The City of Ravens (17 page)

He had time to pour and drink two goblets of the Sembian red before Anders Aricssen came thumping down the narrow staircase, his fair features flushed with drink and his swordbelt slung over one shoulder. The Northman spied him at once and pushed through the crowd straight toward him.

“Jack! I’ve been looking all over for you. Where in the world have you been tonight?”

“Concluding business with a beautiful, yet disappointing, lady,” Jack said glumly. Briesa returned with the wine and two goblets. Jack poured a cup for himself and one for Anders as she moved off to look after dozens of shouting patrons. “It’s a strange night, friend Anders, filled with veiled peril and dark deeds.”

The Northman slumped into the seat across from him and drained his goblet at one mighty go, red rivulets

streaming through his beard. “That does not tell me much,” he observed. “Say, that wasn’t half bad. Your business must have concluded reasonably well, Jack; I can gauge the success of your ventures by the quality of your drink.”

Jack nodded absently, still thinking about his encounter with Elana. She’d paid him well enough, he supposed, if not in the coin he’d hoped for. That was disappointing enough, but he found himself considering her words again. Something about obligations and responsibilities to those in her employ, and the commensurate degree of loyalty she expected in return… dangerous words indeed, especially to Jack’s way of thinking. He’d made a career out of avoiding entanglements of that sort.

“Anders, did you perchance ever meet the Warlord Myrkyssa Jelan?” he asked suddenly.

His question was I’ll-timed, catching the Northman in the middle of a quaff of wine. Anders’s eyes widened, and he choked comically, spewing a fine red spray of Sembian wine in Jack’s general direction. Coughing and gagging, the Northman hunched low in his seat and seized Jack’s arm with one hand.

“Curse it, Jack! Don’t bring up that name anywhere near me!”

“No one’s paying attention to us,” Jack answered. “Besides, who cares what side you fought on in the Warlord’s siege? I’m sure you fought well and valiantly, and deserve all the honor and respect accorded veterans of that fierce war.”

“They lynched a fellow over in Pumpside just last month after they discovered he’d served under the Warlord’s banner,” Anders muttered. “He was a carpenter, with a wife and a family, a law-abiding citizen of Raven’s Bluff ever since Jelan’s army broke itself at the Battle of Fire River. Could you imagine what might befall me, given

my lack of vocation? I’d be lucky to spend the rest of my days on the prison barges!”

“The sooner you answer my question, the sooner I’ll stop pestering you about it,” Jack observed. “Did you ever meet the Warlord during your time in her service? Do you have any idea of what she looks like?”

“I was only a foot soldier in a mercenary company, Jack. Captain Aeldar was called to the Warlord’s council more than once, but he was the only one of our company who met with her.” Anders chewed on his lip, thinking. “I saw her from a distance on several occasions, riding past with her commanders on whatever business she had at the moment. She wore armor of black, lacquered plate that gleamed like jet in the sunlight. Her helm covered her features.” He laughed nervously. “She could be in this room, and I wouldn’t know it.”

“What do you know about her?”

Anders shrugged. “About as much as anyone in her service, I suppose. Captain Aeldar brought us to her army late in the campaign. We joined her banner only two months before Fire River, so we weren’t with her from the beginning. According to the soldiers who’d served with her longer, she came out of the east three to four years ago at the head of a small band of mercenaries. They said that she recruited men in Narfell and Damara before shifting south to the Impilturan frontier and the Earthfast Mountains. She embarked on a campaign of conquest, hammering tribes of ores and ogres and giants and other fell creatures into a restless horde under her command. It’s said that she won their allegiance by defeating tribal champions in one-on-one combat and deposing chieftains at the point of her sword.”

“It’s also said that she is ten feet tall and breathes fire,” Jack pointed out.

Anders nodded. “I don’t necessarily rule it out. I’d

believe almost anything I heard about the Warlord. Somehow she united tribes that had spent generations killing each other and made them follow her banner. Two springs ago, as the snows melted in the high passes, she led her horde down the valley of the Fire River, marching straight on Raven’s Bluff.”

“Why Raven’s Bluff? Hlammach, Lyrabar or Filur would have been closer. Tsurlagol or Tantras would have been easier targets.”

“She didn’t consult with me, Jack. All I know is that Aeldar marched us all over the Vast keeping up with Jelan’s army.”

