Zandria’s fate was more difficult to piece together, because she’d left Raven’s Bluff a year or so after Jack’s adventures with her. Fortunately, the Guild was in the habit of hoarding news of notable wizards wherever they might be. During the Year of the Bent Blade, she was living quite comfortably in Elversult, having recovered some great treasure or another from Chondathan ruins in the area. In fact, it seemed that she had won herself a noble title for her efforts and was counted as one of the city’s high councilors. “Zandria might have returned briefly to Raven’s Bluff to visit some sinister scheme upon me,” Jack mused, “but I simply don’t believe she was that angry with me, especially if her circumstances in Elversult were condign.”
“What did you do to earn this Zandria’s anger?” Berreth asked.
“I solved an impossible riddle for her and helped her to win a legendary treasure, but she was difficult to please,” Jack answered. “What of Iphegor the Black?”
Berreth consulted the appropriate tomes, and in half an hour more Jack had his answer. The story of Iphegor the Black, nightmare of rival sorcerers and plunderer of ancient lore, was quite peculiar. He vanished from the knowledge of the Wizard’s Guild until the Year of the Black Blazon-a full six years after Jack’s imprisonment-at which point he returned to Raven’s Bluff at the head of an army of necromantic mice. He sent his tiny skeletal horde into the home of Marcus, Knight of the Hawk, capering and cackling with maniacal glee in the street outside as the undead creatures devoured the hapless knight in his bed. Then he vanished with the cry, “Thus ever to mouse-murderers!” and was never heard from again.
“What a strange fellow,” Berreth said after reading the account. “Why should he care if this Marcus had killed a mouse?”
Jack grinned from ear to ear. Marcus had been the personal author of two severe beatings upon his person; he was not at all unhappy to discover that the Knight of the Hawk had met his end in an unexpected fashion. “The mouse in question was the beloved familiar of Iphegor the Black,” he told Berreth. “Iphegor always blamed Marcus for the mouse’s death, which was perhaps unfair, because I was more directly responsible. Well, the wheel of a cart had something to do with it, too. In any event, I can rest assured that Iphegor never learned what role I played in the whole unfortunate affair, and he continued to blame Marcus. He had no reason to suspect my involvement, and therefore he was not responsible for what befell me.”
While Jack pondered the question of what other wizard might have acted against him, he heard the distant chimes of the Temple of Holy Revelry announcing one bell after noon. Remembering that he might be expecting the attentions of a tailor at Maldridge, he excused himself to Initiate Berreth … but not until she’d exacted from him the fifty gold crowns to renew his affiliate membership in good standing. He cheerfully paid; it might prove useful to maintain good relations with the High House of Magic, and he might be able to trade other morsels of information about the people, places, and events of his time for additional favors.
He strolled back to Maldridge and found that Edelmon had obtained the services of the halfling tailor Grigor Silverstitch. Jack spent the better part of the afternoon with the fussy little fellow, giving thorough attention to every detail of his wardrobe, from boots (five pairs, in various styles and colors) to hats (four of those, including two jaunty caps and two wide-brimmed for inclement weather). Jack always considered himself a bold dresser, and he had a good eye for fashions; when Master Silverstitch departed, the tailor was beaming at the prospect of several hundred crowns’ worth of business that would allow him to showcase his talents in a style that more conservative clients might shy away from.
Jack saw to the strongbox full of gold that had been delivered from his counting house, admiring the coins before locking up the strongbox in the most secure vault he could find in the house, and then he ventured out again to visit a couple of booksellers. He hoped against hope that someone had simply stolen the Sarkonagael from the person offering the reward to fence it, although it seemed unlikely other treasure-seekers would have overlooked something so obvious. The effort proved as fruitless as he expected, although he did meet some of the city’s dealers in rare and ancient tomes-one never knew when those acquaintances might come in handy. Finally he returned home, where he enjoyed a fine dinner of roast beef accompanied by a dry Chessentan red.
After dinner, Jack enjoyed a glass of port by the fire and leafed through a recent travelogue he’d picked up during his foray to the booksellers’ shops with the idea of acquainting himself with the changes in lands and cities wrought by the Spellplague. A discrete knock came at the study door, and the valet Edelmon entered. “I beg your pardon, sir,” the valet said. “The staff has gone home for the evening. If you do not require anything else, I shall retire.”
“Very good,” Jack said. “But leave out this excellent port. I may have another glass.”
“You have a lunchtime engagement with Lady Moonbrace and her family tomorrow. And in the evening there is a reception at the Raven’s Bluff Playhouse to solicit patrons for the troupe.”
“Should I become a patron?”
“It may prove advantageous, sir. Many well-connected people should be in attendance. A gift of perhaps two hundred crowns would be appropriate.”
Jack winced a little. Marden Norwood’s five thousand crowns might go faster than he would like if he kept spending at his current pace; all the more reason to expand his fortune at the first opportunity. “Very good,” he said.
The doorbell chimed out in the front hall. “Ah. Are you still receiving visitors, sir?” Edelmon asked.
“It depends who’s calling,” Jack replied.
“I will see, sir,” Edelmon bowed and left Jack in the study. He heard the front door open and a murmur of voices before the valet returned. “A young lady at the door requests a word with you, sir. She gave her name as Alanda; I asked her to wait in the foyer. Shall I show her in?”
Jack thought for a moment, trying to place the name. He’d met many people over the last few days in Norwood Manor. Perhaps it was a message from Seila? “No, I’ll go speak to her,” he said. “You may retire, Edelmon.”
The valet bowed and withdrew, heading downstairs to his quarters by the kitchen. Jack took a moment to smooth his tunic. Then he opened the study’s sliding door and stepped into the front hall, already beginning a gracious bow to greet his guest before the words of welcome died in his mouth.
There, in his foyer, stood the Warlord Myrkyssa Jelan.
She wore a burgundy doublet over black tights and thigh-high boots of fine leather; her long, raven-dark hair was bound around her brow by a slender golden fillet, and her fine katana-the very sword with which she’d almost killed him once-rode at her hip in a sheath of lacquered wood. “A new standing instruction for the staff,” Jack muttered to himself. “Henceforward I am to be advised if my visitors are armed.”
The Warlord studied him carefully for a moment as he stood there, gaping at her, and then snorted to herself. “It really is you, as unlikely as that might seem,” she said. “Hello, Jack. Have you missed me?”
Jack stared for a long time before he finally found his voice. “Elana,” he said. “Why are you here?”
“I heard rumors that Seila Norwood had been rescued from captivity in Chumavhraele by someone calling himself Jaer Kell Wildhame. I recognized your favorite alias, but I couldn’t believe that the tale was true. So I decided to see for myself if you were indeed the Jack Ravenwild I knew.” Jelan prowled closer, and she locked her eyes on Jack’s. “As it turns out, Jack, you and I have unfinished business.”