Prince of Ravens

hearth.

“Where’s that fetching noble lass of yours this morning?” Tharzon asked.

“At Norwood Manor, so far as I know. Her father decided that he’d be happy to put me up here in town, so I’ve been staying in a fine house over in Tentowers.” Jack gave Tharzon a grin. “I think he suspected my motives toward Seila.”

“Aye, well, he would be wise to,” the dwarf agreed. “So what do you want to know about Sarbreen, Jack?”

“Have you ever heard of a great hall with pillars carved in the shape of ancient dwarf warriors? The floor is made of honey-gold marble, and there is an altar of some sort in the shape of a great anvil. Behind the altar is an old mosaic of a hammer surrounded by fire.”

“Ah, the Temple of the Soulforger. That’s the place you’re speaking of, Jack.”

“The Temple of the Soulforger?”

“Moradin’s shrine, Jack, Moradin’s shrine. Sarbreen held a magnificent cathedral consecrated to the maker of all dwarves. There’s no mistaking the anvil altar.”

“Where is it?” Jack asked. “Do you know how to get there?”

Tharzon’s brow lowered as he eyed Jack for a moment. “What business do you have in the Temple of the Soulforger, Jack? You don’t intend anything … disrespectful, do you?”

“No, no, nothing like that. I consulted with a seer of the Diviners’ Guild yesterday, and that’s the place I saw in my vision. Someone collected a number of old tomes and scrolls and left them in the temple; I’m looking for one in particular. The temple itself I have no designs upon.” Well, not unless there’s some great treasure lying about just waiting to be pocketed, he added to himself.

Tharzon held Jack’s gaze a moment before nodding to himself. “In that case, then yes, I can tell you how to find it. But it’s on one of the deeper levels, and it’s not a journey for the faint of heart. That quarter of Sarbreen is dangerous, Jack, very dangerous, with monsters of sorts you won’t find roaming the sewers just beneath your feet. If you mean to get to the Soulforger’s Temple, you’ll want some good swordarms at your back, and probably a mage as well.”

Jack sighed. He’d hoped the temple would be somewhere close to the surface and not terribly perilous to reach. After all, his circumstances were reasonably comfortable at the moment, and he didn’t feel any particular driving need to risk life and limb unless the prize was truly extraordinary. On the other hand, he knew where the Sarkonagael was and no one else did. It would be a shame to pass by that sort of opportunity, especially with the chance to double his fortune as the stakes.

He leaned a little closer to Tharzon and asked, “Have you kept your hand in the game at all, Tharzon? Do you know where I might find a few trustworthy fellows who’d be willing to dare Sarbreen for a great prize?” Once upon a time Tharzon had been a thief almost as skilled as Jack himself, although the dwarf was by nature a tunneler and a lockpick. His thefts were patient and methodical affairs, the sort of work for which Jack had never had the temperament.

“I retired forty years ago,” the dwarf replied. He tapped his cane on the ground. “My knees are ruined, and my back’s none too good, either. I decided a long time ago to let younger dwarves worry about what sort of monsters they might meet in the dark and whether the authorities might nab them as they went about their trade. Too much risk, not enough profit.” He gave a small shrug. “Besides, the Smoke Wyrm returns a decent living for an honest day’s work.”

Jack glanced around the taproom and raised an eyebrow. “Friend Tharzon,” he said, “I have the feeling that your honest day’s work is more loosely defined than you let on.” After all, a profitable and well-known business was the perfect cover for a fence; the taproom likely provided Tharzon with all the spare coin he needed to buy what working thieves had to sell. “Tell me, do you export that excellent stout of yours?”

“As it turns out, we ship it all over the Vast. Tantras, Calaunt, Procampur, even across the Dragon Reach to Harrowdale sometimes,” Tharzon admitted. “Sometimes the kegs are a wee bit heavy.”

Jack tipped his cap to his old comrade. “Clever, my old friend, very clever. So what of it? Do you know any good hands who could help me?”

“I thought you intended to make a great show of becoming respectable, Jack.”

