Prince of Ravens: A Forgotten Realms Novel

by Richard Baker

  “What was that?” Narm asked, pausing in his count of coins.

  “A philosophical observation, and nothing more,” Jack replied.

  “It depends whether you have a bag of gold or not,” Kurzen answered. “And of course some complaints can’t be addressed by any amount of coin.” He scooped up his share of the coins, and stood. “I have to get back to my work or my da will never let me hear the end of it.”

  “Remember, the warehouse of Mumfort and Company, nine bells on the evening of the seventeeth,” Jack said again. “I will meet you there.”

  “Nine bells,” Narm agreed. “Until the day after tomorrow, then,” he said. Kurzen nodded in agreement and led the way back to the crowded taproom. Jack took his leave of the Smoke Wyrm for the evening, hurrying back to the tiny little suite above the disused tinsmith’s shop.

  He passed the rest of the evening in a close study of the spell he’d cut from the Sarkonagael, reading the magical pages in the lightless room. Tharzon’s bolthole was not a particularly comfortable place to study; the roof leaked, and there was a peculiarly strong musty odor that seemed to emerge in the rain and damp of the evening. However, the place served its purpose of providing Jack with a place to work out of the sight of those who did not mean him well. Jack had given the shadow-simulacrum spell only a cursory examination while entrapped in Tarandor Delhame’s bottle. Jack soon discovered that, as he’d thought, the spell was more of a ritual than the sort of spell one might actually memorize. The procedure itself seemed relatively straightforward, but some of the finer details taxed him sorely. By the early hours of morning he’d satisfied his curiosity enough to seek a few hours’ sleep on the narrow, hard bed.

  Jack awoke to another cold, overcast morning; a steady drizzle grayed the streets and buildings around Jack’s retreat. He made his breakfast on a pair of sweet rolls and a quart of fresh milk from a nearby bakery, while he carefully composed a brief note and sealed it in a small envelope. Then he dressed himself in the plainest and most ordinary of the clothes remaining from the fine wardrobe created by Grigor Silverstitch—dark blue breeches with a matching vest, a shirt of white Turmishan cotton, a broad-brimmed hat of the same hue as the breeches, and a cape of light gray. He tucked his note into his vest pocket, then he worked his spell of disguise, making himself taller and lanker, changing his hair to a dirty straw color, removing his goatee, and making his jawline broad and bony. When he finished, he checked his appearance in the mirror and grinned in approval; it was a good likeness of Cailek Balathorp. Then he set out into the rainy morning.

  He headed south through Torchtown until he reached Evensong Ride, then strolled through Holyhouses and Swordspoint. At MacIntyre he turned left, with a small twinge of trepidation—the smoldering ruins of Maldridge were just a block or two ahead, and there was a very small chance that anyone looking for Jack might stake out the burned manor on the off chance he returned to dig through the rubble. But before he reached Maldridge or any likely imaginary spies watching for him, he came to the High House of Magic and trotted up the rain-slick steps to the door.

  After one quick tug at his garments to adjust the fit, Jack knocked on the great black door. There was a long pause, then Jack heard measured footfalls from the hallway within. The heavy door swung open, revealing the tiefling chamberlain—Marzam, was that his name?—dressed in a fine black coat. The grave-looking tiefling studied Jack for a moment, and then asked, “May I help you, sir?”

  “Is Master Tarandor here today?” Jack asked.

  “I believe so, sir. If you’ll wait a moment—”

  “No need, my good fellow.” Jack drew his note from his breast pocket and presented it to the chamberlain. “Please deliver this to him at once. It is a matter that interests him greatly.”

  Marzam gave Jack a dubious look, but he accepted the envelope. “I will see to it,” he said.

  “Very good,” Jack answered. He turned and trotted back down the steps; behind him, the tiefling watched him depart, then returned inside. The rogue turned south on MacIntyre and crossed Evensong Ride, making for a building just two short blocks down from the High House of Magic. A faded yellow door stood under the sign of a great black pot; Jack went inside. Back in his day, the Kettle of Many Things had been a fine little restaurant. After a hundred years, it was now a tavern that catered to the city’s working folk with filling fare and inexpensive ale and wine. Jack took a seat at a table by the window, ordered a mug of weak beer, and settled in to wait, hoping the tiefling hadn’t just tossed the note as soon as he closed the door. It was midmorning; the Kettle was quiet, with only two or three other customers minding their own business.

