The City of Ravens (12 page)

“I am not a particularly strong man,” he said cheerfully, “but I am quite certain that I could crush every bone in your body by tightening my grasp. Do you agree?”

The mouse gulped. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

“If I recall correctly, a wizard’s familiar not only shares a mental bond with its summoner, but it also shares a link of life energy or vitality. No familiar survives its master’s death, I have heard, and a powerful wizard might be rendered virtually helpless by the sudden demise of his familiar, true?”

“Actually, no,” the mouse squeaked. “It doesn’t work like that at all.”

“Oh. Well, then, I guess I have no further use for you. Good-bye, mouse.” Jack began to tighten his grip.

“Wait!” the mouse cried. “Please! You were right! I was lying! Please don’t kill me!”

Jack grinned. “Very well, I shall not, unless I am startled by the appearance of Iphegor himself, in which case I will kill you in an instant. I advise you to think twice before attempting to summon the wizard here through your mental link.” He leered at the tiny creature until it scrunched its eyes closed in fright, and then laughed. “Now, I have business to attend. Perchance do you know where Iphegor keeps the Sarkonagael?”

“Please don’t make me tell you that,” the mouse whispered, a very small sound indeed.

“The longer we delay, the more likely it is that Iphegor and I meet, and I might be forced to squeeze you until your little bones snap and your little orifices trickle bright red blood and your little eyes pop out of your little head.”

“Behind you. The second shelf!” the mouse wailed. “Please don’t say things like that! I have a delicate constitution.”

Jack searched the alcove the mouse indicated and found, on the second shelf, a large tome bound in black leather with massive silver clasps. With his free hand he fished it out of the bookshelf and examined the cover. It was an ominous-looking thing, with a silver skull

embossed in the center and dire runes inscribed at each hasp. The title was stamped out in silver chasing: The Sarkonagael, or Secrets of the Shadewrights. He stuffed it into the pouch at his side and turned to go.

“You’re going to let me go now?” the mouse asked hopefully.

“Soon,” Jack said. “For now I deem it advisable to travel in your company.”

He glanced around the summoning chamber one last time and then retreated down the winding staircase. Green wizard-lights threw strange, twisting shadows against the walls and gave everything a pale, unhealthy luminescence. The rogue quickly passed through the wizard’s chambers and followed the staircase down to the ground floor.

No one was around. Jack trotted softly over to the tower’s only door and paused a moment to whisper a spell that changed his shape, taking on another face and another appearance. He didn’t want someone outside the tower to mark the departure of someone answering to his description. After a moment’s thought, he molded his shape into a tall, strong swordsman in leather armor, with black hair, clear gray eyes, and the tattoo of a falcon showing on the back of his hand. Marcus would serve as well as any.

“Any traps or wardings on the door?” he asked the mouse.

“No, not from this side,” the mouse answered dejectedly.

“Excellent. You and I shall take a short walk down the street, and when I am well clear of the tower, I will set you free—provided Iphegor does not interfere.”

“I haven’t told him a thing,” the mouse said.

Jack let himself out and strode out into the street, blinking in the daylight. It was gray and overcast, but

after the dim shadows of the wizard’s tower, it seemed as bright as noon on a summer day. He set his clenched fist near the hilt of his sword, hoping that no one would notice the tiny gray head sticking out between his thumb and forefinger, and slipped into the crowd, walking away from the tower without a backward glance.

He was three blocks away when Iphegor finally caught up to him. There was a flash of light and a puff of sulfurous smoke directly in front of him. The wizard stood before him, livid with rage, nostrils flaring and eyes bright as burning coals.

“Hold right there,” the wizard said in a hiss. “Your doom is upon you, defiler of my home!”

Jack thrust the mouse into his face and squeezed a little. “Careful, Iphegor. I have your familiar!”

The mouse squeaked. “Not… so… tight!”

Iphegor the Black, dread bane of mighty swordsmen, nightmare of rival sorcerers, doom of hulking monsters and plunderer of ancient lore, blanched in horror. He gaped openmouthed for a full five heartbeats before collecting his wits.

“Harm one hair of that mouse,” he said in a deadly quiet voice, “and I shall order your bones to tear themselves free of your flesh and spend the rest of eternity marching endlessly across the face of the world. Now who are you?”

