“Appearances are important,” he reflected glumly. Jaer Kell Wildhame, heroic adversary of the dark elves and well-heeled intimate of Lord Marden Norwood, was a fellow who was clearly going places. Jack Ravenwild, fraud and arsonist, was much less compelling. “Somehow I must find a way to present myself in a better light.”
The first order of business was to arrange a roof over his head. Jack spied Tharzon behind the bar, consulting with Kurzen on some matter or another, and an idea came to mind. He hopped up from his seat and crossed the taproom to address the old dwarf. “Friend Tharzon, I am in need of some advice,” he said.
Tharzon looked Jack up and down. “Rise early, and go to bed soon after the sun,” he replied. “You will be astonished at how much more you can do in a day’s work. Oh, and pay your debts promptly in full. Your comrades in the Sarbreen venture are beginning to wonder about your reliability.”
“The former is difficult and impractical. I have little interest in doing more in a day’s work, as you should well know. As to the latter …” Jack suppressed a wince. He hadn’t meant to part with twenty-five hundred coins of gold this very day; scrupulous attention to debt was against his nature. But in this case perhaps it was for the best. Thanks to his stop at Horthlaer’s he had sufficient funds on his person, and he was sorely in need of allies on whom he could rely. “As to the latter, you will be happy to learn that I have concluded the business of the Sarkonagael, and can pay you, your son, and the stouthearted Blue Wyverns this very moment.”
Tharzon’s bushy white eyebrows climbed in surprise. “That I was not expecting,” he said. He jerked his head toward the keg room behind the bar. “Well, step around the bar, then, and let’s count it where we’ll not have every eye in the place on us.”
Jack feigned a broad, sincere smile, and followed the old dwarf into the next room. Under Tharzon’s watchful eye he counted out five stacks of platinum double-moons, each coin worth twenty crowns, on a battered old work-counter beneath the heavy casks of ale. “There you are, my friend-a good day’s work,” he said. “You can see to it that Kurzen, Narm, Arlith, and Halamar get their cuts?”
Tharzon nodded in satisfaction. “I’ll take care of it,” he said. He swept the coins into a good-sized coinpurse, and tucked the purse inside his tunic.
“Now, about that advice,” Jack said. “Do you know of any quiet, safe, and comfortable place where I might hang my cape for a few days until I put my affairs in better order? Anonymity would be advantageous.”
“This has something to do with the fire at Maldridge today, doesn’t it?” the old dwarf grunted. “Well, you can’t stay here-I prefer to stay clear of your troubles.”
“Surely you must have some recommendation?”
Tharzon frowned beneath his beard, thinking. “There is a vacant tinsmith’s shop with a small apartment upstairs, over on Broken Bit Lane,” he finally said. “I happen to hold the deed. From time to time I arrange for friends who don’t want to be found to stay there. You can have it for a few days, but mind you, Jack, I don’t want the place burned down.”
“It sounds ideal,” Jack replied.
“You may revise your opinion soon enough. It’s cramped, cluttered, and furnished only with a cot,” the dwarf answered. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a simple iron key. “Number sixteen.”
“I thank you.” Jack decided that Tharzon was simply exercising modesty in describing the tinsmith’s room in such cautious terms, and accepted the key. Nightfall was not far off; he was not looking forward to lugging the heavy duffel several blocks, but it would probably be best to take care of the job before dark. One last mug of Old Smoky, then, or perhaps two … He followed Tharzon back out to the taproom, laid down a silver talent on the bar for a refill, and returned to the table where all his worldly possessions sat.
“Jack Ravenwild.”
Jack looked up from his mug and discovered the fire-mage Halamar at his table. The sorcerer gave him a small nod, his shaggy red braids falling around his shoulders. “This is something of a coincidence,” the sorcerer continued. “I was recently engaged in a conversation about you. May I join you, sir?”
“By all means,” Jack replied, gesturing at the seat across the table. He straightened up and kicked the canvas bag out of the way.
