“It would be better to hand him over immediately.”
“I have some arrangements to make first. But never you fear, Master Tarandor. I will keep him safe until we deliver him to you.”
The wizard sighed. Jack almost felt sorry for him; the fellow seemed very anxious about the fact that Jack was not imprisoned in the mythal stone at this very instant. “I agree,” he said. “I’ll be at the icehouse at ten bells. Be warned that I will be well protected by magic.”
“Of course,” Jack said, with an insincere smile. He inclined his head to the abjurer, and left the Kettle.
Once outside, Jack took a quick turn down the nearest alleyway, then used his spell of shadow-stepping to teleport himself several blocks away. He changed his appearance again with his disguise spell, taking on the semblance of an olive-skinned Chessentan freebooter with hair of curly black and a brightly checkered cape. “Tarandor might be tempted to employ spells of scrying,” he told himself. “It seems wise to make sure he does not find me if he does.”
Satisfied that he’d given any magical spies the slip, Jack threw himself into a whole host of special errands for the day. He visited various apothecaries across the city until he found one that carried the somewhat illicit essence that was at the top of his shopping list. He stopped by the icehouse and the warehouse of Mumfort and Company to arrange his use of the facilities the next night, which mostly involved making sure he could break in when he wanted to and that no night watchmen were going to be on hand. He bought several of the leading handbills from the criers hawking them on the streets, looking for any reports about the Sarkonagael or Maldridge’s destruction and whether he was wanted in connection with either; nothing was in the news about the book, but the fire at Maldridge was quite prominent. He went by Albrath’s counting house to confirm the payment of the Sarkonagael’s reward, and finally finished with a long and expensive visit to a dealer in magical reagents and spell components.
Jack didn’t return to the tinsmith’s shop until four bells in the afternoon. He took one careful look around to make sure no one was watching the place, then let himself in, hurried up the steps to the upstairs rooms, and dumped out on the uneven table in the middle of the room the assorted reagents he’d bought. Quickly he organized the collection of jars, vials, and paper wrappings, making sure he knew what each one was. This would be a challenging piece of work, and accuracy was absolutely essential.
“Careful now, Jack,” he told himself. “Slow and steady, not a step out of place, not a word omitted.” Then he drew the folded pages of the Sarkonagael’s shadow-duplicate spell from his pocket, smoothed them on the table in front of him, and began to perform the ritual.
Steady rain pattered down around Jack and the Blue Wyverns as they pushed a borrowed cart through the dark streets of the Bitterstone neighborhood. The halfling Arlith went ahead of the small party, scouting for trouble, but they stuck to the alleyways as much as possible-Jack did not want to blunder into the city watch with the cart’s contents. He had an idea or two for how he might handle an unexpected encounter, but it would be much easier to avoid any such embarrassment altogether. Fortunately, the warehouse districts tended to be quiet and lightly trafficked after dark, and the weather further helped them to pass without notice.
Ulwhe’s Icehouse loomed up out of the fog and rain, and Jack allowed himself a sly grin. “Ah, here we are, my friends,” he said. “Bring the cart around to the alley side, and I’ll let us in.”
“Be quick about it,” Narm grumbled. “I’d like to get out of this damned rain.” Jack motioned for him to follow; the half-orc put his shoulder to the cart, while Kurzen leaned into the other side. They wheeled the cart around the corner of the building to the loading dock at the rear, while Jack went to a back window and pulled it open-he’d made sure to unlock it during his visit earlier in the day. He climbed inside and had the back door open in a moment.
“Bring our sleeping prince inside,” he told his comrades. Narm and Kurzen drew aside the old sailcloth covering the cart, revealing a bound and hooded figure underneath. The dwarf and the half-orc picked up the motionless captive by his feet and underarms and hurried into the icehouse. Halamar and Arlith followed after; with one last glance up and down the street, Jack closed the door. “This way.”
Jack led the way through the storage area as Narm and Kurzen lugged the unconscious man after him. The icehouse was full of layer after layer of great blocks of ice, separated by layers of straw. In midspring, the supply of blocks cut in the winter months hadn’t yet been drawn down or melted off by very much-the place was full almost to the rafters. Jack had picked out a spot in the building’s business office, a room not quite so damp or chilly as the ice storage area because it was separated by a thick door. He pointed to a clear spot, and his companions stretched out the motionless body on the wooden floor.
“So who do we have here?” asked Halamar. “Is Tarandor interested in him, too?”
“He will be,” Jack promised. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to don my disguise. Our colleague may be here at any moment.” He brought to mind his tried and true spell of disguise, and wove a new appearance for himself-taller, paler, with long lank yellow hair and a strong jaw. In the space of a few moments he stood six inches taller; he took care to adjust his clothes to what he’d been wearing when he met Tarandor at the Kettle.
“Now that is a handy trick,” Kurzen grunted. “If you can do that, why go to all this trouble? Give yourself a new semblance every few hours, and no one would ever find you when you don’t want to be found.”
“Because, friend Kurzen, I am fond of my own face and do not care to spend the rest of my days hiding it from sight,” Jack answered. “Halamar, if I may be so bold, perhaps you had better find a place to hide. If Tarandor sees you here, he will naturally wonder how and why you are involved.”
“As you wish,” the fire-mage replied. He chose a closet in the office, and ducked inside.
“Do you expect any trouble from this wizard?” Narm asked Jack.
“No, but it would be wise to be prepared, anyway. I doubt Tarandor will attempt to steal his prize rather than pay for it, but a show of vigilance on our part may be just the thing to dissuade him.”
They waited for a time, Arlith keeping watch from the office window and Kurzen stationing himself by the back door. Half an hour crept by, and Jack began to wonder if Tarandor had reconsidered the whole business. But finally, as the temple chimes throughout the city struck ten bells, Arlith gave a small signal and hopped down from her perch by the window. A knock came at the icehouse’s door. Jack straightened his tunic, tugged at his cuffs, and went to answer the door.
In the yellow lamplight of the street outside stood Tarandor, along with two of his apprentices-the bearded young man and the Calishite. “Ah, good evening, Master Tarandor,” Jack said warmly. “I commend you on your punctuality.”
The wizard gave him a brusque nod, and peered past Jack at the room beyond. “Who are they?” he asked, looking at Arlith, Narm, and Kurzen.
“Have no fear, Tarandor. They are simply my employees,” Jack answered. “And who do you have with you?”
“My apprentices,” the lean wizard replied. “Do you have him?”
“If by ‘him’ you mean Ravenwild, well, see for yourself.” Jack stepped out of the way and indicated the man on the floor with a sweep of his arm.
Tarandor glanced once more at the others waiting in the room, and strode inside with his apprentices crowding behind him. He frowned down at the bound figure at his feet. “Remove his hood. I need to be certain of his identity.”
Jack motioned to Narm. The big swordsman knelt by the figure on the floor and quickly undid the hood covering the face. The man unconscious on the floor was Jack’s twin, with the same dark hair, the same pointed chin, and the same neatly trimmed goatee. The rogue allowed himself a well-deserved smile of satisfaction; the Sarkonagael had not failed him. It was more than a little disconcerting to stare down at his own familiar features on another’s body, but he was a fine-looking fellow, after all-his simulacrum would have cause to be grateful for its good looks if it ever had reason to wake.