The City of Ravens

by Baker, Richard

  Jack nodded. Seven lords, seven names, seven kingdoms. All one had to do was to hit upon the correct alignment out of the, just a moment, three hundred and forty-three possible combinations. Simple persistence should win the day.

  “That doesn’t seem too hard,” he said aloud.

  “Oh, and you should know,” Randall Morran added, “that you are entitled to make only one guess. Should you guess wrong, the Faceless Lords will destroy you at once, thus removing your characters from the game.”

  “Is that all?” Illyth asked.

  “No, my lady,” said a second attendant. “Each pair of participants begins with a clue as to the identity of one of the Faceless Lords. By carefully conversing with the other guests and exchanging clues, you should eventually identify each lord’s name and dwelling place.”

  “And our clue is?” Jack asked.

  Master Crafter Randall Morran consulted a large leather-bound tome. Then he opened a small locked chest sitting on the credenza and rifled through its contents, producing a small ivory token stamped with gold filigree and printed with small lettering. “Here it is, my lord.”

  Jack took the token and glanced at it. Dubhil is not the Orange Lord, it read.

  “If you are wise, you’ll ask to see the another player’s clue token when you exchange information,” the second attendant said. “Some unsportsmanlike players might deliberately mislead you otherwise.”

  “Perish the thought,” Jack muttered.

  There was one strategy out the window. He passed the token to Illyth, thinking hard. It would be very difficult to get information out of another player without providing information of presumably equal value; that meant that any clever and thorough player would make progress at about the same speed as any other clever and thorough player. Of course, the tokens might be faked or stolen. Or, for that matter, that big leather book where the Game judges apparently kept a roster of players and clues might be borrowed for a time and then carefully replaced.

  An unsportsmanlike player had a few options open to him, at least. Jack nodded to himself. It might not be so bad, after all.

  “One more question,” Illyth asked. “What happens if a participant guesses wrong and removes himself—and therefore his clue as well—from the Game?”

  “Good question,” Jack said.

  Illyth was somewhat gullible and given to romantic nonsense, but there was nothing wrong with her reasoning. When she put her mind to it, there were few puzzles she couldn’t figure out. If he could possibly accept the notion of losing fairly, he might have even considered tackling the riddle without deceit, relying on nothing more than her logical powers and his own guile.

  “Oh, we’ve already thought of that,” the Master Crafter said. “There are a handful of vital clues that we are watching out for. If a player with one of those clues faults out of the Game, we will reintroduce his clue by secretly reassigning it to a randomly determined player who is still in the Game. Never fear, my lady Crane; we’ll make sure that a solution is possible for any who still choose to play.” He guided them over to the elegant doors leading into the ballroom and bowed. “The Red Lord’s Revel awaits, my lady!”

  “Thank you,” Illyth murmured. She took Jack’s arm, and together they descended the small flight of steps leading down and into the grand room. Figures merry and fierce thronged the floor, bears and leopards, dragons and serpents, falcons and sparrows and gulls. Some danced, while others conversed gaily, and still more sampled the various hors d’oeuvres spread out along the shining side table. Striding through the center of the throng, the Red Lord moved with grace, confidence, and an air of subtle cruelty, a tall man (or woman?) in a scarlet robe and a seamless, eyeless hood of the same color.

  “Lord Fox, Lady Crane,” said a grinning satyr at Jack’s elbow. “I see that you have just arrived. Perhaps you might consent to an exchange of information in order to begin the evening’s riddle.”

  Illyth shrugged. “It seems as good a place as any to start.” She started to hand her token over, but Jack deftly caught her hand.

  “A moment,” he said with a smile. He winked at her and turned to the satyr. “Your strategy, sir, is simple. You wait here near the place where newcomers enter, and offer them a fair trade—your clue for theirs. Thus you gain dozens of clues at the expense of one.”

  The satyr-masked man laughed. “I see you have no small instinct for gamesmanship. Well? How about it?”

  “We would be parting with the entirety of our knowledge in exchange for a twentieth, perhaps a thirtieth, of yours,” Illyth said, catching Jack’s eye. “That doesn’t seem quite so fair.”