“What else?” Jack asked. “Wasn’t she supposed to be immune to magic? I seem to remember stories to that effect.”

“I heard that many Ravenaar mages and priests spent a great deal of time and effort attempting to divine her location and her intentions but failed, and I heard stories from soldiers who’d seen her in battle. They reported that no magic seemed to harm her.” Anders paused, then continued, “You should also keep in mind that I heard stories claiming that Jelan could fly, grow to a giant’s stature, tear the hearts from fallen warriors and devour them raw, and uproot hundred-foot trees with the strength of a titan. Tyr knows who she really was and what she was capable of”

Jack tugged at his thin stripe of a goatee. He would give a lot to know the truth. Did she still plot the destruction of the city? Or had she decided to pursue her inscrutable goals in some less distasteful manner? For that matter, what were her goals? What did she need the Sarkonagael for? Why did she risk her life by hiding in the very city she had tried to conquer, surrounded by thousands of people who wished her dead?

“It makes no sense,” he sighed, waving a hand in dismissal. “On to less difficult questions. Have you any news to report of Zandria and her intents?”

“She’s preparing to descend into Sarbreen the day after tomorrow at first light,” Anders replied. He drained another gulp of wine, evidently relieved by the change of topic. “Just as you said, friend Jack. She and her company mean to visit the Guilder’s Tomb without troubling us for our assistance.”

“Brilliant, capable, and predictable,” Jack remarked. “That, of course, is the very reason I asked you and Tharzon to watch Zandria’s company night and day. I knew that she would think twice about retaining my services for a share of the loot.”

“So, what’s the plan? Follow her and fall on her band when they lead us to the tomb?”

Jack raised his hand. “No, no, no. Follow her, allow her and her companions to loot the tomb, and then fall on them if need be. First of all, the Guilder’s Tomb may be guarded by all manner of unwholesome guardians and devious traps, so we shall allow Zandria and her stalwarts to take the measure of their strength. Second, if the tomb’s wards claim some of her companions, Zandria may be amenable to a renegotiation of our arrangement.”

Anders grinned. “Ah, so you’ll rob her at sword point after she’s spent her strength in forcing the tomb and removing the loot. An excellent plan, Jack.”

“Robbery is such a hard word. I prefer to think of it as encouraging her to generously reconsider our mutual association. After all, I am rather fond of Zandria, and I would hate to have her be sore with me.”

“I am not concerned with how she feels about the situation,” Anders said.

“Ah, but isn’t it better to provide her with an opportunity to purchase our assistance in the event that Sarbreen’s deadly traps and ancient defenses put her company in a bad way?” Jack sipped at his wine. “If the right circumstances develop, friend Anders, she might give us the

lion’s share of the loot and feel glad that she had the opportunity to do so. Now that is a plan.”

The Northman furrowed his brow, thinking hard through his intoxication. Anders was one of the most lucid drunks Jack had ever known; no amount of ale or wine ever seemed to fog his wits. “And what if Zandria and her company recover the loot with little trouble? She’ll have no need of us then.”

“In that event,” Jack said, “well consider more direct measures.”

§

Despite his best efforts, Jack discovered once again that copious amounts of drink drown one’s troubles in only the most transient and misleading manner. Hours of conniving, plotting, and planning with Anders and an imprudent amount of wine developed no certain plans for dealing with Zandria’s expedition and did nothing at all to alleviate Jack’s concerns about his meeting earlier in the evening or his enemies in the Game of Masks. But he did become quite drunk and had a roaring good time when he wasn’t trying to think too hard.

The next morning eluded Jack entirely, as he was unable to dispel the miserable stupor smothering him after the night’s festivities. He rose about two hours past noon and spent most of the next hour dressing slowly and painfully, one article at a time. Eventually he rallied enough to stagger out into the street and purchase bread, cheese, and a half-dozen boiled eggs for his breakfast, after which he felt much better.

“Illyth would undoubtedly say that I deserved my earlier misery,” he mused while he ate, perched under a ramshackle porch in front of the grocer’s shack. “She does not view overindulgence with the good-natured humor one

looks for in that sort of situation.” Then Jack sat bolt upright and smacked his hand to his forehead. “Illyth! The Yellow Lord’s tournament is tonight!”