“They call me Marcus,” Jack said with a shrug.

“Very well, then, Marcus. You will now put down my familiar, making no sudden moves. If you follow my directions explicitly, I may allow you to five. Any questions?”

Jack nodded sagely, absorbing the threat. He lowered his hand as if to set the mouse upon the ground.

“One question,” he said. “Ever see a mouse fly?” Then he hurled the tiny creature as high into the air as he could throw it.

Iphegor looked up, agape in indignation. Jack chose that exact moment to punch the tall wizard in the knob of his throat as hard as he could and then turned to run.

Iphegor goggled in agony, choking for breath as he collapsed like a poleaxed ox. The wizard’s eyes stared vacantly up at the airborne rodent, now at the very apogee of its arc. Jack dashed for the nearest corner, sprinting for his life. He didn’t think he’d killed Iphegor, and that meant that sooner or later the necromancer would get around to being extraordinarily angry about the whole affair.

“Catch me, Master” squeaked the mouse in terror as it fell, tiny limbs flailing vainly in the air.

The wizard gurgled and lurched awkwardly, throwing out one hand in a herculean effort. Incredibly, Iphegor managed to catch his tumbling familiar in the palm of his hand before collapsing on his back in the muddy street, spread-eagled. His face was a distinct shade of blue, but he finally managed to draw a great rattling gasp. Passersby glanced at each other, then carefully stepped around the prostrate mage and continued on their way.

“I… I think I’m all right,” the mouse piped. “Oh, thank you, Master! Thank—”And that was all, for at that moment the wheel of a passing cart rolled right over mouse and wizard’s hand both, crushing each beyond hope of repair. Bones crunched and blood ran; Iphegor, eyes bulging, let out one hideous strangled cry, sat bolt upright for a moment, and then fell back into the mud like a black banner pulled down in battle.

Jack checked his pouch to make sure the loot was still there and then trotted off down the street. He had to hurry if he was going to make it to the Fleetwood estate in time to escort Illyth to the Orange Lord’s ball.

Two hours later, Jack and Illyth stood on a terrace overlooking the sea, listening to the gentle strains of music drifting out from inside the white palace behind them. It was sunset. For a few minutes at the end of the day the red sun seemed to hang below the heavy overcast sky and above the slate sea, painting both sky and city with fiery scarlet and brilliant gold. The Game attendants must have marked the masks of the previous session, since Illyth was once again Lady Crane and Jack stood resplendently dressed as Lord Fox.

“We must have twenty clues here, not counting the hearsay, and I still don’t feel as if I’m any closer to solving this puzzle,” Illyth complained. She scratched notes into a small journal, thoughtfully studying the pieces she and Jack had accumulated so far. “If only some of the clues told you something in the affirmative, instead of the negative!”

“That would be far too easy,” Jack pointed out, “and the organizers would quickly exhaust their store of clues. If you provide a clue that so-and-so is the Red Lord, why, you eliminate six of seven possibilities, but if you instead hint that so-and-so is not the Red Lord, you have only eliminated one of seven possibilities. It’s annoyingly clever.”

Illyth sniffed. “And what of this one? The Black Lord is the brother of Geciras. What are we supposed to make of that?”

Jack smiled. “First of all, it’s another way of saying that Geciras is not the Black Lord. You should mark it as such. Secondly, it might be a clue-and-a-half, so to speak. When we find a clue that says Geciras has but one brother, and he is king in Septun, then we’d know that the Black Lord rules Septun.”

“We need a lot of clues,” the noblewoman muttered. Jack started to reply, but she poked him in the chest with her forefinger. “Oh, no. No more stealing tokens, Jack. I’ll win fairly or not at all.”

Jack grimaced. “Very well, although I think it likely that others may not feel constrained by your sense of fair Play.”

“Then I suppose we shall have to try harder.”

Illyth finished writing and slipped the notebook into a small purse at her side. Jack had noticed many players similarly equipped tonight. Illyth might not want him to steal anymore tokens, but borrowing someone’s journal might be very useful. Or, for that matter, filling a journal with false clues and then leaving it someplace where an unscrupulous player would rifle through it might also be useful. Illyth interrupted his scheming by grasping his hand and dragging him suddenly toward the ballroom inside.