  “I can hardly be held responsible for your late start,” said the satyr. “Do you want my clue, or not?”

  “We’ll show you our token if you show yours, and tell us three other things you have learned,” said Jack.

  “My clue, plus one more,” the satyr said.

  “Make it two, and you’ll have a deal,” said Illyth.

  The man grimaced—a difficult expression through the horned mask—and agreed with a nod. “Very well, then.” They exchanged tokens; the satyr’s read The Black Lord is the brother of Geciras. “Here are two clues more that I have learned: Alcantar does not dwell in Septun, and the Blue Lord does not dwell in Dues.” He offered a shallow bow and moved on into the party.

  “This is going to be very difficult to keep straight,” Illyth said quietly to Jack. “I should have brought a journal and a pen.”

  “A sound idea. We’ll do so next time, although I suspect that everyone else will have the same idea. In the meantime, I suggest this division of labor: You commit the confirmed clues to memory, while I’ll memorize the unreliable ones.”

  “Confirmed and unreliable?”

  “Clue tokens we have seen, and clue tokens we have heard about secondhand. I don’t doubt that our satyr friend made up the two clues he told us, but on occasion, someone may deal with us in good faith. And if we have unreliable clues that don’t contradict each other, there’s a chance they might be the truth.”

  “Do you think that he was really lying to us?”

  Jack simply laughed. “I would have, had I been him. Come on—let’s see what clues we can learn and what deceits we can spread.” Arm in arm, they moved on into the Game of Masks.

  By the time midnight drew near, Jack had learned three important things.

  First of all, he’d learned that many of the players were not interested in rushing willy-nilly toward the collection of every clue at hand. In fact, there weren’t more than a dozen or so serious competitors who were trying to hound out clues as quickly as possible. For the majority of the Game players, the entertainment of the evening lay not in solving the puzzle but in playing the Game itself. It boggled Jack. Many players made small talk or thought up stories to tell about other players or the Red Lord, weaving a complex plot around the rather trite story that the Game coordinators had invented to justify the riddle. Players refused to trade clues, offered to trade clues if Illyth and he would do something to forward their own little plots and efforts, or just casually dismissed Lord Fox and Lady Crane outright, telling them to come back later.

  Secondly, Jack learned that it was possible to deftly pickpocket clue-tokens from passersby, especially on the crowded dance floor. He managed to pull off the feat three times during the course of the night. Of course, he couldn’t figure out how to let Illyth know that these clues were reliable, but he figured that he’d solve that problem later.

  Finally, Jack learned that it was extremely inadvisable to be caught at filching tokens. Near the end of the evening, Jack found himself standing near a man concealed beneath a panther mask as black as coal. The fellow was engaged in a conversation with a pretty serving girl next to the buffet sideboard. Jack sidled up behind him, filled a plate with food, and casually bumped the man as if by accident. The panther jumped and whirled on him, at which point Jack “accidentally” spilled his plate.

  “Oh, please excuse
me,” Jack said. “How clumsy of me.”

  “No apology needed,” the panther said, examining his clothes to see if any food had been spilled on him. He swayed a little, apparently a little in his cups. “No harm done—here, what’s this?” Quicker than Jack would have believed, the drunken man reached out to seize his wrist with the abrupt celerity that strong wine sometimes imparts. Lord Panther twisted Jack’s wrist, staring at his own clue token. “Huh? In a hurry to see my clue, eh?”

  Jack winced. He shouldn’t have pressed his luck—a good pickpocket worked with an accessory or two to help pass off loot quickly, just so this sort of thing didn’t happen. “Ah, I’ll agree that this looks bad,” he said. “I assure you, sir, that this is completely accidental, a freakish coincidence. I would never deliberately stoop to such a crass tactic.” He began to gain confidence in his bluster. “In fact, your accusation is unjust and undeserved. The Red Lord’s vintages have fuddled your wits.”

  “How dare you deny your guilt when my token is in your hands!” Lord Panther growled. He seemed to be sobering quickly.

  At that moment, Illyth disentangled herself from a nearby conversation and made her way over. “Hello, Jack. What’s the trouble?”

