"Then I imagine that you are left with two likely explanations: a simulacrum of some kind or one of the more mundane means employed by a mage who has carefully researched the target."
The second made sense-any competent mage could work the magic that Jack had seen his shadowy twin employ, and any competent cutthroat could have observed his comings and goings to learn of his association with Illyth, but the first confused him.
"The latter seems more likely, but I do not rule out the former. What is a simulacrum?"
"A magical construct or creature built from snow, or mud, or something similar and then infused with a kind of pseudo-life. It is perfectly accurate to casual observation, but its abilities are only a pale mirror of the person it is built to resemble. A clone, on the other hand, is a real, living person magically grown from some tiny part of its model. Both of these things are, of course, exceedingly rare and powerful magics, Jack." The sage narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "You're not thinking of trying to copy somebody, are you?"
"Ontrodes, have you heard nothing I have said? It seems that somebody has copied me," Jack said glumly. "Two days past I encountered a rather gray-faced fellow who looked like me, fought as I fight, and even seemed to know some of the magics I know. I cut him once, but he didn't bleed normally. His blood was dark and seemed to vanish after a moment on the ground."
"That is very odd," murmured the sage. "Gray faced, you say? Did he have a different appearance when he stood in shadow and when he stood in sunlight?"
"It would be hard to-wait, no, I think he did. Yes, definitely he did. It struck me as very peculiar."
"Doubly odd," Ontrodes said. With trembling hands he raised the glass to his lips and tried one tentative sip, swilling the liquor in his mouth, an expression of purest bliss etched on his coarse features. "Exquisite, exquisite! Remarkable! Be careful with your taste, my boy, this is potent stuff!"
Jack tried his. The taste was extraordinary, a glimpse of pure fire captured in a stream of gold. The fumes seemed to burn delightfully all the way through his skull, yet the taste was sweet and strong, indescribably so. He grinned in delight, then turned back to the issue at hand.
"What was doubly odd about that?"
"What? Oh, the shadow. You see, that is a characteristic usually observed in a shade."
"A shade?" Jack leaned forward, interested. "Now, what in Faerun is a shade?"
"Not from Faerun at all, dear boy, but the plane of shadow. Another rare and difficult process, in which a person exchanges his own life-force for the stuff of shadow."
"So a mage hostile to me has made himself a shade, studied my habits and appearance, and worked a simple illusion to borrow my appearance?" Jack shook his head. "That seems far-fetched."
"The other possibility is that a mage has found a way to create simulacra using shadow stuff as the working material, so to speak. I suppose it could be done."
"Who would go to that much trouble to discomfit me?" Jack wondered aloud.
Tiger and Mantis were still his first guess, but who else might be responsible? Iphegor the Black certainly had the motive, but he had already demonstrated an interest in a much more direct sort of retribution. Morgath and Saerk almost certainly lacked the magical skills to do such a thing. Marcus and Ashwillow would never move against a noble of the city in order to get at a common thief, and besides, they probably lacked the magical skill as well. Zandria had the skill, but it was not clear why she would strike at Illyth. Of course, there was Elana, who knew people who had the skill, and who might be sufficiently ruthless to order Illyth's abduction.
It didn't make sense. As far as he knew, no mage he'd ever heard of might be a shade. That left the other possibility, that some wizard hostile to him had learned how to make shadow-simulacra.
The Sarkonagaeclass="underline" Secrets of the Shadewrights.
He'd delivered it to Elana, allowed her to reveal her true identity, and then refused her. She might not be a wizard herself, but Yu Wei was in her employ, along with others perhaps. Could Elana have ordered Jack's elimination by means of a spell from the book he'd stolen for her?
"Damn," he muttered. "I'm going to have to track her down, and I'll have to find out if she is really behind this or not."
"Track who down, Jack?" asked Ontrodes.
"Noble Ontrodes, I hesitate to say more lest I endanger you as well," Jack replied. "You are better off ignorant of my affairs."
"That's hardly fair. Knowledge is my livelihood, and you certainly owe me an explanation. When can I learn more?" the sage demanded.
Jack stood suddenly and drained the rest of his brandy. His head reeled pleasantly, despite the fact he'd had only a swallow. "Strong stuff, indeed," Jack said. "With luck, I may be able to explain more in a day or three. But first, I have a shadow to catch." He let himself out into the night and stood outside Ontrodes's ruined tower, thinking about where to spend the night.
Rooming with Ontrodes was clearly out. The sage had formerly commanded room to spare in his tower, but that was clearly no longer an option. Jack was hesitant to return to his apartment. Fortunately, he'd made plans for an emergency of this nature. Despite the late hour, he retraced his steps westwards on Riverview to Sindle, cut north one block to Thavverdasz, and followed the road to the point across from the Ladyrock. There he hired a boatman waiting on late fares to ferry him over to the island-neighborhood for the exorbitant price of two silver talons. After a short scull of perhaps two hundred yards, he climbed out of the ferry onto the wharves of the Ladyrock in the middle of the river mouth.
Several months ago Jack had discovered that one of the smugglers living on the island was dead, and that no one else was likely to know that he was dead, and that no one in particular was likely even to miss the departed. He left a cottage of three rooms, sited very near a small paper mill that created a perpetual miasma of stench in this portion of the islet. The cottage itself was not in particularly good condition, with walls that didn't run true and a roof covered in wooden shakes that curled up at the edges like dried old leaves, admitting an unfortunate amount of weather and vermin into the place, but it was otherwise a good place for Jack Ravenwild to drop out of sight for a time. He made up the bed, trying not to pay attention to the heavy scent of mildew from the straw-stuffed mattress, and built a small fire in the hearth to warm the place and dry it out a bit. Then he stretched out on the damp, cold pallet and drifted off to blissful sleep.
The next day, the beginning of Tarsakh, was windy and bright, although the cool, damp air of spring still left an unpleasant chill in the shade. Jack stocked his new residence with nonperishable hardtack, dried sausage, cheeses, and jerky, just in case he might have to stay out of sight for a few days. Then he dressed as an adventuring swordsman in a shirt of fine mail and spent most of the afternoon making inquiries across the city regarding the whereabouts of a short, wiry fellow dressed in black with an impudent manner and a marked predilection toward chaos, mayhem, and murder. He spoke to innkeepers by the score, tavernmasters restaurateurs, fences and (carefully) city watchmen, harlots, strumpets and fishwives. He soon discovered that while a person answering to that general description had been seen in half a dozen places throughout the city, no one knew the dastard's whereabouts. So Jack's investigations were checked for the day. As the sun vanished behind the late afternoon fog banks rolling in from the Inner Sea, he returned to the Ladyrock in order to prepare for the Green Lord's banquet.
"I will surely apprehend that villainous duplicate, that duplicitous villain, at my earliest convenience tomorrow," he muttered angrily, dressing for the Game. "I simply have more important business to attend at the moment than dealing with the likes of him. The charming Lady Illyth awaits, and I cannot disappoint her."