  A quarter-hour later, the wizard Tarandor Delhame hurried through the door, sweeping the room with his eyes. Jack, of course, still wore Balathorp’s face, but he’d drawn his hat low over his face in a show of discretion. He signaled the wizard with a motion of his hand. Tarandor frowned, but he crossed the room and slid into the bench opposite Jack. “Are you the one who left me the note at the High House?” he asked.

  “I am,” Jack replied, performing a good imitation of Balathorp’s deep and mellifluous tone. “I hope I did not cause you any great inconvenience, Master Tarandor.”

  “If what your note claimed is true, then it is no inconvenience at all.” The wizard studied his face, evidently trying to place it. “You seem to have me at a disadvantage. Who are you?”

  “A simple man of business. Some call me Fetterfist.”

  Tarandor’s eyes narrowed. “The slaver,” he said flatly. “Your reputation precedes you.”

  “We all do what we must to get by.”

  “Why did you seek me out?”

  “I heard that you are very interested in this Jack Ravenwild fellow. I can deliver him to you.”

  The abjurer frowned. “My interest is hardly public knowledge. How did you learn that I was seeking him?”

  Jack gave a small shrug. “I had a little conversation with the fire-mage Halamar at that taphouse he favors last night. You might say we have some mutual acquaintances. Now, I am sure you are a busy man, and I have many things to attend today as well, so allow me to get to the point: I have Ravenwild, and I’ll sell him to you for two thousand gold crowns.”

  “Two thousand—” the abjurer spluttered. “Why, you don’t understand! He poses a dire threat to the safety of the entire city. I must take him into custody as a public service.”

  Jack took a long sip from his beer. “Do I look as if I am interested in performing public services?” he asked. “You are not the only party interested in this fellow, you know. The drow would love to get their hands on him, too, and they’ll pay me that much or more.”

  “No, don’t do that! The dark elves may not follow the necessary procedures, and I will never be free of this detestable duty.” Tarandor scowled, but after a moment he nodded. “Fine. Two thousand crowns, then. Where is he?”

  Jack stood and hid a smile. That last bit about asking for money was pure inspiration of the moment; the idea that Tarandor would pay for the privilege of being duped was exquisite. He should have asked for more. “Meet me at ten bells tomorrow night at the icehouse on Black Visor Street,” he said. “I’ll have him all bundled up and ready for you. And don’t forget the coin. Now, are we agreed?”

  “It would be better to hand him over immediately.”

  “I have some arrangements to make first. But never you fear, Master Tarandor. I will keep him safe until we deliver him to you.”

  The wizard sighed. Jack almost felt sorry for him; the fellow seemed very anxious about the fact that Jack was not imprisoned in the mythal stone at this very instant. “I agree,” he said. “I’ll be at the icehouse at ten bells. Be warned that I will be well protected by magic.”

  “Of course,” Jack said, with an insincere smile. He inclined his head to the abjurer, and left the Kettle.

  Once outside, Jack took a quick turn down the nearest alleyway, then used his spell of shadow-stepping to telepo
rt himself several blocks away. He changed his appearance again with his disguise spell, taking on the semblance of an olive-skinned Chessentan freebooter with hair of curly black and a brightly checkered cape. “Tarandor might be tempted to employ spells of scrying,” he told himself. “It seems wise to make sure he does not find me if he does.”

  Satisfied that he’d given any magical spies the slip, Jack threw himself into a whole host of special errands for the day. He visited various apothecaries across the city until he found one that carried the somewhat illicit essence that was at the top of his shopping list. He stopped by the icehouse and the warehouse of Mumfort and Company to arrange his use of the facilities the next night, which mostly involved making sure he could break in when he wanted to and that no night watchmen were going to be on hand. He bought several of the leading handbills from the criers hawking them on the streets, looking for any reports about the Sarkonagael or Maldridge’s destruction and whether he was wanted in connection with either; nothing was in the news about the book, but the fire at Maldridge was quite prominent. He went by Albrath’s counting house to confirm the payment of the Sarkonagael’s reward, and finally finished with a long and expensive visit to a dealer in magical reagents and spell components.