  “Ah, my Lady Crane. I sincerely hope that you adhere to higher standards than your companion here, or do you intend to seduce me in order to gain access to my token?”

  Illyth stiffened. “I intend nothing of the sort. In fact, I don’t much care for your words, sir.”

  “And I don’t much care for finding this guttersnipe’s hands in my pockets,” Lord Panther said. “You should be more careful in choosing your associates, my lady.”

  “The lady has nothing to do with this,” Jack said. “Listen, I am a reasonable man. Although I am under no compunction to do so, I’ll show you my token by way of negotiating a mutually acceptable solution to our disagreement.”

  Lord Panther pried his token out of Jack’s hand. Then he shoved the rogue hard with his free hand. Jack kept his feet but knocked over a side table in doing so. A chorus of breaking dishes drew the attention of everyone nearby.

  “I have no wish to settle anything, you cutpurse,” Panther said. “Acknowledge your guilt and apologize this instant, or leave this Game at once.”

  “Hold!” The crowd parted as the Red Lord appeared, tall and stately. “What quarrel disturbs my revel?”

  “It seems you have invited a thief to your party, my lord,” Panther said, nodding at Jack. “I caught this cretin pawing through my pockets.”

  “Lord Panther misunderstands,” Jack replied. “It was a simple accident.”

  “I misunderstand nothing,” Panther snapped. “Come on, you. You’re leaving right now.”

  “Wait,” the Red Lord said. “This is my revel, and I shall decide matters of justice. You claim that Lord Fox is a thief. Lord Fox denies the charge. There can be only one resolution.”

  “What’s that?” Jack asked, more than a little concerned.

  “Trial by combat,” the Red Lord said. “We shall let truth and piety decide the quarrel. No unrighteous man can stand before the truth. Bring me a pair of dueling swords!”

  Jack was fairly certain that that statement was not necessarily true, but he was quite certain that he didn’t want to fight a duel this very instant. Was this part of the Game, a mock fight to assuage Lord Panther’s damaged honor? Or did the Game players and organizers expect to see blood on the marble floor before the night was through?

  “I would be delighted to oblige, Red Lord,” he said carefully, “but I have recently endured a long and debilitating sickness—not contagious, no need to worry!—and I’m not really up for a sword fight at the moment.”

  “If you will not stand against your accuser, Lord Fox, we must rule that his claims are founded in truth and judge accordingly,” the Red Lord said. “How can it be otherwise?”

  “Perhaps I could designate a proxy?” Jack asked.

  “In the kingdoms of the Faceless Lords, no such practice exists,” the Red Lord intoned. “Why, you might choose a proxy based on nothing more than sheer physical skill for the purpose of gaining an unfair advantage!”

  “That would never occur to me,” Jack said, pure sincerity in his voice. “It was the farthest thought from my mind.” He licked his lips and rubbed his hands nervously at his hips. “What of a battle of wits, then? Or a contest of balancing plates upon our heads? If Lord Panther is challenging me, don’t I as the challenged have the privilege of choosing the weapons?”

  “All true gentlemen know well how to argue with their blades,” the Red Lord said, “and, if you have the strength of your convictions to shield you, no harm can possibly come to you. Now will you meet Lord Panther’s challenge or not?”

  Jack let the silence stretch so long that the gathering crowd began to grow restless. He might have ignored them despite the approbation in their eyes, but his gaze fell on Illyth. Even through the mask, he could see the mortification in her downcast face and slumping shoulders.

  He couldn’t disappoint her on the first night of the Game. “I accept the challenge,” he declared in a ringing voice. “Lord Panther has allowed your fine drink to addle his wits, my lord. I would rather not fight a man in such a state and did earnestly make every effort to avoid this passage of arms. I only hope that I can avoid injuring him in some lasting way!”

  “Not only do I call you a thief, but a braggart and a buffoon!” Panther said. “By Tyr’s sainted ears, don’t you ever shut up?”

  A servant trotted up to the Red Lord, bearing a large wooden case. He opened it and bowed, presenting two fine, matched blades to the Faceless Lord. The cloaked figure studied the swords for a moment, then nodded in satisfaction.