“Come on, Jack! Let’s have a dance. I want you right where I can see you.”

They joined a sea of gracious, swirling figures gliding across the marble floor, arm in arm as they paced through the measured steps of a stately quadrille. Jack didn’t know the steps, but he watched the noblemen around him and picked it up fast. He’d always had a knack for dances, even if his tastes ran more to reels and kicks. And it made Illyth happy; she laughed in delight at each turn and pirouette. Jack shrugged to himself. There were worse things that making Illyth happy, even if she had too much money to court honestly and too much sense to seduce dishonestly. But for a short time he could imagine that he belonged among a shining company like this with a beautiful noble lass like Illyth on his arm.

“So did you find what you were looking for?” she asked him suddenly as they promenaded across the floor. “I beg your pardon?”

“About Iphegor, Durezil, and Gerard. The play you’re working on.”

“Oh! Of course.” Jack thought of the Sarkonagael, currently hidden in a very secure spot with several spells of concealment on it. He wasn’t supposed to meet Elana for two nights yet, but the book ought to be safe enough. “I am very close to finishing the script,” he laughed, “and I expect a very handsome fee when I deliver it to the person who commissioned my work, a very handsome fee, indeed.”

Illyth offered a wry smile. “And I thought you worked only for the love of the art. All right, Jack. The curiosity is driving me insane. What are you really up to? There’s no play, is there?”

“If I told you that I am at this very instant furiously plotting the last scene, would you believe me?”

“Probably not,” Illyth admitted.

“Then I had better not tell you that,” Jack replied. The dance ended, to a spontaneous patter of applause from the dancers. Jack and Illyth clapped politely as the musicians bowed and set down their instruments. “The terrace again? It’s warm in here.”

“In a moment,” Illyth said. “I must visit the powder room first.”

“I’ll be outside,” Jack said.

He strolled back out to the terrace and looked out over the city. The palace was located in the Foreign District, a fine ambassador’s house that was virtually a fortress within the city’s walls. Orange flickers of light danced along the streets below as lamplighters made their rounds in the shadowed streets. He leaned on the balustrade, listening to the sounds of the city settling in for the evening—the distant clatter of dishes, a carriage passing along the cobbled streets nearby, a dog barking a short way off. Absently he paced the length of the terrace, down to a small private garden where smooth stone benches rested in a bower of green ivy.

Voices murmured ahead of him. “Indiscretion engenders opportunity,” Jack said softly to himself. And Illyth had said that she wished for more clues, hadn’t she? Eavesdropping was certainly less questionable than pickpocketing. Jack stealthily glided closer, straining his ears to listen.

“—that be enough?”

“Few will be armed. We can determine which of them are carrying weapons early in the evening, and perhaps drug their wine before we move. It shouldn’t prove difficult to place our own men among the serving staff.” Jack heard a man’s voice, low and confident.

“What of the Watch? We’ll need at least half an hour to be thorough, and we won’t be able to afford any interruptions.” A woman, her voice as sharp as a shard of glass.

“Well create a distraction, a tavern brawl on the other side of town, or perhaps a riot. Yes, a riot. That would be an effective diversion.”

“I hope you understand the risks I am taking,” the woman said. “We will get only one chance. If we fail, all our heads will roll.”

“Such is the price of failure, my lady. We must—”

“Jack! Where are you?” Illyth called from the terrace nearby. Jack quickly retreated toward her, holding up his hand to warn her, but she didn’t notice. “Oh, there you are. Where have you been hiding?”

Someone moved behind him. Jack whirled; from the shelter of the high green hedges a man and a woman appeared, their features covered by the illusory masks of the Game. The man wore the orange and black stripes of a tiger, while the woman wore an elegant emerald shimmer that was reminiscent of a mantis. They regarded him coldly for a long moment, and then walked away, retreating back into the crowded ballroom as he watched them go. Illyth moved up beside him, and set her hand on his arm.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Those two,” Jack said. “They were plotting something, my dear. I overheard them talking about how they would divert the Watch when they were ready to strike.”

“Strike? Against whom? For what?”

Jack frowned. It was almost certainly none of his business, but what were they up to? He hated it when he discovered plots that were not his own. An assassination, perhaps? A coup? A simple robbery or theft?