  Jack didn’t return to the tinsmith’s shop until four bells in the afternoon. He took one careful look around to make sure no one was watching the place, then let himself in, hurried up the steps to the upstairs rooms, and dumped out on the uneven table in the middle of the room the assorted reagents he’d bought. Quickly he organized the collection of jars, vials, and paper wrappings, making sure he knew what each one was. This would be a challenging piece of work, and accuracy was absolutely essential.

  “Careful now, Jack,” he told himself. “Slow and steady, not a step out of place, not a word omitted.” Then he drew the folded pages of the Sarkonagael’s shadow-duplicate spell from his pocket, smoothed them on the table in front of him, and began to perform the ritual.

  Steady rain pattered down around Jack and the Blue Wyverns as they pushed a borrowed cart through the dark streets of the Bitterstone neighborhood. The halfling Arlith went ahead of the small party, scouting for trouble, but they stuck to the alleyways as much as possible—Jack did not want to blunder into the city watch with the cart’s contents. He had an idea or two for how he might handle an unexpected encounter, but it would be much easier to avoid any such embarrassment altogether. Fortunately, the warehouse districts tended to be quiet and lightly trafficked after dark, and the weather further helped them to pass without notice.

  Ulwhe’s Icehouse loomed up out of the fog and rain, and Jack allowed himself a sly grin. “Ah, here we are, my friends,” he said. “Bring the cart around to the alley side, and I’ll let us in.”

  “Be quick about it,” Narm grumbled. “I’d like to get out of this damned rain.” Jack motioned for him to follow; the half-orc put his shoulder to the cart, while Kurzen leaned into the other side. They wheeled the cart around the corner of the building to the loading dock at the rear, while Jack went to a back window and pulled it open—he’d made sure to unlock it during his visit earlier in the day. He climbed inside and had the back door open in a moment.

  “Bring our sleeping prince inside,” he told his comrades. Narm and Kurzen drew aside the old sailcloth covering the cart, revealing a bound and hooded figure underneath. The dwarf and the half-orc picked up the motionless captive by his feet and underarms and hurried into the icehouse. Halamar and Arlith followed after; with one last glance up and down the street, Jack closed the door. “This way.”

  Jack led the way through the storage area as Narm and Kurzen lugged the unconscious man after him. The icehouse was full of layer after layer of great blocks of ice, separated by layers of straw. In midspring, the supply of blocks cut in the winter months hadn’t yet been drawn down or melted off by very much—the place was full almost to the rafters. Jack had picked out a spot in the building’s business office, a room not quite so damp or chilly as the ice storage area because it was separated by a thick door. He pointed to a clear spot, and his companions stretched out the motionless body on the wooden floor.

  “So who do we have here?” asked Halamar. “Is Tarandor interested in him, too?”

  “He will be,” Jack promised. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to don my disguise. Our colleague may be here at any moment.” He brought to mind his tried and true spell of disguise, and wove a new appearance for himself—taller, paler, with long lank yellow hair and a strong jaw. In the space of a few moments he stood six inches taller; he took care to adjust his clothes to what he’d been wearing when he met Tarandor at the Kettle.

  “Now that is a handy trick,” Kurzen grunted. “If you can do that, why go to all this trouble? Give yourself a new semblance every few hours, and no one would ever find you when you don’t want to be found.”

  “Because, friend Kurzen, I am fond of my own face and do not care to spend the rest of my days hiding it from sight,” Jack answered. “Halamar, if I may be so bold, perhaps you had better find a place to hide. If Tarandor sees you here, he will naturally wonder how and why you are involved.”

  “As you wish,” the fire-mage replied. He chose a closet in the office, and ducked inside.

  “Do you expect any trouble from this wizard?” Narm asked Jack.

  “No, but it would be wise to be prepared, anyway. I doubt Tarandor will attempt to steal his prize rather than pay for it, but a show of vigilance on our part may be just the thing to dissuade him.”

