knew as the Black Flame merchant house.” He turned his attention to the people thronging the street, and frowned. “Hmm. Fashions have changed a good deal while I’ve been … away. The cut of clothing is different, and most of the men are clean-shaven. Is my goatee out of style now? I can see that I shall have to adjust my grooming and seek advice about gentlemen’s fashions.”
The driver turned onto Vesper Way and drove two more short blocks before stopping in front of the taphouse Jack remembered. He could see at once that it had been expanded once or twice, and in fact sported a brand new sign with a painting of a sleeping dragon, smoke from its nostrils encircling its head. Jack hopped down from the carriage and gave Seila his hand as she climbed down after him. They descended a short flight of steps to the taphouse entrance-the common room was in the cellar-where Jack tried the door and found it locked. He gave it a firm rap with his knuckle. It was probably not much later than ten bells of the morning; there wouldn’t be many taphouses open at this hour.
After a moment, he heard heavy footsteps from within, and a small clatter of dishware. Then the door rattled as its bolt was drawn, and it opened from inside. A dark-haired dwarf in a leather apron with gold rings in his thick black beard looked up at them. “Sorry, goodfolk,” he grunted. “We’re not open yet. Come back in an hour.”
Jack peered at the fellow, wondering. Could it be? “Tharzon?” he asked tentatively.
“No, that’s me da,” the dwarf said. “I’m Kurzen.”
The rogue shook his head. Tharzon’s son looked just like Tharzon had, well, a hundred years ago. He tried to find a way to say that without confusing the poor fellow, and settled for asking, “Is Tharzon still … here?” After so many years, it simply seemed impossible that he might still be the proprietor of the Smoke Wyrm.
“Aye. What’s your business with him?”
“I’m an old friend.”
Kurzen squinted at Jack. “I’m near sixty years old, and I’ve never seen you before. Give me your name, then.”
“Tell Tharzon that Jack Ravenwild is at his doorstep,” Jack said. “I’ll wait.”
The dwarf grunted and closed the door. Seila glanced at Jack. “Ravenwild?” she asked.
“A nickname,
” Jack explained. “Tharzon and I were sometimes engaged in ventures that wouldn’t have been entirely sanctioned by the civil authorities.” He heard Kurzen’s steps receding inside, and the distant sound of deep voices from somewhere inside. He gave Seila a quick wink. A moment later there came a cry in Dwarvish, and a sudden rush of footsteps toward the door, punctuated by a thumping or knocking sound. Then the door flew open wide again, and Jack found himself gazing upon the aged features of Tharzon the dwarf. If Tharzon had once looked very much like his son did today, he did no longer. His beard was gray, his face was lined with deep wrinkles, and most of the hair on top of his head had gone the way of last year’s snows. He was thinner than Jack remembered, too. The old dwarf’s shoulders were more hunched, and he leaned on a heavy cane-but the dark, fierce eyes and bushy brow were the same.
“Good morning, Tharzon,” Jack said. “I’ll wager you’d thought you’d seen the last of me.”
“Impossible,” the old dwarf whispered. “Impossible!”
“Not impossible, my old friend, merely highly improbable,” Jack answered. He glanced up at the taphouse and nodded in approval. “I like what you’ve done with the place. Hard to believe you’ve kept it for a hundred years.”
“Are you well, Da?” Kurzen said to his father. “If this fellow troubles you, say the word, and I’ll run him off for you.”
Tharzon stood, his mouth agape, for a long moment, and then he managed to shake his head. “No, my boy, no. Don’t you know who you’re looking at? This is the man that found the Guilder’s Vault and defeated the Warlord herself. Did you not listen to any of the stories I told you when you were a youngster?”
“But that’s not possible,” Kurzen protested. “Why, he’d have to be a hundred and thirty years old! That’s no great age for our folk, but not so for a human.”
“Nevertheless, here I am,” said Jack. “Seila, this is my old comrade in arms, Tharzon Brewhammer. Tharzon, this is my new friend, Lady Seila Norwood of the Norwood family.”
“The noblelady as was rescued from the thrice-damned drow the other day?” Tharzon replied. “Don’t be so surprised, the story’s all over the town. A pleasure to meet you, m’lady. Please, come in. Come in! Jack Ravenwild, as I live and breathe. What a day!”
The old dwarf led the way into the empty taphouse, and motioned for his son to set up a table and chairs. “What can we draw for you fine folk?” he asked.
“It’s a little early in the day for me,” Seila replied. “I don’t suppose you have some tea?”
“I’d ask if you still brew Old Smoky, but I won’t get far today if I started now,” Jack said. “Better make it your mildest lager.”
“Suit yourself, then,” Tharzon replied. Kurzen retreated to the bar, and soon returned with mugs for Jack, his father, and himself, and a plain kettle and teacup for Seila. “Where have you been for all these years, you scoundrel? How is it that you turn up a hundred years after the last time I saw you, not looking a day older?”
Kurzen frowned at Jack. “Doesn’t seem right, Da. Maybe he’s one of those … undead.”
Tharzon harrumphed. “Use your eyes, boy. Did you not see the sun shining outside? It’s no weather for such things as ought to be in their graves.”
“Someone imprisoned me with magic, Tharzon,” Jack replied. “They entombed me in the old mythal stone where we fought Jelan and her sellswords, and left me there. I might have gone on sleeping until the end of days, but the drow took it into their heads to meddle with the wild mythal and released me just a few tendays ago.” He took a sip of his lager and nodded in appreciation. Trust dwarves to know their business with a good ale. “Which reminds me: Do you have any idea who might have encysted me in an ancient ruin half a mile deep in the Underdark? I have no memory of the event, and I would dearly like to find out who used me with such malice.”
