"The City of Ravens" - читать интересную книгу автора (Baker Richard)

CHAPTER TWO

"So, my dear friend, whose wisdom knows no bounds," Jack began, "have you perchance ever heard of a book called the Sarkonagael?"

He lounged in a vast, overstuffed easy chair in the first (and only safe) floor of Ontrodes's tower. The tools of Ontrodes's trade-books both old and new, well-known and obscure, mundane and magical-stood in great stacks throughout the cramped chamber or threatened to spill out from crowded bookshelves. The stuffing of the chair reeked of mildew, and a pile of tiny mouse droppings was located atop one arm in the exact spot that Jack wanted to rest his hand. He deliberately noted the location of the offending material and kept his hand in his lap.

Ontrodes squinted in thought and allowed himself a swig of the brandy. "Well, my dear boy, whose idle flattery knows no shame, I do not believe I have ever heard that name before." The sage laughed harshly, which led to a small fit of coughing. "You may have wasted your ten gold crowns and your cheap brandy this morning."

Jack frowned. As far as sages went, Ontrodes was not very reliable. There was a reason he was widely known as the disreputable sage Ontrodes, but he worked for next to nothing, and for exactly nothing some of the time, since his constant dissipations required a steady stream of small amounts of cash. Adventurers, rogues, and other ne'er-do-wells with a shortage of funds could usually obtain some useful scrap of information from the sage, when a well-researched answer from a real sage might cost far more than they could afford. He waved his hand at all of the books stacked head-high in the room.

"Surely you must have some hint of it somewhere in all this?"

"My particular area of expertise lies in wines, brandies, cognacs, sherries, and other exotic elixirs," Ontrodes rumbled. "No living mortal knows so much about such concoctions as I. Anything else I happen to pick up is merely incidental to my study of wines and liquors. I can say without hesitation that the Sarkonagael is not a vintage known to me, nor is it a book in which vintages are discussed, since I should then own it."

"That is not extremely helpful. How about a mage named Gerard, who would have made a name for himself as an adventurer about eight or ten years ago?"

"Can't say I've heard of him." Ontrodes said after a moment's thought, "A book called the Sarkonagael owned by a mage named Gerard, eh?"

"Something like that," Jack said with a wave of his hand. He had to remind himself to watch where he set it down. "Are you sure you don't have something about it in one of these books somewhere? I admire your intellect, but I cannot believe you have committed the entire content of your library to memory."

"More than you might think," Ontrodes said. He took another swallow from the silver flask. "For Sembian swill, this is not so bad. It's a shame you couldn't get your hands on some real elven brandy. That, my friend, is the very nectar of the gods."

"I'll see what I can do next time," Jack said. He pushed himself to his feet and discovered that he'd parked his right hand directly amid the mouse droppings. He winced and brushed it off on the other arm of the chair. "I thank you for your time, dear Ontrodes. If your wisdom fails me on this occasion, it is surely due to my inability to ask the right questions, as opposed to a degeneration of your mental faculties brought on by age and excessive drink.''

"A moment, Jack," Ontrodes said wearily. "What did you call it again?"

"The Sarkonagael?"

Ontrodes scowled and cast one bleary eye over the formidable piles of books littering the chamber. "I'll take a look, but only if you swear to bring me real elven brandy if I find something."

"I so swear, instantly and without reservation," Jack said. "Thank you, my friend!"

"Save your thanks. The real brandy costs more than a hundred gold crowns for a flask this size." Ontrodes sighed and dismissed him. "Now, leave me alone. I have work-"

There was a knock at the door. "Hello? Ontrodes?" called a woman's voice from outside.

The sage mumbled imprecations under his breath. "It appears that everyone desires my wisdom at an unreasonably early hour today," he said. He shuffled to the door and opened it. "I am Ontrodes," he said. "Who are you?"

On the doorstep, a tall woman dressed in red silk and leather waited. A curved dagger was thrust into her belt and a slender wand was sheathed in a special holster on the other side. Her eyes, green and wide, smoldered under a short-cropped shock of brilliant red hair. A fine blue tattoo of an arcane sigil marked her left cheekbone. She crossed her arms imperiously in front of her and glared at him.