Halamar took the proffered chair, and signaled to Kurzen at the bar. The dwarf nodded and drew a pint for the mage, who cleverly used a minor telekinesis to summon it to his hand. “Ahh, that’s good,” he said. “Now, as I was saying-strange, do you smell smoke?”
“I smell little else,” Jack muttered darkly. “Please, continue.”
“Anyway, I was at the High House of Magic earlier this afternoon, and I encountered our esteemed visitor Tarandor Delhame berating his apprentices about some oversight or inattentiveness on their part. The door to his chamber stood open; there was a finely carved wooden case standing on his desk, with a strange greenish-black bottle next to it. I admit his distress provoked my curiosity, so when he was finished with his disciplinary measures, I asked him what had gone wrong.
“Tarandor said to me, ‘That ignorant, strutting buffoon of a sorcerer’-his words, not mine-‘has somehow escaped a very expensive spell of entrapment, and now I will have to start all over again.’ I asked him what sorcerer he was referring to. ‘Jack Ravenwild,’ he replied. ‘It was a conjuration of the eighth order, proof against the escape of any prisoner short of an archmage or demon prince. How could he have slipped out?’
“Well, I was surprised that Tarandor knew you by name. ‘Why in the world would you want to entrap Jack Ravenwild?’ I asked. ‘I am under an obligation to do so,’ Tarandor replied. ‘Meritheus left instructions for my master, who passed them on to me. Apparently he foresaw some calamity involving Ravenwild.’ I pointed out that it was impossible to know what threat old Meritheus foresaw or whether it still pertained after so many years. Tarandor only shrugged. ‘Who cares?’ he replied. ‘All I want to do is discharge my obligation as quickly as possible and return to Iriaebor.’
“I remonstrated with Tarandor, but it was clear that he had little interest in my views.” Halamar paused to imbibe a long swallow of his ale, and continued. “Anyway, I went on my way rather puzzled by the whole episode. I hope you can provide some new insight. Oh, and by the way, how did you escape an entrapment of the eighth order? That is no small feat.”
“I am a man of hidden talents,” Jack replied. “As it turned out, I had the Sarkonagael on my person when Tarandor conjured me into that bottle. I found a spell inside that helped me to escape. A shame that Tarandor has already noticed my absence; I was hoping he would remain ignorant of my freedom for some time yet.”
“That is unfortunate. Tarandor is a very capable abjurer. I would not want to have him determined to imprison me.”
“What will you tell Tarandor when you see him again?” Jack asked.
The fire-sorcerer scratched at his small patch of beard and shrugged. “Not a thing. In the first place, I find him arrogant and overbearing. More important, I am still awaiting my five-hundred-crown share from the disposal of the Sarkonagael, which I would be unlikely to receive if you were to be thrust back into permanent stasis. Speaking of which, have you claimed the reward yet? I would feel better if we resolved that without much more delay.”
“I settled it today. Your share is in Tharzon’s keeping.”
“Indeed?” Halamar glanced over at the bar and caught the old dwarf’s eye. Tharzon gave him a small nod. “Excellent! I had been led to understand that you sometimes experienced difficulties in observing such details.” He raised his tankard to Jack, and took a deep drink.
Jack took the opportunity to do likewise with his own cup, while thinking hard about the challenge posed by Tarandor’s unreasonable suspicions. He could hardly continue with his ordinary business if a competent and ambitious wizard was determined to trap him again. Somehow he would have to find a way to dissuade Tarandor from any further attacks on his liberty. “It seems
that I will have to discourage Tarandor,” he mused. “I assume that the Guild might frown on murder or abduction?”
Halamar simply looked at Jack. “Can you think of any better way to confirm Tarandor’s misgivings about you?”