“Becoming respectable is a surprisingly expensive process. And there’s nothing disreputable about venturing into the lost halls of Sarbreen to indulge an interest in archaeology or lost artifacts. Who knows what sort of harmless eccentricities the Landsgrave Jaer Kell Wildhame might indulge? Why, strange tastes and extravagant habits are the very hallmark of nobility!” Jack paused a moment to further consider Tharzon’s point. “Still … it wouldn’t do to be seen in truly unsavory company. No murderers, necromancers, or gnomes, if it can be helped.”

Tharzon leaned back in his chair, absently knotting his thick fist around his cane. His eyes took on a sharper, more calculating expression as he gazed toward the hearth. “I have a few handy fellows in mind,” he said. “They’ll want a cut of the prize, mind you. But they’ve had a thin time of it lately and they shouldn’t drive too hard a bargain. I could arrange for you to meet them in a day or two.”

“Can I trust them?”

“Only if you’re a fool, but I can see to it that you’ve got a friend at your shoulder.” The old dwarf rapped the cane on the floor again and called to Kurzen, still working to ready the taproom for the afternoon’s patrons. “Boy, leave that nonsense be for now and come have a seat. There’s business to discuss.”

Kurzen set the last of the kegs in place behind the bar, brushed his hands off on his apron, and came over to join his father and Jack. “What’s the work, Da?” he asked.

“Sarbreen, the seaward quarter, five levels down. Jack here has a book he’s looking for, and if there’s one valuable tome lying about, there’s likely to be two. We’ll bring in Narm and his band. They haven’t been too lucky of late, so they ought to be willing enough.”

Kurzen studied Jack for a moment, his dark eyes stern and unfriendly. “I’ve heard plenty of good stories about you, but it’s my neck as well as yours. Are you any use in a scrape?”

“Ask your Da,” Jack replied. “I saved him from a deep dragon once. And we fought the Warlord and her sellswords together.”

The younger dwarf looked over to Tharzon, who shrugged. “Jack’s not the man you want if you’re looking for a scrape, but he’s a good fellow to have on your side if you find one you weren’t expecting,” he said. “He’s quick on his feet, he’s a fair hand with a blade, and he’s got a little magic. But most important he’s got an eye for opportunity, and his wits are sharp. You could do worse, my boy.”

Jack nodded to Tharzon and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. Anything he said after that wouldn’t help much, so he waited for Kurzen to make up his mind. After a moment, the younger dwarf gave a grudging nod of his own. “All right, I’m in,” he said. “When do you want to make the try?”

“Four or five days from now,” Jack decided. Sooner would be better, but there was no way he was going to risk missing the Norwood revel by getting himself stuck in Sarbreen somehow. “Now, let’s talk about how we’ll split the loot. In my experience it’s best to deal with that question right up front to prevent unfortunate misunderstandings later.”

Any fears Jack might have felt about boredom setting in before the grand event at Norwood Manor proved ill- founded. He spent the afternoon of the eighth designing the Wildhame arms with the help of the limner, claiming to remember a device of three sable stags on a golden field divided by a scarlet chevron, with grapevines wreathing the emblem and the motto DARE, STRIVE, TRIUMPH on a scroll below. Master Willon thought it was a handsome crest indeed and promised to have it rendered and engraved in a tenday. After that, Jack attended the opera, discovering that the Bride of Secomber was a work of comic genius, flamboyantly played by its talented cast. Lord and Lady Flermeer struck him as somewhat coarse and grasping, asking him to bring up this suggestion or that with his good friend Marden Norwood when it was convenient; Jack soon realized that the Flermeers were desperate to get themselves into Norwood’s good graces, but he played along by generously offering to endorse any proposals they wished to advance.

The following day, he spent his morning with the Historical Society-which, as it turned out, provided him with an excellent opportunity to address a longstanding injustice of which he hadn’t been aware. Rather to his chagrin, Jack discovered that he was not remembered kindly in the accounts that had survived from his former time. Some versions suggested that he was a common criminal in Jelan’s employ, while others presented him as a feckless