"I am the Red Wizard Zandria," she said. Her voice was sharp and commanding. "I understand that you know everything there is to know about wines, brandies, and other liqueurs. Is that true?"

Ontrodes blinked in surprise. "Why, yes. Yes, it is true."

"Good. Then perhaps I can retain your expertise in this matter." Without waiting for an invitation, she marched into the sage's cottage, studied the armchair doubtfully, and then settled herself on the corner of the desk. She was strikingly handsome, with a pert figure and a challenging strength of character in her fine-featured face. She glanced at Jack and asked, "Your business with the sage is done?"

It was more of a command than a question. Jack smiled and bowed deeply, reaching for her hand, but Zandria didn't offer it. He quickly recovered and straightened. "In fact, I had just concluded my business with Ontrodes. I am delighted to meet you, my lady Zandria. I am called Jack Ravenwild, and I possess no little expertise-"

"A pleasure to have met you, Jack," Zandria interrupted. "Perhaps well see each other again soon. Please, do not allow me to delay you any longer."

The rogue spread his hands and forced a smile onto his face. He'd suffered through enough condescending dismissals to know one when he saw one. That didn't trouble him at all; he would have loved to plumb the limits of Zandria's courtesy by deliberately ignoring her not-so-subtle hints. Not only did he delight in baiting beautiful women, but Zandria was clearly a mage of some skill and confidence-a Red Wizard of Thay, no less!-and she had urgent business with the most inept sage of the city. Jack smelled clandestine deeds and secret doings, and the mystery grew moment by moment into a consuming obsession he was helpless to resist.

Only one thing to do, then. Jack bowed deeply and swept his hat from his head in a courtly bow. "As it so happens, I have great toils and wondrous works to attend. Farewell." He turned to the sage. "Ontrodes, I'll be back tomorrow to see how your search progresses."

The old sage was still gaping at Zandria. Apparently he was so used to dealing with rogues and empty-headed swordsmen down on their luck that he'd never expected to have a competent, confident professional seeking his advice again.

"My search?" he managed to ask.

Jack sighed. "The S-thing, once owned by the man named G," he hissed as he passed by.

"Oh, right, of course, I'll get right to it," Ontrodes said absently. Without looking, he waved a hand at the rogue. "I'll see you later then, Jack."

Mustering what dignity he could, Jack made his way outside and stood in the drizzle at the sage's doorstep, looking up and down the street. He nodded at a passing pair of porters carrying heavy casks on their shoulders, and then dashed quickly around the back of the sage's house. Splashing through ankle-deep mud, he circled the tower and found a shuttered window facing the alleyway. He scrambled about three feet up the tower's side, just high enough to lay his ear against the damp wood of the shutter.

"-the crypts," Zandria was saying, speaking rapidly in her clipped, clear voice. "The Lady Mayor has taken an unusual interest in the relics of Sarbreen of late, and I have long suspected that the guilder's tomb conceals an entrance into an extensive hidden vault. But I cannot actually find the place! All I have is this unfathomable riddle of an inscription."

"It's quite odd," Ontrodes agreed. "'Mark carefully the summer staircase and climb it clockwise thrice.' That makes no sense at all, does it?"

"Not really. I'd hoped you would understand it."

"Understanding may yet come to me, my lady. Cedrizarun is well-known to me. I have often wished that I had lived six or seven centuries ago, so that I might have sampled some of his works, all handmade and lovingly aged by the old dwarf himself." The sage cleared his throat; the floorboard creaked as he moved inside. "See here, this part of it: 'At the center of all the thirty-seventh.' That clearly refers to Cedrizarun's incomparable Maidenfire Gold of '37, claimed by some to be the very finest dwarven brandy ever distilled north of the sea."

"You mean this?" Zandria asked. "I thought that might be what it meant."

Jack could hear Ontrodes's gasp even through the shutter. "Oh, my lady," the sage said with awe in his voice, "I will gladly give you five hundred gold crowns for that bottle of brandy."