“A theoretical question only,” said Jack. He frowned in thought, considering the question of how to avoid recapture at Tarandor’s hands. Outside, the temple bells began to strike the hour; when they reached six bells, he suddenly leaped to his feet and slapped a hand to his forehead. “Selune’s silver slippers!” he cried. “I am supposed to meet Seila at the opera in an hour!”
Halamar raised an eyebrow. “Do not let me detain you, then.”
“We will continue this conversation later,” Jack promised. “My thanks for your news, Halamar.” With that, he seized the duffel with the remnants of his wardrobe, threw it up on his shoulder, and hurried to the door.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A little before eight bells in the evening, Jack strolled up to the Rundelstone Opera House. He’d hurried from the Smoke Wyrm to the dismal little apartment above the vacant tinsmith’s shop, washed quickly, and changed his clothes before racing back across town to Rundelstone. He wore a fine pair of black silk breeches, a double-breasted tunic of black with silver buttons, a short cape, and a rakish felt hat. They were the least-rumpled and least-smoky of his clothes. Of course, no one noticed his fine ensemble at the door, because he was invisible.
With some difficulty he worked his way through the crowd; in close quarters it was difficult to avoid being jostled, especially when other people had no reason not to walk right through where he happened to be standing. Jack feared for a moment that arousing suspicions with an invisible collision was inevitable, but before he caused a scene he hit upon the strategy of drawing up as close as he could behind a tall, important-looking lord. Other opera-goers naturally deferred to the fellow and helpfully cleared out of his path. Once the nobleman paused to sniff at the unexplained aroma of smoke in his vicinity, but he pressed on with a shrug, and Jack followed him inside.
Jack quickly fled the crowded lobby and climbed the stairs to the box level. Finding himself momentarily alone in the stairwell, he resumed visibility and began to look for the Norwood box. He discovered that the boxes were labeled with brass placards engraved with the name of the seats’ owner for the season, which made finding Seila a simple matter indeed. With one last look around for any observers, Jack cautiously opened the door at the back of the box and slipped into the back of the small balcony enclosure.
Seila waited inside, wearing a splendid green dress with a pale golden fur draped over her lovely shoulders. She looked up as Jack entered and frowned at him. “There you are,” she said in a low voice. “I have been worried sick about you all day, Jack! I feared you were lying dead in the ashes of Maldridge.”
“There was no need to fear,” Jack told her. “I am unharmed; I was not even home when the fire started.”
She gave Jack a suspicious look. “Then why do you smell like smoke?”
“I am afraid that my clothes-other than the ones I was wearing at the time, of course-were home. I managed to rescue half my wardrobe before the flames consumed the manor; this outfit seemed somewhat less permeated than anything else remaining in my possession.”
He took the seat beside hers and leaned over to kiss her, but she pulled back after lightly brushing his lips with hers. “Jack, Maldridge was better than two hundred years old,” she said. “The house was a treasure of my family. I have to tell you, my father is beyond furious. I have never seen him so angry. He thinks you burned down Maldridge on purpose!”
“That is ridiculous. Your father and I have our differences at the moment, but destroying Maldridge certainly would do nothing to resolve them. What could I possibly gain from such an action?”
Seila wavered, her mouth pursed. After a long moment she asked, “How did it happen?”
“Your father should take up that question with Marquise Dresimil. Her warriors were the fellows responsible for Maldridge’s destruction.”
“The drow set fire to Maldridge?” Seila exclaimed, perhaps more loudly than she’d meant to. Jack noticed heads in nearby boxes glancing in their direction. Fortunately, the orchestra was beginning to tune up, and the theater was filled with the audience’s chatter before the show; Seila’s voice did not carry far. “They were in Raven’s Bluff? Why would they do such a thing?”
“They were very definitely in Raven’s Bluff,” Jack replied. “As far as why they attacked Maldridge, well, I had occasion to speak with Myrkyssa Jelan a few days ago. She informed me that a party of dark elves had tried to spirit her back to the Underdark. I can only speculate that the band that attacked Maldridge was looking for me, and perhaps fired the house in spite when they found that they’d missed me. It seems that Dresimil wants her escaped captives back.”
