Prince of Ravens frr-1

by Richard Baker

  “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.

  CHAPTER TEN

  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 con
sent, 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, and 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.

  The leader, none other than Jack’s former tormentor, Varys, met Jack’s eyes with a menacing smile. “Lord Wildhame,” he said with a mocking bow. “The marquise Dresimil sends her greetings and would like to extend her invitation to return to Chumavhraele. The circumstances of your departure demand nothing less.”

  Jack stared at the dark elves in horror for several heartbeats. Varys grinned wickedly at him. Jack couldn’t begin to imagine what sort of tortures Dresimil might have in mind for him if the drow recaptured him; he might have been better off in Tarandor’s green bottle. Somehow he found his voice and said, “I am afraid I must decline at this time. As you can see, I am packed for a long journey. I promise I will call on your lovely marquise as soon as I return.”

  “Ah, but our lady insists,” the drow sergeant replied. He raised his hand-crossbow, as did the rest of his warriors. As they fired, Jack yanked open the door of the large wardrobe he was standing next to and ducked behind the improvised shield. The small quarrels thudded into the trunk, their points puncturing the door, but none struck Jack. The rogue searched himself for tiny poisoned quarrels, found none, and darted for the dining room doorway.

  Varys snarled in frustration. “After him!” he hissed. “Do not let him escape!”

  Jack dashed from the sitting room into the dining room. The drow pursued him at once, no more than four or five steps behind him. He dared not pause long enough to try a spell, and simply ran for the door from the dining room to the kitchen. Then sudden, absolute darkness filled the room, as if he’d run into a coal cellar on a moonless night. Jack stumbled over a chair and floundered blindly along the large table in the middle of the room as he tried to keep moving. “Shar’s black heart!” he snarled, groping blindly through the blackness. The drow might as well have blinded him with their accursed darkness spells!

  He found a doorway with one outstretched hand and hurried through, only to realize that he’d found the wrong door-he was back in the front hall. The pull-chain for the grand chandelier was under his hand, which meant that he was facing back toward the front door. Or was it on the other side of t
he hall? He couldn’t remember. The stealthy rush of feet whispered in the supernatural gloom behind him … but now he thought he could hear the dark elves ahead of him, too. They were surrounding him while he couldn’t see!

  “The front hall!” Varys called softly to the others. None of the other drow replied, which was even more intimidating than a chorus of answers would have been.

  This is insufferable, Jack raged silently. What harm had he ever done to the drow? Why were they so damned unreasonable about things? He couldn’t go back into the dining room, and he could hear soft movement approaching from the foyer. There was a dark elf there in the middle of the hall, perhaps two or three, closing in on him while he cowered by the wall. He could try to grope his way into the kitchen, but they’d be on him in moments unless he did something they didn’t expect-and that suggested a counterattack.

  With one quick motion, Jack seized the chandelier’s chain, undid it from the wall cleat, and let it go. The huge fixture was a magnificent piece of ironwork, easily eight feet in diameter and hundreds of pounds in weight. The chain rattled and clacked loudly for an instant, then the whole thing plummeted to the hall’s zalantar-wood floor with a resounding crash and the shrill tinkle of breaking glass. A drow cried out in pain, and others shouted in alarm; Jack felt a sudden wash of heat and the crackle of flame in front of him as the chandelier’s oil lamps broke and ignited, even though the fire was completely hidden by the darkness spell.

  “Hah! Take that, you fiends,” Jack called. He turned and stumbled toward the kitchen, hoping that the way to the back door was now open. He took two steps-and the darkness was abruptly gone. He stood in the kitchen doorway, with a hooded drow warrior blocking his way. Edelmon was lying unconscious almost right at his feet, several drow crossbow-bolts lodged in him, none in any particularly lethal spot. Jack barely noticed his valet, however-behind them both a spreading pool of lamp-oil burned fiercely under the wreckage of the chandelier. A drow soldier was lying in the burning oil, crushed under the fallen fixture. Varys and another warrior were right behind him, and the remaining drow warriors blocked the doorway to the dining room and the grand stairs leading to the upper floors.