The mage laughed aloud. Her brusque, commanding manner vanished in her laughter; it seemed to bring out a carefree girl Jack never would have suspected. Then the glimpse was gone. "I fear not, sage. First of all, I paid far more than that for this bottle. Second, I will not uncork it or allow it to be uncorked until I am certain that I know the meaning of this riddle. I have a feeling that the Maidenfire Gold wouldn't fare well in your care."

"On the contrary, my lady, it should fare very well indeed! Who else could appreciate it more than I? Who else could revel in its exquisite bouquet, delight in every depth of its perfect flavor, comprehend with each loving sip the work of a master craftsman at the apex of his art? Oh, it would be a disservice to the world-and to dead Cedrizarun himself-if I allowed any but the most discerning and educated of connoisseurs to sample that liquor!"

Jack knew in that very instant that, regardless of the consequences to follow, he would have to get his hands on the brandy and drink it with complete and total disregard for its marvelous reputation. The notion struck him as so humorous that he snickered out loud, turning his face into his shoulder to stifle the sound-a moment too late.

Zandria threw open the shutter with a gesture of her hand, dislodging Jack from his perch on the tower wall. He flailed for balance for one long, comical moment before falling flat on his back in the muddy alleyway behind Ontrodes's home. Staring up at the gray sky and the gentle raindrops, Jack grimaced in disgust.

"My new clothes are ruined," he observed.

"Count yourself lucky if that's all I ruin," Zandria snarled. Jack raised his head from the muck and looked back up at the window. The red-haired mage glared at him, the wand in her hand. "I don't much care for eavesdroppers, thieves, swindlers, or whatever you are under all that false charm and pretentious manner."

Spread-eagled in the mud, Jack adopted the most earnest expression he could find. "I would only insult you if I made any attempt to deny that I was listening to your conversation, my lady. I did eavesdrop, and you have my most humble and sincere apologies." He smiled in what he hoped was an apologetic manner, and then added, "I only listened in because I so desperately wanted to help you. I allowed my instinct to aid others in need to momentarily overthrow my common sense."

The mage blinked in astonishment. "You expect me to believe that?" she said.

"I never lie," Jack said. He slowly picked himself up off the ground, doing his best to brush the mud from his clothes. It was of little use. "Why don't you show me the inscription you were speaking of? And that bottle of brandy? Maybe I can piece together your riddle for you. I have a real knack for that sort of thing."

"I believe I'll solve it without your help!" Zandria rapped her wand sharply on the windowsill. "Now get out of here before I turn you into a toad or a newt or something worse!"

Ontrodes peered over her shoulder at him. "I believe she means it, Jack," he said. "Shame on you, listening at my window! My learning is my livelihood. When you make use of it without paying, why, you are stealing from me!"

"I shall begin to investigate this matter on your behalf this very instant," Jack assured Zandria. "How else can I demonstrate my good intentions? I'll let you know the moment I make any progress."

"Get out of my sight this instant!" the mage shrieked.

Jack gestured and mumbled the magical words. He faded into transparency as the spell of invisibility settled over him. "As you wish, my lady," he called out. Then he squelched off through the mud, phantom footprints appearing one after another as he strode off boldly. He hummed merrily until he was out of sight. "Two riddles, two ladies, and two mysterious prizes! What next, I wonder?"

Absolutely confident of immediate success, Jack spent the rest of the day visiting every bookseller he knew of, obliquely inquiring after the Sarkonagael. He was careful to come around to his point slowly and without excessive enthusiasm, but as it turned out, Jack's precautions were wasted. He didn't find a single glimmer of recognition among any of the six booksellers he spoke to. Grudgingly he conceded the possibility that the mysterious Elana might have already investigated the obvious possibilities. That was unfortunate, since it meant that Jack might have to work and work hard to unearth the book. He considered quitting outright, but then he found himself thinking about her raven-black hair and her perfect face. The prize just might justify real exertion.