“You’ve seen Myrkyssa Jelan?” Seila was self-conscious enough to lower her voice to a whisper this time. “By all that’s holy, Jack, what have you gotten yourself into? You couldn’t possibly expect me to believe that she is involved in this, too!”
Jack stifled a small cough. “As long as we are dealing in unfortunate developments, I should probably add a word of warning about Master Tarandor Delhame-you remember, the wizard we met at the party? He represents interests that imprisoned me in my own time, and is dissatisfied with my liberty. He may try to find me through you.” Seila started to protest, but Jack motioned for patience and leaned forward to spy out the crowd as discretely as he could. “A moment, my dear-give me a chance to look for our friend the slaver before they lower the house lights.”
“Fetterfist would seem to be the least of your concerns right now,” Seila said, a little crossly. But she drew closer to Jack and studied the crowd for a moment.
“Look for a tall, clean-shaven man, with straw-colored hair,” Jack replied. “Not too young, not too old-I would guess his age at thirty to forty.”
“Hmm. That fellow in red, in the third row?”
Jack followed Seila’s gaze, and shook his head. “Too fat. Fetterfist is a lean, bony fellow.” Together they searched the crowd until the house’s lamplighters came out to lower the lights, to no avail-the slaver was nowhere in sight. However, Seila did point out several men of about the right frame and appearance that Jack was able to definitively eliminate. The young noblewoman had actually brought a list of the male guests from the Norwood party who answered to Fetterfist’s general description, and she lined out names with a small charcoal pencil.
“Well, that was not as useful as I’d hoped,” Jack remarked as the opening overture began. “What now?”
“Wait and watch,” Seila advised. “It’s not unusual for people to show up late. We might find him at intermission.”
They watched the opening scene of The Fall of Myth Drannor. Jack found it confusing and melodramatic, with far too many Elvish names and characters to keep track of. He soon fell to studying the crowd in the low lighting, turning his attention to the stage only when some particularly spectacular movement of the music caught his ear. Seila, on the other hand, seemed quite affected by the opera and watched with rapt interest as the hero and his lady sang of the folly of love in a time of war and destruction.
At a quiet moment between scenes, Jack renewed the conversation. “I see a number of new arrivals, but no sign of our slaver yet,” he said. “How about you?”
Seila shook her head. “I recognize most of the people who have taken their seats during the first act. None of them could pass for Fetterfist unless he is a master of disguise.”
“Hmmm, perhaps he has no particular liking for opera. When is the next event of social significance?”
“The Lord Mayor’s spring revel, the night of the eighteenth,” Seila replied. “It’s supposed to be a grand affair this year; everybody will be there. I expect to attend with my family, however, so it may be difficult to smuggle you inside.”
“We have three days to think of something
,” Jack said. He was not concerned; there wasn’t a ball, masquerade, or debut he couldn’t crash if he put his mind to it. On the other hand, the mention of Seila’s father brought another thought to mind. “As long as we have a moment, my dear, do you know of a reason why your father would be interested in a magic tome? Specifically, a book called the Sarkonagael?”
“The what?”
“The Sarkonagael. It is a book of shadow magic.”
“No, I have never heard of it. What does my father have to do with it?” Seila asked.
“He offered a very substantial reward for its recovery,” said Jack. He started to add more, but the next scene began with a fanfare of trumpets, and Seila looked back toward the stage. The rogue turned his attention from the audience on the floor of the house to the box seats on the opposite wall, studying each in turn with great care; now that his eyes were adjusted to the dim light, he could make out more of the room.
At the next interval of dialogue in the production, Seila belatedly replied to Jack. “My father sponsors adventurers from time to time,” she whispered. “If he offered a reward for some old book, I’m sure he had a good reason.”
Prince of Ravens frr-1 Page 24