Prince of Ravens

“Well done, Jack, well done,” Tharzon said in approval when Jack finished. “You always had a daring streak in you.”

“It was nothing,” Jack replied with false modesty, waving away Tharzon’s praise.

“You can bet that the drow won’t believe it to be nothing,” Kurzen warned. “The dark elves have long memories, and they never let a slight pass without answer. You’d best watch your back, Jack Ravenwild.”

“I am not concerned,” Jack answered. “The drow do not frighten me; I have their measure now.”

Kurzen shook his head at Jack’s reply. “They have their eyes and ears in the city. I would not be so quick to dismiss them. If I were you, I’d lay low for a time.” The young dwarf rose and returned to his work at the bar.

Jack took a long pull from his mug, and then he looked back to Tharzon. “There’s one other thing you should know. I think the drow released Myrkyssa Jelan, too.”

Tharzon sat up straight. “The Warlord herself? No!”

“I see that you remember her as fondly as I do,” said Jack. “I actually saw her down in the mythal-plaza, which is no longer under a lake, by the way. She emerged from the mythal as a very lifelike statue, and still managed to scare me half to death in that condition.” He grinned crookedly. “Apparently she didn’t stay that way for long, and the drow made the mistake of trying to enslave her. She cut her way out of Chumavhraele and vanished into the Underdark.”

The dwarf shook his head. “If Myrkyssa Jelan is at liberty again, trouble’s sure to follow. I wouldn’t be surprised …” Tharzon’s voice trailed away, and his eyes took on a thoughtful expression. “Hmmph. I wonder? Is it possible?”

“Is what possible, friend Tharzon?”

“A new gang moved into the Skymbles a couple of tendays ago. They call themselves the Moon Daggers, and they’ve already put a couple of local street gangs in their place. I’ve heard that the Moon Daggers aren’t just guttersnipes and street rats; skilled adventurers run the gang, with a dark-haired swordswoman at their head. Do you think it’s the Warlord?”

“I deem it unlikely. Street gangs come and go, and for that matter so do adventurers. All of Jelan’s plots and designs are a hundred years out of date; even she couldn’t easily recover from such a setback.” Jack considered the question again, and decided that he was well satisfied with that answer. He winked at Seila. “Now on to more important matters: I promised you three days ago that I’d tell you the tale of the Guilder’s Vault. Well, here sits one of my comrades in that harrowing adventure, and between the two of us I think we can do it justice.

“The tale begins in the disorderly library of a disreputable old sot of a sage by the name of Ontrodes, whose counsel I’d sought on the matter of a missing arcane tome known as the Sarkonagael …”

The telling of the story of the Guilder’s Vault took up the rest of the morning. Jack counted it as time well spent, because Seila was completely enthralled by the story, all the more so because old Tharzon was able to reinforce the telling of the tale with his own recollections. After that, Jack and Tharzon traded news of old comrades for a little longer-most of whom, as one might expect, were long since dead-until Jack finally held up his hand. “I could spend the rest of the day talking with you, friend Tharzon, but I’ve a lot of city still to see, and it would be a pity to bore my lovely companion, here. I promise that I will return soon to resume our conversation.”

“Fair enough,” Tharzon replied. He snorted in bemusement, and shook his head. “Jack Ravenwild, here under my beams again. Who could have thought it?”

With another round of handclasps, Jack and Seila said their goodbyes and returned to the sunny streets outside. They climbed back into the carriage, and Seila leaned close to Jack. “He seems a very pleasant fellow,” she remarked. “And what stories, too. I think you were not as much of a gentleman back in those days, Jack.”

“Rather like a good brandy, Tharzon’s mellowed with age,” Jack replied. “He was a very fierce fellow a century ago, and in fact once swore a blood oath to hack me to pieces if he ever saw me again. Fortunately, that little misunderstanding was cleared up! But I never would have thought him to be so sentimental.”

“Where to now?”

