“Where to now?”
Jack considered the question for a moment. He’d hoped that Tharzon might be able to shed some light on why he’d been encysted in the wild mythal, but it seemed that his disappearance had been as much a mystery to his friends as it was to himself. He would have to think of some other way to pursue that inquiry, he supposed. “Hmm … well, I can’t think of any other old friends to look up unless we visit the cemetery. Let’s just have a turn around the city and see what we see. I used to have a house over in Mortonbrace, and I sometimes made do with a little loft in Burnt Gables and a cottage on the Ladyrock.” Jack’s eye fell on a counting house, and another thought struck him. “And I would dearly like to visit Wyrmhoard House, if they are still around. My deposits have had a hundred years to grow; I am frankly curious as to the state of my accounts.”
“To Mortonbrace, Hartle,” Seila said to their driver. “But take your time, there’s no hurry.”
“As you wish, my lady,” the driver replied. He gave the reins a shake and clucked at the horse, and the carriage rolled away from the Smoke Wyrm. They drove east on Vespers Way until they reached Moorland Ride, where they turned south and passed through the neighborhoods of Sixstar, Tentowers, and Swordspoint. Jack engaged himself wholly in the game of trying to spot which buildings remained the same and which had changed, then comparing the current occupants or business to the ones he remembered from his time. Many of the fine townhouses and manors in the noble neighborhoods still belonged to the same families, as one might expect, but most of the businesses were strange to him.
In Swordspoint they turned east on Raven Way, and crossed the small bridge over DeVillars Creek into the neighborhood of Mortonbrace. In Jack’s day Mortonbrace had been something of an up and coming neighborhood, a place where many of the newly wealthy-including no small number of adventurers-had built fine new houses for themselves. Now, a hundred years later, it seemed that Mortonbrace had seen its peak and was growing old. Fine old manor houses now verged on dilapidation; some were broken out into a dozen or more apartments occupied by poor laborers and craftsmen, many of them from foreign lands. Jack discovered that the fashionable townhouse he’d bought for himself with his reward from the whole Myrkyssa Jelan affair was now occupied by several families of halflings.
“Well,” he said with a sigh. It surprised him how much the sight of his house falling into disrepair and full of strangers darkened his mood; he’d never been one to care too much for the roof over his head, as long as he had one. “I suppose it would have too much to expect that the house would have stood vacant all this time.”
“You might still have a claim on the place,” Seila offered. “Or I’m sure you could buy it back if you wanted to.”
Jack eyed the place dubiously. The roof now had a distinct sag to it, the porch slanted noticeably, and the siding was covered with salvaged planks and patches. He put on an air of indulgent good humor, and waved off the suggestion. “I think I’ll let them keep it,” he replied.
Next they visited Wyrmhoard House, the counting house where Jack had once kept the modest wealth he’d managed to save instead of spending on fine furnishings, splendid garb, and various dissipations and entertainments. There Jack learned that the five hundred or so gold crowns he’d once possessed had vanished into history, the account having been settled by someone claiming to have been acting as his legal heir about four years after he’d disappeared. “Duplicity! Despoliation!” Jack cried at the clerk assisting him. “How could you have simply given away the funds I entrusted to you?”
“Sir, you are referring to an event that occurred ninety-five years ago,” the clerk protested. He was a balding, middle-aged gnome who stood on a high riser behind the counter. The gnome pointed to the ancient, yellowed ledger in which the transaction was recorded. “It’s a wonder that we have this much of a record. This-” he paused to squint at the fading signature-“Morgath? Is that it? This Morgath apparently presented a court writ attesting to your demise, and another authorizing him to see to your estate. I can only surmise that my predecessor here at Wyrmhoard House saw no reason to doubt the veracity of the documents.”
“This is outrageous!” Jack protested. “I demand immediate redress.”
The clerk closed his dusty ledger. “You may seek such a ruling from the city magistrate, sir, but I will not hand you five hundred and thirty-five-”
“You neglect one hundred years of compound interest,” Jack interrupted.
“Five hundred thirty-five gold crowns or their compounded value, then. I cannot simply give you that sum. Do you have any proof that you are this person who lived a hundred years ago?”
“Of course I am me!”
“Then the magistrate should be able to establish that fact to my employer’s satisfaction. But I must reiterate that as far as Wyrmhoard House is concerned, the estate of Jack Ravenwild has already received all funds owed to it. I suggest you take up the matter with Master Morgath. Or, more likely, his descendants, if you can find them.” The clerk sniffed at Jack, tipped his cap to Seila, and scurried off with his ledger.
“If I can find them,” Jack muttered. “You have not heard the last from me on this matter!” he called after the retreating gnome.
Seila offered a small smile in sympathy. “I’m sure we can help you reestablish your identity,” she said. “My father has friends in the courts. Do you have any idea who this Morgath was?”
“No,” Jack said glumly. They left the counting house and climbed back into the carriage. Then Jack was struck by a memory … a fat, unctuous fellow from the thieves’ guild who always had a tall, bony thug at his side. “Wait, yes. Morgath was a thief. The clever bastard must have forged the documents so that he could plunder my savings after I disappeared, Mask damn his black heart!”
“I am sure that you will not be left in want,” Seila pointed out. “My father will be grateful for my return, I can promise you that much.”
Jack’s interest piqued at the thought of a handsome reward, but he carefully put on an air of good cheer. “Nothing of the sort is necessary,” he claimed. “Come, let’s continue our tour. I am enjoying the outing greatly, that last little bit of unpleasantness excepted.”
They drove on along Stonekeep Way through the Skymbles, and turned westward again into Burnt Gables-no, Jack reminded himself, Sindlecross, as it was now called. There he found that the old warehouse he’d once lived above was simply gone, replaced by a large granary. Jack grimaced; behind the stove in his loft there’d been a hidden cache where he remembered leaving a sackful of gold coins and gemstones for a day when he might need them, but clearly the hidey-hole and its treasures were gone now. “So much for that,” he sighed. It seemed that he was much poorer than he’d hoped he would be. “Take us through Shadystreets, and then find us a ferry to the Ladyrock.”
“Very good, sir,” the coachmen replied. He drove them south on Sindle Street to Riverview, where Jack pointed out to Seila the spot where the leaning tower of the old sage Ontrodes had once stood. The sage’s house was long gone, of course; it had been on the verge of falling down in Jack’s day, so he would have been astonished to find it still there. Then they made their way down to the point of Crow’s End. There Jack and Seila hired a boatman to scull them two hundred yards over to the island in the middle of Raven’s Bluff’s harbor. A half-hour’s walk in the afternoon sunshine was sufficient to circle the Ladyrock; Jack’s old cottage was still standing but was abandoned, its roof mostly caved in and its walls overgrown with ivy and brambles.
Seila looked at it with distaste. “Did you really live here once?”
“It was in much better repair a hundred years ago. But it was a very modest abode, even then.” Jack looked it over and shook his head. “I suppose I could fix it up.”