At sundown, Jack turned his steps toward the Cracked Tankard. It was too early for the familiar crowd, but he was hungry and thirsty, and he hoped against hope that he might encounter his lovely employer again. He took his accustomed spot and handed Briesa one of Elana's five-crown pieces for a huge trencher of beef and boiled potatoes, plus a sturdy mug of the Tankard's best ale.

"Keep it," he told the barmaid. "We'll call it a line of credit."

"Don't you owe us some money already, Jack?" Briesa said with an impish smile.

"No more than a silver penny or two. That should more than address the balance of my debt, in addition to any small charges I incur over the next month or so," he replied.

Briesa took the five-crown piece and set off on her rounds. When she returned a little later, she informed him that the proprietor had told her in no uncertain terms that five crowns covered Jack's tab from nights past and his meal tonight. No line of credit was forthcoming, however.

Jack was just mulling over the possibility of changing taverns to some more trusting establishment when a huge figure in a dark cloak appeared at his table and hauled out the opposite chair without invitation. He looked up, a protest forming already, but he was silenced at once by a massive hand clamping down on his wrist. With a furtive look to the left and the right, the figure lifted the cowl of the cloak just enough for Jack to catch a glimpse of blue eyes and a somewhat singed blond beard.

"Anders!" he said in surprise.

"Shhhh!" hissed the big Northman. "I've been followed all day. Don't give me away!"

"Of course, of course," Jack replied. "Tell me, how did you fare when the brothers Kuldath drove us from our rightful take?"

"It was a harrowing escape, my friend," Anders said. "The storeroom door held against the demon just long enough for me to climb back up to the rooftops. I fled at once, darting from housetop to housetop, but the demon pursued me! Did you notice that it had wings?"

"Now that you mention it, yes, I do recall wings. The high road was perhaps not the best choice of escape routes, given a pursuer who could fly."

"I was forced to find refuge in the waters of the harbor, where I remained until sunrise, when the creature gave up and returned to its masters' home. That was a long, cold night."

"I waited for you here," Jack said. "For what it's worth, the ale was decidedly inferior last night, and they let the fire burn down to a small, sad pile of embers that didn't warm the room in the least. You were really better off in the harbor."

Anders let the remark pass without comment. His eyes had fixed on Jack's sizable plate of steaming beef and potatoes. "When I climbed back to the wharves this morning, I was spotted by Kuldath agents. They reported me to the city watch, and I spent the whole day eluding their search. As it so happens, I never found an opportunity to replenish myself after shivering in the cold, foul waters of the inner harbor all night long. You wouldn't mind if-?"

"Please, be my guest," Jack said generously.

It was easy to agree, since Anders was already attacking his dinner with the ferocity of a ravenous bear. He winced as the barbarian devoured the entirety of Jack's one-crown dinner, and washed it down with great gulps of Jack's fine ale.

"So," Anders managed between gulps, "do you have my ruby on your person?"

"Your ruby?" Jack managed. "Friend Anders, did I not tell you that I failed to carry off any of the rubies? My ill-timed collision with Aldeemo scattered the rubies all over the floor, and I was forced to flee ere I recovered any of them."

"Odd," Anders said. "I am certain that I saw you pocket one ruby before you left the scene. Shall I help you check your pockets to make sure you haven't forgotten anything?"

"Oh, that ruby! Well, yes, of course I managed to get away with the ruby you saw me pick up."

"Excellent! You may deliver it to me at your convenience."

"Well, I had thought that I would wait a couple of weeks and then fence the thing, so that we could then split the loot. Sixty-forty, as we agreed."

"I look at it like this," Anders said. "You promised that, if I happened to fight the demon, I should get three gems, and you should get two. To put it another way, I should get one more of the rubies than you. Since we have in our possession only one ruby, then it seems clear to me that I should keep it. Thus, I would have one more gem than you."

"What you propose is completely intolerable!" Jack protested. "I would see no reward at all for weeks of exhaustive planning, endless nights of scrying and spying, and of course the sheer physical peril of the adventure itself! I cannot be left empty-handed!"

"You are correct, friend Jack," Anders said thoughtfully. "We must sell the gem and split the proceeds. I will take sixty percent in lieu of my three gems, and you may have forty percent in place of your two."