He looked up to the sky; the sun was only two hours short of setting, and the next Game event was only an hour off. In a panic, Jack dashed back to his apartment, dressed quickly in his best clothes, and then hired a coach to drive him out to Fleetwood Manor as fast as he could get there.

After a very anxious half hour for Jack, the carriage turned into the short, shady lane that led to Fleetwood Manor, passing another coach on its way out. He was only about a quarter hour late in picking up Illyth, which was better than he’d expected when he remembered their date. He was dressed rather casually for the evening, with tight black cannons and a pleated tunic of yellow and maroon. The coach stopped at the ivy-covered manor door; Jack hopped out before it had stopped rolling and took the short flight of steps two at a time.

“Lord Jaer Kell Wildhame for the Lady Illyth,” he told the major domo.

The man didn’t say a word in response. Jack turned on him in some annoyance—after all, he was running late— and found that the manservant was simply staring at him in amazement. The man’s astonishment darkened visibly into suspicion.

The Lady Illyth left with Lord Jaer Kell Wildhame just a moment ago,” he said, motioning to a pair of house guards nearby. “Who, may I ask, are you?”

“I beg your pardon,” replied Jack. “Did you say that Lady Illyth just left with me?”

The major domo nodded at the coach that had been departing just as Jack arrived. There she goes. If you are not in that coach, sir, I do not know who is.”

“Nor do I,” said Jack. He dashed back to the coach he’d

rented and climbed up beside the driver. “Quickly, man! After that coach!”

The driver, a stout old man with flowing white mutton-chops, hesitated just a moment before snapping the reins and shouting. The two-horse team snorted and started off, wheeling the carriage around the drive and out toward the road. Jack could hear sounds of consternation and pursuit behind him, but he ignored them. They thundered down to the end of the lane and turned onto the road, heeling dangerously before finishing the turn.

“Faster!” cried Jack.

“We’re running all out!” the driver replied. “What are we going to do when we catch them?” “I’m going to jump,” said Jack.

The driver looked aside at him. “You’re daft,” he said.

Jack just motioned him to keep after the coach ahead. They were closing fast; the other coach was rolling along at a quick trot, while Jack’s was bouncing and clattering at a full gallop. Jack stood up on the coachman’s seat, balancing easily atop the jolting carriage. The road wasn’t wide enough to allow two coaches abreast, so he’d have to jump from behind. Fortunately, he knew a jumping spell that would work—as long as he didn’t misjudge his leap and sprawl in the road in front of his own coach.

“Be ready to rein in when I jump,” he told the driver. Tm going to stop the other coach if I can.”

The horses in Jack’s team raced up behind the other coach, slowing only as the animals realized that the rolling obstacle in front of them was not going to get out of their way. At that moment, Jack worked the spell and leaped forward, sailing clear over his own team and alighting with a thump on the roof of Illyth’s carriage. He dropped into the coachman’s seat and shoved the other driver off the bench without ceremony. The man grunted in surprise and tumbled off into the ditch at the side of

the road, rolling over and over. Jack seized the reins and hauled back, slowing the team. Then he vaulted to the ground and yanked open the carriage door.

Illyth screamed. Jack stood dumbfounded, staring into his own face. A short, wiry man dressed in black and gold ceased an assault on Illyth to leap out of the coach, knocking Jack flat. Jack scrambled to his feet as Illyth hurriedly covered herself with her torn dress. He turned just in time to get the other Jack’s boot in the center of his chest, hammering him back against the carriage. Jack responded with a spell of magical energy that knocked down his opponent and drew the sword at his side. The other Jack mirrored his movement, drawing his own sword. They circled, looking for an opening.

Jack had a long moment to study his opponent. The other Jack was his identical twin, except there seemed to be a dark cast to his features, a hint of dusky gray that didn’t show in the shadows but became clear when the other Jack happened to step into the long, slanting rays of sunlight from the setting sun. Jack shook his head in disbelief.

“Sir, you seem to have borrowed my features and my date. Who are you, and what offense have I offered you?”

The shadow Jack grinned an idiot’s grin and leaped forward, stabbing murderously here and there with his blade. Jack yelped and dodged, parrying the attacks as best he could while he gave ground, circling behind the coach. The other fellow didn’t have a great amount of skill, but he was blindingly fast and exceedingly agile, leaping and jumping with the energy of a madman as he slashed and stabbed.