Jack steeled himself; somehow he doubted that Jelan would like what he was about to say. “I no longer have it, Elana,” he answered. “I turned it in for the reward. Which I have not yet collected, by the way, so there is no need to rob me at the moment.”
Myrkyssa Jelan frowned and stared levelly into his eyes for a long moment. “You turned it in?” she said. “Do not lie to me, Jack. I have been watching Horthlaer’s, and I know they do not have the book.”
“That was likely true an hour or two ago, but if Horthlaer’s does not have it by now, they will by the end of the day. I arranged another counting house to represent me, and left the Sarkonagael in their hands.”
The swordswoman muttered something to herself in a language that sounded like Shou, and turned away in frustration. Kilarnan looked at his employer. “Do we try to retrieve it from Horthlaer’s?” the elf asked. “It could be done.”
Jelan shook her head. “We would need days to arrange it; Horthlaer’s is the next best thing to a fortress. And we would set the whole of the city against us. The prize isn’t worth the cost of the throw.” She looked back at Jack, who was suddenly very conscious of the fact that he still had his hands bound in front of him and was still surrounded by her henchmen. “Did I not warn you against allowing the Sarkonagael to fall into the wrong hands?”
“Heeding warnings has never been easy for me, Elana.”
“Yes, I think I’ve learned that about you.” She glared at him. “Do you know who has the Sarkonagael now?”
Jack shook his head. “I did not determine the identity of the buyer.”
“Well, I did,” Jelan replied. “You have delivered the Secrets of the Shadewrights into the hands of Lord Norwood.”
“Norwood? Lord Marden Norwood?” Jack blinked in surprise. “What in the world would he want with it?”
“That is the question, now, isn’t it? The spell of shadow-simulacra is a potent weapon. It is a perfect tool for espionage, manipulation, or simple assassination. Do you know what might be done with that sort of magic in the wrong hands?”
Jack refrained from pointing out that Myrkyssa Jelan possessed that knowledge because she had in fact been the wrong hands just a few short years ago, by his measure. He also refrained from pointing out that the spell in question was actually in his vest pocket. Why did Seila’s father want the Sarkonagael? Was he engaged in some secret skullduggery of his own, or was he in cahoots with the drow in some unexpected manner? Jack’s mood soured even more at that thought. As heartily as he disliked Marden Norwood at the moment, for Seila’s sake he hoped that the man was not a villain. “Why do you distrust Norwood?” he asked.
“Have you seen how the nobles rule over Raven’s Bluff?” Jelan countered. “They control the city’s trade, its laws, the magistrates, the watch, the city officials, the Wizards’ Guild, everything. What do you think might happen when you give a man accustomed to using power as he pleases the sort of power the Sarkonagael holds?”
“He might want it simply for safekeeping,” said Jack, even though he was not at all sure that was the case.
“Possibly, but that is not a gamble I care to take.” The swordswoman motioned to her surviving mercenaries.
“Let us be on our way-there may be more drow about. Jack, you will find a stair leading back to the streets about thirty yards behind you.”
“That is it?” Jack asked. “You are letting me go?”
“You have nothing I want,” Jelan replied. She drew a dagger from her belt; Jack flinched despite his best efforts to hold still, but she merely sliced the bonds on his wrists and returned the knife to its sheath. “However … you have access to Norwood Manor that I do not. If Norwood tires of your games or you decide that he shouldn’t have that book you gave him after all, I’ll reward you for bringing it to me. Ask for Elana at Nimber’s Skewer Shop-that is how I prefer to be known in the current day. And you’d best heed my advice about avoiding the drow in the future, Jack. It might not be in my interest to rescue you again.” Then she turned on her heel and strode off, her small gang falling in behind her.
Jack stood in the dank sewer, surrounded by dead dark elves, and stared after Myrkyssa Jelan in confusion. He would never understand her peculiarities, not in a hundred years … which was ironic, considering that that was about how long he’d known her by one measure. He stooped to arm himself with a rapier and crossbow from the nearest dark elf, then hurried off to find his way back to the city streets.
Maldridge, unfortunately, burned to the ground.
“This will not endear me to Marden Norwood,” Jack muttered, watching the firefighting companies breaking up the smoldering debris and dousing hot spots with water pumped from their great wagons. “The destruction of Maldridge will try his patience sorely, or I am a goblin.” Somehow he doubted that Norwood would believe any story of drow kidnapers and accidental fires, not when the old lord was already inclined to look at him as a scoundrel and a fraud. Jack’s mind turned again to Norwood’s parting remark about the influence he wielded in the city and the sort of troubles he could arrange if his patience were tried.
He managed to retrieve about half of his new wardrobe, thanks in no small part to the fact that Edelmon had conveniently arranged his belongings close by the front door. Looters had carried off the large, fine trunks in which his new clothes had been housed. That, of course, was not unusual-opportunistic sorts had been racing fire companies to the scene of any fire since long before Jack’s time. He was, however, simultaneously insulted and relieved to find that the looters had discarded Jack’s bold and colorful garments in the street while stealing the trunks themselves. At least the looters had shown the uncommon decency to drag the unconscious Edelmon out of the burning house, or so Jack heard from the gawkers still standing about. Although he had no particular obligation to look after his discharged valet, he wouldn’t have wanted the old wretch to have ended up dead on his account.
It seemed unwise to linger near the destroyed mansion for long, so Jack carried a heaping armful of his clothing away from the scene. At a chandlery two streets over he found a large canvas duffel that could accommodate his sadly reduced wardrobe, stuffed his smoky-smelling clothes within, and set off again with all his possessions in the world carried over his shoulder.
A temporary setback, he told himself, and not a sign of any lasting change of fortunes-but just in case, Jack went straightaway to the counting house of Horthlaer to withdraw every last copper of the credit Norwood had provided for him. The old lord might remember to revoke the line of credit, or he might not, but Jack wasn’t about to take any chances. He decided to leave the Sarkonagael reward in the care of House Albrath for now; there was a limit to the amount of gold Jack wanted to carry around in a duffel without a place to lay his head at night. And then, since the afternoon was growing late and he had no idea where else to go, he wandered toward the Smoke Wyrm. He was sorely in need of a few tankards of good ale.
The dwarven taproom was bustling with business; the workday was done for many of the city’s common folk. Jack bought a pint of Old Smoky, ignoring the irony of the transaction, and found himself a seat at a small table by the wall. His duffel he slid under his chair. “Things are not so bad as they seem,” he reminded himself after a long pull from the tankard. He was still a man of means, after all. What did it matter that all the possessions he called his own could now fit in a canvas bag under his seat? He had a fortune of thousands of gold crowns to reestablish himself in more comfort whenever he liked.