Jack fidgeted in his seat. The five Kuldath rubies together would have fetched thousands of crowns. Now he stood to gain less than a tenth of that!

"I shall sell the gem at once, then," he said wearily, "and I will deliver your due share by the end of the tenday."

"Perhaps I'd better attend to it," said Anders. "I wouldn't want you to be troubled with remembering exactly how much you sold the ruby for. It might damage our friendship if you accidentally reported that you'd sold the gem for, say, six hundred crowns when you'd really sold it for seven or eight hundred."

"I would never-"

"I'm sure. Give me the gem, and I'll make sure you don't." Anders held out his hand.

Jack thought things over for a moment, fuming over the fact that Anders didn't trust him. The fact that he'd entertained the exact scheme suggested by the Northman was entirely beside the point. On the other hand, he could generally count on Anders to do exactly what he said he was going to do. The Northman was about as honest a cutthroat as you could find. In any event, Jack had several other prospects for success, and he never knew when he might need a big, strong swordsman close at hand.

"Very well, then," he said with a sigh. He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out the small, hard bundle wrapped in black cloth. "In all seriousness, I think you would be well-advised to wait a few days before you try to sell it."

Anders grinned. "I'm surprised, Jack. I thought I was going to have to beat you severely in order to make you see things my way." He scooped up the silk-wrapped ruby with one big, callused fist, then stood and tugged his cowl in place over his face. "Don't worry about the gem. I'll ride up to Tantras first thing tomorrow to dispose of it."

Tantras! What that really meant was that Anders was riding out of town with the entire sum of their take from the previous night, and it would take days before Jack knew if he was coming back or not. Trust of that sort was generally foreign to Jack. He managed to paste a feeble smile on his face and nodded.

"That sounds like a good idea," he said weakly. "I'll expect your return in four or five days then."

"Might be a little longer, depending on the spring mud," the Northman said over his shoulder as he left.

Jack watched him go, frustrated by the completely unacceptable way things had turned out. He was so preoccupied that he didn't notice the two men sitting in the opposite corner rise to their feet and casually meander toward him until they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, towering over him.

"Would you be Jack Ravenwild?" said the first. He was a short, stout fellow with a round, sallow face and a small, pointed goatee. His voice purred like a well-fed cat.

"Don't bother lying," said the second. "We already know you are." This one was tall and lean, with long hands and a longer face. His yellow eyes stared out of deep, dark sockets like small, feral creatures hiding under rocks.

The rogue shook himself out of his self-pity and looked up. "Why in the world would you ask me who I am then?"

"Perhaps you could tell us where your large friend is going," the first man said.

"We know that he told you," the tall man added.

"Who are you, and why do you care?" Jack asked.

"I am called Morgath," the fat man said. "My companion is Saerk."

"Who we are doesn't matter," Saerk said. "Who we work for does."

"We are employed by an organization that provides a type of insurance to various mercantile companies of the city," Morgath said. "Last night, one of our clients suffered a small loss. We are investigating his claim, so to speak."

"They were robbed," Saerk said. "By a large, blond-haired Northman and a small rat of a burglar who knew some magic."

"That is all very interesting," Jack said, "but I don't see what it has to do with me."

"We have reason to believe that you may have a more intimate knowledge of this case-" Morgath said.

"We know you were responsible," Saerk interrupted.

"-and we expect you to see to the return the stolen property-"

"Or we'll kill you if you don't," Saerk finished.

Jack looked from the one man to the other. "If I were the man you were looking for," he said, "I would carefully consider your warning. However, I have no idea what you're talking about, I don't have any property of yours or your employer's, and until just a few moments ago, I'd never seen that barbaric fellow in my life. If you'll excuse me?" He stood and started to push past the two.

Morgath and Saerk caught him by the arms and pushed him back down into his seat. "We're not unreasonable men," Morgath began with a pained expression. "In fact, we feel that your talents do you credit. Not very many rogues could have pulled off the stunt you pulled off last night in House Kuldath. We'd rather work with you in a mutually profitable arrangement-"

"-instead of cutting you up like live bait and dumping you in the harbor for the sharks," Saerk finished. "You've got three choices, Jack Ravenwild. Sign up, ship out, or sleep with the fishes." With that, the two thieves sauntered away, smug smiles on their faces.