“Those of us who knew you wondered about that for years, Jack,” Tharzon said. “You simply vanished one night without a word to anyone. Most folk assumed that you’d run afoul of some enemy who’d chained an anchor to your feet and dumped you in the harbor, although there were some as held that you’d fled to safer parts after angering some high and powerful person with your … indiscretions.”
“Did no one think to look for me?” Jack asked.
“Oh, we checked your usual haunts. Anders looked for you for some time, because he was of the opinion that you owed him a great deal of coin. But naught ever came of it.”
Seila regarded Jack with a raised eyebrow. “It seems you had some interesting associations in your earlier life, Jack,” she observed.
“I was the victim of jealousy, misunderstandings, and false accusations, dear Seila. All would naturally have been answered in due course, clearing my good name and confounding my enemies, if only a lost century had not intervened.” Jack returned his attention to Tharzon. “Where was I last seen? In whose company? Were there any noted villains or malefactors in town who seemed especially pleased by my disappearance?”
“It’s been a long time, Jack.” The old dwarf frowned, thinking hard on the question. “I seem to remember that the Knights of the Hawk were looking for you, but then again, that wasn’t terribly unusual. There was a ball at some noble manor where you made some sort of scene, and as far as anyone could tell, you never came home.”
“Which manor?”
“You would know better than I,” Tharzon replied, but seeing that Jack was serious about the question, he fixed his gaze on the taproom’s great stone hearth, his brow knotting as he delved deeper and deeper into his memories. Jack began to wonder if his old friend had actually fallen asleep with his eyes open, but then the dwarf grunted. “Ah, there it is,” he muttered at last. “Sevencrown Keep. You certainly indulged your ambitions in those days, Jack.”
“The Leorduins? What business did I have with them?” Jack wondered aloud. The Leorduins were a very rich and very prickly family, indeed. Had they caught him in some scheme? If so, what scheme was it? Or had he simply gone to the Leorduin affair, whatever it was, to maneuver toward some other noble mark?
“How did you finally escape from your magical prison?” Tharzon’s son Kurzen asked. “You’d already been there a hundred years or so. What broke the spell?”
“Ah, that I think was an accident,” said Jack. “The drow had no idea that someone had been entombed within their old mythal stone. They were at work restoring its old spells, and their magic interfered with the encystment in which I slept, releasing me. They asked me how I’d come to be in their mythal, heard me out, agreed that my story was fascinating, and promptly condemned me to slavery once they’d decided they had no other use for me.”
“A black-hearted race, and that’s no lie,” Tharzon agreed. He looked over to Seila. “Is that where you come into the tale, my lady?”
Seila nodded. “I was traveling on the Tantras Road with one of my father’s caravans when a large party of brigands ambushed us. They took me and most of our people captive, and sold us to the dark elves. I was sent to the tower kitchens, and met Jack a tenday or so later. It took a long time, but eventually he managed to arrange our escape.”
“That’s a tale I’d like to hear,” Tharzon said. “How did you do it?”
“I’m glad you asked, friend Tharzon,” Jack replied. He immediately launched into a recounting of his toils among the drow, his befriending of Seila, and his daring escape. If his telling of the tale perhaps overemphasized his own cleverness, stoicism, and personal bravery, well, that was merely a bit of artistic license. After all, it was his story to tell, and he ought to be able to tell it as he liked, as long as he avoided embellishing the parts Seila could corroborate. Half an hour passed as Jack lingered on every detail and described every perilous development, during which he finished his first lager and embarked on a second, until finally he concluded with their arrival in the alley in Sindlecross. Even Kurzen left his work to listen to the story, caught up despite himself.
“Well done, Jack, well done
,” Tharzon said in approval when Jack finished. “You always had a daring streak in you.”
“It was nothing,” Jack replied with false modesty, waving away Tharzon’s praise.
“You can bet that the drow won’t believe it to be nothing,” Kurzen warned. “The dark elves have long memories, and they never let a slight pass without answer. You’d best watch your back, Jack Ravenwild.”
“I am not concerned,” Jack answered. “The drow do not frighten me; I have their measure now.”
Kurzen shook his head at Jack’s reply. “They have their eyes and ears in the city. I would not be so quick to dismiss them. If I were you, I’d lay low for a time.” The young dwarf rose and returned to his work at the bar.
Jack took a long pull from his mug, and then he looked back to Tharzon. “There’s one other thing you should know. I think the drow released Myrkyssa Jelan, too.”
Tharzon sat up straight. “The Warlord herself? No!”
“I see that you remember her as fondly as I do,” said Jack. “I actually saw her down in the mythal-plaza, which is no longer under a lake, by the way. She emerged from the mythal as a very lifelike statue, and still managed to scare me half to death in that condition.” He grinned crookedly. “Apparently she didn’t stay that way for long, and the drow made the mistake of trying to enslave her. She cut her way out of Chumavhraele and vanished into the Underdark.”
The dwarf shook his head. “If Myrkyssa Jelan is at liberty again, trouble’s sure to follow. I wouldn’t be surprised …” Tharzon’s voice trailed away, and his eyes took on a thoughtful expression. “Hmmph. I wonder? Is it possible?”
“Is what possible, friend Tharzon?”
“A new gang moved into the Skymbles a couple of tendays ago. They call themselves the Moon Daggers, and they’ve already put a couple of local street gangs in their place. I’ve heard that the Moon Daggers aren’t just guttersnipes and street rats; skilled adventurers run the gang, with a dark-haired swordswoman at their head. Do you think it’s the Warlord?”
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