“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.”
Then she drew her katana from its scabbard and leaped across the room at him.
Jack’s feet refused to move for one terrible instant, as he saw his death gleaming in Jelan’s hands. Then he managed to backpedal, slamming the sliding door shut just before her thrust would have skewered him. The chiseled point of the katana burst through the door’s panel inches from his face, and hung there for a moment. Quick as an eyeblink, Jack reversed himself on the sliding door and yanked it open with all his might, pinning her sword in place against the opposite doorjamb. They stood together in the doorway for a moment, Jelan trying to withdraw her sword, Jack locking the sliding door in place with his foot.
“Elana,” he said, panting a little with the effort. “This is an unexpected pleasure. Or do you prefer Myrkyssa? I’m not really sure.”
“Elana will do,” she answered. Then she let go of her swordhilt and threw her left elbow into Jack’s ribs, shoving him out of the doorway. The instant Jack was out of the way, she freed her blade and came at him again, pursuing him into the study. Jack reeled back, gasping for breath from the blow to his side, but he had the presence of mind to kick a small ottoman across the gleaming, polished floorboards right into Jelan’s feet. It caught her in mid-stride, and with a muffled oath Jelan stumbled. That gave Jack enough time to cross the room and draw his rapier from the swordbelt hanging by the desk. He turned to confront her again, somewhat comforted by the weight of the steel in his hand. On the other hand, Jelan was very, very skilled with her blade, and probably more than a match for him.
“I don’t suppose you would be kind enough to explain why you are trying to kill me?” he asked, carefully sidling out of the corner to give himself room to maneuver.
“It has something to do with the fact that you interfered with designs of mine that were ten years in the making,” Jelan replied. “And in doing so, you left me entombed in stone for a hundred years. Everyone I care for has been dead for decades, Jack. It’s as if you murdered them all.”
“I had no way of knowing what would happen,” Jack protested. He started to say more, but Jelan resumed her attack. She darted across the room, her katana gleaming in lightning-swift slashes and cuts. Jack did his best to stand his ground, parrying and riposting with his rapier. Steel rang shrilly in the dusty old study. His point flew from one contact to the next, and he managed to barely deflect the Warlord’s attack. On the other hand, his counters absolutely failed to defeat her guard. They circled several more times, trading blows, and then Jelan broke off, yielding a step or two.
“I don’t understand,” she murmured. “You are much more skilled than I remember. You always had the speed and eye for swordsmanship, Jack, but where did you acquire your training?”
Jack wondered about that himself until the answer came to him. “To you, it’s been about two months since our meeting at the wild mythal,” he said. “But to me, it’s been four years. I studied some swordsmanship after our last, er, parting.”