Jack watched them leave. He picked up the tankard Anders had emptied and swirled it, hoping to find some significant amount of ale left, but the Northman had drained it dry. Then, as the two reached the front door, he muttered a small spell and conjured up an unseen hand. As swift as an arrow Jack directed the invisible presence to the bar and seized a full pitcher of beer. Then he dumped the entire contents on the head of a big, burly longshoreman by the door, dropping the pitcher to the ground right at Morgath's feet.

Roaring in rage, the longshoreman leaped to his feet. "Why, you-"

Morgath stood staring in amazement at the pitcher. When he looked up, it was just in time to observe the impact of the dockworker's fist on the end of his nose. He howled and fell. Saerk drew a dagger, as did all three of the longshoreman's companions, and in less time than it takes to tell, both thieves were involved in a vicious, violent bar brawl complete with knives, chairs, low blows, and cudgel-armed bouncers wading in to break it up.

Jack laughed aloud and slipped out the back door.

The next morning, Jack woke early, bathed himself in bracing cold water, shaved, and then dressed in his very finest clothes-dark blue hose, a shirt of impeccable Mulhorandi cotton, and a stuffed doublet of green and yellow brocade. He donned a short cape that matched the hose and selected a soft, burgundy cap with a long feather in it. Then he pulled on rakish boots of brushed leather and buckled on his rapier and poignard. Jack attired himself with great care every time he visited Lady Illyth Fleetwood.

The day was clear and bright, by far the best day of the spring so far, but Jack hired a coach despite the fine walking weather. He had the coachman drive him six miles beyond the city walls to Woodenhall Manor, the home of the Fleetwood family. The ride took the better part of an hour, which Jack used to admire the scenery outside the city. As far as he could remember, he'd left the city no more than ten times during his entire life, and he'd never been farther away than Woodenhall. He was a Ravenaar, born and bred.

The coach turned into the lane leading to the Fleetwood Manor, rumbling to a stop in front of an impressive veranda before a palatial estate. Liveried guardsmen stood watch over beautiful grounds and hedged gardens, attending a great wooden manor house that was big enough for dozens of family members and three or four times their number of retainers, guards, servants, and guests.

Jack told the coachman to wait for him, then strode up the steps to the nearest servant and said, "Please inform Lady Illyth that the Landsgrave Jaer Kell Wildhame humbly requests an audience this morning."

The servant bowed. "At once, sir. Would you care to wait in the study?"

Jack made a show of acquiescing. "That will do quite well, thank you."

He allowed the servant to show him to a comfortably appointed drawing room and busied himself with examining the decor while he waited patiently. He noted several small items he might pocket and sell later but restrained his larcenous impulses. The Lord Jaer Kell Wildhame was no petty thief!

"Jack! What a surprise!"

Almost dancing in delight, Lady Illyth Fleetwood swept into the room and embraced Jack. Despite the fact that she was well past her schooling and into the years when a noblewoman was expected to be safely married and already raising a child or two of her own, Illyth had never lost the look of girlish enthusiasm and wide-eyed eagerness one might expect of a lady ten years younger. Where other ladies primped for hours over the exact set of their hair and fretted for days over which dress best suited them, Illyth absently kept her long, black hair in a shoulder-length cascade of soft midnight and favored simple, comfortable dresses more suited to a merchant's wife than a nobleman's daughter. Her fingers were habitually marked with faint ink stains instead of painted nails. Illyth was an accomplished scholar and prided herself on her personal library, assembled book by book as her interests carried her from one topic to the next.

Other than Ontrodes, she was the next best thing to a true sage he could consult with, and she would gladly work for nothing at all-if Jack managed to pique her interest in the topic at hand.

"Hello, Illyth," he said. He bowed deeply. "You are lovelier than ever! I find myself wondering how it is that I've allowed two months to pass since I saw you last."