  They waited for a time, Arlith keeping watch from the office window and Kurzen stationing himself by the back door. Half an hour crept by, and Jack began to wonder if Tarandor had reconsidered the whole business. But finally, as the temple chimes throughout the city struck ten bells, Arlith gave a small signal and hopped down from her perch by the window. A knock came at the icehouse’s door. Jack straightened his tunic, tugged at his cuffs, and went to answer the door.

  In the yellow lamplight of the street outside stood Tarandor, along with two of his apprentices—the bearded young man and the Calishite. “Ah, good evening, Master Tarandor,” Jack said warmly. “I commend you on your punctuality.”

  The wizard gave him a brusque nod, and peered past Jack at the room beyond. “Who are they?” he asked, looking at Arlith, Narm, and Kurzen.

  “Have no fear, Tarandor. They are simply my employees,” Jack answered. “And who do you have with you?”

  “My apprentices,” the lean wizard replied. “Do you have him?”

  “If by ‘him’ you mean Ravenwild, well, see for yourself.” Jack stepped out of the way and indicated the man on the floor with a sweep of his arm.

  Tarandor glanced once more at the others waiting in the room, and strode inside with his apprentices crowding behind him. He frowned down at the bound figure at his feet. “Remove his hood. I need to be certain of his identity.”

  Jack motioned to Narm. The big swordsman knelt by the figure on the floor and quickly undid the hood covering the face. The man unconscious on the floor was Jack’s twin, with the same dark hair, the same pointed chin, and the same neatly trimmed goatee. The rogue allowed himself a well-deserved smile of satisfaction; the Sarkonagael had not failed him. It was more than a little disconcerting to stare down at his own familiar features on another’s body, but he was a fine-looking fellow, after all—his simulacrum would have cause to be grateful for its good looks if it ever had reason to wake.

  “Are you satisfied?” Jack asked.

  The lean abjurer studied the unconscious man on the floor with a frown of concern. “You haven’t killed him, have you?” he asked.

  “I understood that you wanted him alive,” Jack replied. “Ravenwild’s had a good strong whiff of yellow musk extract, that’s all. He might not stir from his slumber for a day or two.”

  Tarandor knelt by the unconscious man, leaning forward to examine him. “I see that you gagged him, anyway.”

  “He is said
to be a sorcerer of some elusiveness.” Jack smiled with just the right combination of heartlessness and greed. “Ravenwild is known to employ a teleport spell that requires but a single word, so if I were you, I would exercise caution and keep him gagged all the way to your destination, whatever it might be. Don’t be taken in by any demonstration or struggles, no matter how energetic. A moment of compassion, and you may lose him all over again.”

  “Have no fear on that score,” Tarandor replied. He straightened up and brushed off his hands, then motioned for his apprentices to come forward. “Begin your preparations,” he told them.

  “First things first,” Jack said. “Do you have my coin?”

  Tarandor produced a good-sized coinpurse with a frown of distaste, and set it on a table. Jack nodded to Arlith, who undid the drawstring and poured out a few dozen gleaming gold crowns. “Very good,” Jack said. “Ravenwild is yours, Master Tarandor.”

  The younger wizards carefully set a familiar green bottle beside the unconscious man and set to work drawing a magic circle on the floor around him. The abjurer supervised their work, checking each mark and glyph they chalked on the floor. Jack took a surreptitious step backward, and then another; he did not care to take any chance that whatever magic Tarandor was planning might catch the wrong Jack Ravenwild.

  “My information is not complete,” Jack observed, “but I understand that you mean to take him to the dark elf ruins below the city?”

  The abjurer gave Jack a sharp glance. “You are better informed than I expected.”

  Jack gave a low chuckle. “The wizard at the Smoke Wyrm was somewhat in his cups the other night.”

  “I shall have to have a stern word with Master Halamar regarding the confidentiality of wizardly affairs.”

  “The fault was not entirely his,” Jack replied. “I furnished him with a pint or two of Old Smoky when the conversation began to take an interesting turn. After all, it is my business to smell out this sort of … opportunity … when it comes along. In any event, if you mean to carry him down to Chûmavhraele, I advise you to approach the dark elves directly and deal with them in a forthright manner. The drow are a pragmatic folk, and it is merely a matter of setting the price to purchase their cooperation.”