Jack considered the question for a moment. He’d hoped that Tharzon might be able to shed some light on why he’d been encysted in the wild mythal, but it seemed that his disappearance had been as much a mystery to his friends as it was to himself. He would have to think of some other way to pursue that inquiry, he supposed. “Hmm … well, I can’t think of any other old friends to look up unless we visit the cemetery. Let’s just have a turn around the city and see what we see. I used to have a house over in Mortonbrace, and I sometimes made do with a little loft in Burnt Gables and a cottage on the Ladyrock.” Jack’s eye fell on a counting house, and another thought struck him. “And I would dearly like to visit Wyrmhoard House, if they are still around. My deposits have had a hundred years to grow; I am frankly curious as to the state of my accounts.”

“To Mortonbrace, Hartle,” Seila said to their driver. “But take your time, there’s no hurry.”

“As you wish, my lady,” the driver replied. He gave the reins a shake and clucked at the horse, and the carriage rolled away from the Smoke Wyrm. They drove east on Vespers Way until they reached Moorland Ride, where they turned south and passed through the neighborhoods of Sixstar, Tentowers, and Swordspoint. Jack engaged himself wholly in the game of trying to spot which buildings remained the same and which had changed, then comparing the current occupants or business to the ones he remembered from his time. Many of the fine townhouses and manors in the noble neighborhoods still belonged to the same families, as one might expect, but most of the businesses were strange to him.

In Swordspoint they turned east on Raven Way, and crossed the small bridge over DeVillars Creek into the neighborhood of Mortonbrace. In Jack’s day Mortonbrace had been something of an up and coming neighborhood, a place where many of the newly wealthy-including no small number of adventurers-had built fine new houses for themselves. Now, a hundred years later, it seemed that Mortonbrace had seen its peak and was growing old. Fine old manor houses now verged on dilapidation; some were broken out into a dozen or more apartments occupied by poor laborers and craftsmen, many of them from foreign lands. Jack discovered that the fashionable townhouse he’d bought for himself with his reward from the whole Myrkyssa Jelan affair was now occupied by several families of halflings.

“Well,” he said with a sigh. It surprised him how much the sight of his house falling into disrepair and full of strangers darkened his mood; he’d never been one to care too much for the roof over his head, as long as he had one. “I suppose it would have too much to expect that the house would have stood vacant all this time.”

“You might still have a claim on the place,” Seila offered. “Or I’m sure you could buy it back if you wanted to.”

Jack eyed the place dubiously. The roof now had a distinct sag to it, the porch slanted noticeably, and the siding was covered with salvaged planks and patches. He put on an air of indulgent good humor, and waved off the suggestion. “I think I’ll let them keep it,” he replied.

Next they visited Wyrmhoard House, the counting house where Jack had once kept the modest wealth he’d managed to save instead of spending on fine furnishings, splendid garb, and various dissipations and entertainments. There Jack learned that the five hundred or so gold crowns he’d once possessed had vanished into history, the account having been settled by someone claiming to have been acting as his legal heir about four years after he’d disappeared. “Duplicity! Despoliation!” Jack cried at the clerk assisting him. “How could you have simply given away the funds I entrusted to you?”

“Sir, you are referring to an event that occurred ninety-five years ago,” the clerk protested. He was a balding, middle-aged gnome who stood on a high riser behind the counter. The gnome pointed to the ancient, yellowed ledger in which the transaction was recorded. “It’s a wonder that we have this much of a record. This-” he paused to squint at the fading signature-“Morgath? Is that it? This Morgath apparently presented a court writ attesting to your demise, and another authorizing him to see to your estate. I can only surmise that my predecessor here at Wyrmhoard House saw no reason to doubt the veracity of the documents.”

“This is outrageous!” Jack protested. “I demand immediate redress.”

The clerk closed his dusty ledger. “You may seek such a ruling from the city magistrate, sir, but I will not hand you five hundred and thirty-five-”

“You neglect one hundred years of compound interest,” Jack interrupted.

“Five hundred thirty-five gold crowns or their compounded value, then. I cannot simply give you that sum. Do you have any proof that you are this person who lived a hundred years ago?”

“Of course I am me!”