"Because you're a fickle and flighty scoundrel," Illyth said with a smile.

As far as she knew, Jack was the wandering son of a minor nobleman from the Vilhon Reach, seeking his fortune abroad since his older brother had inherited his father's lands and exiled him into penury to keep him from marrying the woman he loved. Illyth thrived on stories just like that, and Jack had been carefully embroidering the tale of Jaer Kell Wildhame for Illyth's benefit for the better part of a year now.

"Lovely, wise, and cruel, all at the same time," Jack said. "How do your studies proceed, Illyth?"

"Well enough. I've spent a lot of time over the last couple of months studying the natural environs of Woodenhall-sketching the lay of the land, tracking just how many creatures of what sorts inhabit the manor, keeping records of the weather, things like that. It's all quite fascinating-but I can see that it would just bore you. How about you, Jack? Is the theater open yet?"

"Oh, I need to find another sponsor or two, and a play worth producing," Jack replied. He'd met Illyth a couple of years ago, when he was occasionally employed by various theaters in the city. Many of the noble patrons of the arts enjoyed inviting actors, playwrights, and artists of note into their social circle for a time. The rich and powerful engaged in a subtle competition to attract the most interesting personages into their retinue, in the same way that they might bid against each other to own the most striking paintings or to stock the most outrageous menageries. Ingratiating himself among the well-to-do of the city was one of Jack's favorite pastimes.

"In fact," he said, "I was hoping you could help me on the matter of the play."

"Help you? But how?" Illyth asked.

"I know that last year you became interested in the topic of heroes, adventurers, and freebooters who'd made their homes in Raven's Bluff," Jack began. "I've got an idea for a smashing production based on the deeds of one of these adventurous sorts, but I'd like to verify the details of the story and make sure that I get it all right. Historical accuracy is very important to me."

"I'm glad to hear it!" Illyth exclaimed. "I can't tell you how much it annoys me when a playwright doesn't even bother to do a bit of research. Who did you have in mind?"

"A mage named Gerard. As I understand it, he passed through the city and mysteriously vanished about six to ten years ago. Have you ever heard of him?"

She frowned prettily. "Hmmm… no, I don't believe so, but I've got hundreds of names recorded in my papers. If not there, then I might dig up some information at the Wizard's Guild, or at the Ministry of Art. What did Gerard supposedly do?"

Jack realized that he'd better tread carefully. He had to give Illyth a good reason for why he wanted to know about Gerard, one that would match his cover story. "I'm not really sure. My play is actually about a rival of his, and I wanted to cast Gerard as a villain. Supposedly, he owned a book called the Sarkonagael," he said. "Can you look into it for me?"

Illyth thought about it for a moment, and then nodded her head. "I'd be happy to, Jack, on one condition."

"Oh?"

"I need a partner in the new Game of Masks. It's going to start in just three days, and they say that the prize is a real Dragon's Tear! You're clever, and you've worked as a player before. I think you could be very good at it, if you just gave it a try!"

"The Game of Masks?" Jack tried not to wince. The Game was a noble diversion, an ongoing series of playacting events wherein the participants took on various roles and tried to solve puzzles, stumble through a plot, or play at great deeds. He supposed it was fun… but it would take a lot of time, probably one evening in every three or four for the next couple of months. More than that, if he played seriously, and Illyth would demand no less than a serious effort on his part. It would also cost a lot of money to stay in the game, more money than he could put his hands on.

Unless Anders came through with his share of the Kuldath ruby.

Or he and Illyth actually won the Game prize. A Dragon's Tear would compensate him quite nicely for his time and trouble. And how hard could it be, really? Most of their competition would consist of foppish noblemen and bored ladies groping their way through a stale plot of some kind. Jack, on the other hand, was a professional. He lied, cheated, stole, and played at being someone he was not as a way of life. He'd cut through their silly Game like a shark in a barrel of codfish.

He looked up at Illyth, a little breathless, a little too fond of her books, but a charming and pretty girl who thought he was romantic, tragic, and entertaining all at the same time. If playing at the Game made her happy, why not?

"All right," Jack said. "When do we start?"