  “Clear a circle fifteen paces across, in the center of the floor!” he commanded. The crowd surged back in response to his voice. Conversation fell to an excited buzz as the players whispered and speculated.

  Jack found himself standing on one side, a gleaming sword in his hand, watching Lord Panther stalk back and forth, working his muscles to loosen up. The other man seemed bigger, stronger, and not anywhere near as drunk as he should have been.

  “Jack, please be careful,” Illyth begged.

  “I cannot abide his insults,” Jack said calmly. “Justice must be attended to.”

  The Red Lord moved to the center of the circle and raised his hands. “Gentlemen, shall three touches serve honor tonight?”

  “Fine,” grunted Lord Panther.

  “Of course,” Jack replied.

  “Excellent. Whoever leaves the circle, loses his weapon, or asks for quarter shall lose on the instant. When I lower my hand, you may commence.” The Red Lord backed away, his arm high. Then he dropped it like an executioner’s axe.

  “Have at you!” Panther bellowed. He leaped forward, lashing out in a head-high cut that might have decapitated Jack outright if the smaller man hadn’t ducked under the swing. Jack riposted with a sturdy thrust straight ahead, but Lord Panther twisted his lean hips and allowed Jack’s point to glide past without making contact. Panther countered with a backhanded slash under Jack’s blade, and now Jack had to leap as far as he could straight up into the air, drawing his feet up under his body and grunting with effort. “Ho! Stand still!”

  “Careful!” Jack said. “You might hurt someone.”

  He dashed aside, and spent the next ten or twenty heartbeats darting round and round inside the circle, trying to stay ahead of Lord Panther’s powerful swings. The man was no casual student of swordplay—he was well acquainted with what he was doing, and he didn’t seem to care if a “touch” took off one of Jack’s limbs by mistake. When Jack tried to stand his ground, the man launched a reckless flurry of slashes and thrusts that instantly threw the rogue into complete defense, ducking and parrying to keep Panther’s blade at some safer distance. He decided he’d picked the wrong man to pickpocket.

  “Stand and fight!” the lord roared.

  Two quick passes of the blades,
and then Lord Panther hammered through Jack’s guard and slammed the blade into the thief’s upper thigh, a blow that spun Jack to the ground and made the dueling sword flash a brilliant white light. The bystanders gasped and roared in delight.

  “One touch for Lord Panther!” the Red Lord cried.

  Stunned, Jack gingerly felt for his wound, expecting to see his blood pouring out of a gash half a hand deep, but he felt nothing, other than a deep, shocking sting. He rolled over and looked at his leg. There wasn’t a mark on him. The swords, he realized. They’re enchanted! They don’t cut!

  “Do you yield?” his opponent snarled.

  “Hardly,” Jack said. He pushed himself to his feet. His left leg would stiffen up later, but for now it held his weight well enough. He could take a sting or two. “A child’s blow, feebly struck. I permitted it so that you would not lose your spirit.”

  “Excellent,” the Panther said. “I shall endeavor to strike you harder then!”

  “Continue!” the Red Lord commanded.

  Lord Panther charged up fast, his blade flashing, but this time Jack dived forward and rolled up underneath his opponent’s guard. He felt Panther’s sword miss the crown of his head by inches, whickering past his ear, and then he stabbed the point of his own blade into Panther’s groin. The blade flashed white and jolted in Jack’s hand, imparting its painful message.

  “Ha!” he cried.

  The audience groaned in dismay. Lord Panther made a strangled sound and dropped to his hands and knees beside Jack.

  “Basely struck,” he gasped.

  “One touch for Lord Fox,” the Red Lord said. Some in the audience hissed in disapproval. “That was an ignoble blow, sir.”

  “My apologies, lord,” Jack said, scrambling to his feet. He hopped away on his good leg, grinning devilishly. “I thought my opponent was shorter. Would you care to yield?”

  Lord Panther climbed to his feet and stood a moment with his hands on his knees. “I’m not ready to yield yet,” he said slowly. With great care, he straightened up and swung his blade slowly left to right, right to left, as if reminding himself of its weight.