He settled down to read the handbills more thoroughly. On the back of the first bill, an item caught his eye: REWARD OFFERED FOR RECOVERY OF MISSING TOME. He read further, studying the article. “Anonymous patron offers five thousand gold crowns to any person who finds the spellbook known as the Sarkonagael, rumored to be lost in the depths of Sarbreen … the Sarkonagael? By Mask’s shadowed sword, is that old grimoire still about?” Jack knew that book very well. Long ago the lovely and mysterious Elana had commissioned him to find the Sarkonagael, which had led him to the library of the infamous necromancer Iphegor the Black, from whence he’d stolen the book. On delivering the book to the mysterious Elana he’d discovered that she was none other than the Warlord Myrkyssa Jelan. The mage or mages who served her had used the Sarkonagael’s spells to cause no end of trouble during her attempt to seize power in the city. As far as Jack recalled, the Ministry of Art had confiscated the sinister spellbook for safekeeping after Jelan’s defeat … but it seemed that it was missing again, and someone very badly wanted it found.
“Now that is interesting,” he murmured. Once upon a time he had been very good at unraveling riddles of that sort, and even if he didn’t know where to start in the Raven’s Bluff of today, the exercise might help introduce him to the sorts of useful, if shady, people he used to know throughout the city. And who could say that he was at any disadvantage compared to a contemporary investigator? He would, after all, embark on the process with no preconceptions, armed with a mental flexibility few others could match. He had personal experience of the Sarkonagael, which any other seekers in the current day likely lacked. The reward was substantial enough to double his fortune at a stroke if he succeeded … or, if he decided the person seeking the book shouldn’t have it, he could curry favor with the city’s authorities and rulers by securing it for them. “Either way I would continue to burnish my fortunes in this current day,” he concluded.
He read further, noting that the reward was offered through the counting house of Horthlaer-doubtless the interested party wished to publish his or her interest in the ancient book while protecting their anonymity-and made a note to inquire at Horthlaer’s about when the reward had been offered and who was behind it. After all, it was more than a little coincidental that a book that had gone missing back in his own day had resurfaced as a topic of interest at the very same moment in history that he himself had returned to. Then he pushed himself back from his breakfast table, pausing to dab at his mouth with his napkin. “Very interesting, indeed,” he reflected. He would have to look into the Sarkonagael business soon … but for now, he had business at the High House of Magic. Some wizard of a hundred years past had done him a great disservice, and someone from the Wizards’ Guild might very well know the identity of his forgotten nemesis.
He threw on the best of his borrowed Norwood cloaks, chose a jaunty cap, and informed Edelmon that he would return in a couple of hours. Then he ventured out into the streets of Tentowers. It was overcast and blustery, much more typical for springtime in Raven’s Bluff than the fine weather of the previous day, and Jack shivered as the wind bit through his clothes. Fortunately, the High House of Magic was only two blocks south of Maldridge on MacIntyre. A few minutes’ dignified stroll brought him to the foot of a small, spired castle that stood in the middle of the fine houses and well-heeled shops. Jack had always thought the headquarters of the Wizards’ Guild was rather pretentious, and he was not surprised to see that a hundred years hadn’t moderated the tastes of its occupants in the least.
He climbed the steps to the tower door and gave it a firm knock. A moment later the door opened, and an officious-looking chamberlain-a tiefling, to judge by his horns and tail-answered. “Yes?” he said in a sepulchral voice.
“Good morning!” said Jack. “I am a wizard of some skill, and I might be interested in joining this arcane fellowship if a tour of the premises and introduction to the staff convinces me that it would be worth my while.”
The tiefling bowed and showed Jack inside to the dark-paneled foyer without another word. Seven busts of stern-looking mages stood in small alcoves, seeming to study Jack with disapproval. He gave them a casual glance; he was not terribly interested in the Guild’s long-deceased assortment of notables and benefactors. But the tiefling chamberlain paused in the middle of the foyer and addressed the collected statuary. “An applicant for membership, honored archmages,” he intoned.
“A peculiar tradition,” Jack observed. “Still, far be it from me to criticize your quaint superstitions.”
The marble busts stared blankly ahead, and Jack began to form the unpleasant suspicion that he was indeed under some form of examination. The last time he had ventured into the High House of Magic to join the Guild, there had been no such procedure, but of course that had been more than a hundred years ago. He looked more closely at the stone faces, and realized that he recognized a couple of them. Over on the left end stood the lean, bearded visage of Alcides van Tighe, archmage of the guild in Jack’s day, and two busts to the right was a round-faced mage with a thin, drooping mustache and a bored expression-the wizard Meritheus, who’d been a minor functionary in the guild when Jack knew him. Apparently the fellow had succeeded in climbing through the ranks in the decades after Jack’s imprisonment.
Jack grew a little restless as the tiefling waited in silence, and he began to fidget with the buttons on his coat. “Exactly how long will we continue to pay our respects?” he whispered to the chamberlain.
“This sorcerer is known to me,” the bust of Meritheus suddenly said. Its stone visage came to life, eyes blinking and lips moving as it spoke. “Bid welcome to the Dread Delgath, master of time and space, an affiliate member since the Year of Wild Magic. His dues are in arrears by one hundred and six years. And I am reminded that I have a message for Master Silverlocke; please notify him at once.” The statue adopted a sour expression as it regarded Jack.
The tiefling remained expressionless as he looked down at Jack. “It seems that you are a member already, Master Delgath.”
Jack stared at the bust for a long moment before answering. “The Dread Delgath bestrides the years as lesser mages might pace across a room. If I have no recollection of joining your guild, it is simply because I have not yet done so. Clearly I will travel to the Year of Wild Magic at some point in my personal future, and join your fellowship at that time.” That struck him as eminently plausible for a master of time and space, and he folded his arms across his chest in a pose of unshakeable confidence. “For that reason the matter of one hundred and six years of dues is not relevant. My dues must be calculated on the basis of my personal experience, not the simple turning of years that signify nothing to the Dread Delgath. Now, shall we continue inside? I have important business to attend in this strange and marvelous year.”
The tiefling looked again at the bust of Meritheus, then frowned at Jack. “Do you know the Master Silverlocke of whom the archmage spoke?”
The name was dimly familiar to Jack; it took him a moment to place it. Silverlocke had been one of the old guild officers back in his proper day, but Jack didn’t recall any dealings with the fellow. Most likely Master Silverlocke was in charge of woefully dated membership rolls or collecting long-owed dues or some such thing, and because he’d just suggested to the chamberlain that he had no memory of joining the guild in the past, he decided not to admit otherwise. “I am afraid I know none of your guild members. Becoming acquainted with your fellowship was indeed the purpose of my visit.”