Prince of Ravens

Seila waited inside, wearing a splendid green dress with a pale golden fur draped over her lovely shoulders. She looked up as Jack entered and frowned at him. “There you are,” she said in a low voice. “I have been worried sick about you all day, Jack! I feared you were lying dead in the ashes of Maldridge.”

“There was no need to fear,” Jack told her. “I am unharmed; I was not even home when the fire started.”

She gave Jack a suspicious look. “Then why do you smell like smoke?”

“I am afraid that my clothes-other than the ones I was wearing at the time, of course- were home. I managed to rescue half my wardrobe before the flames consumed the manor; this outfit seemed somewhat less permeated than anything else remaining in my possession.”

He took the seat beside hers and leaned over to kiss her, but she pulled back after lightly brushing his lips with hers. “Jack, Maldridge was better than two hundred years old,” she said. “The house was a treasure of my family. I have to tell you, my father is beyond furious. I have never seen him so angry. He thinks you burned down Maldridge on purpose!”

“That is ridiculous. Your father and I have our differences at the moment, but destroying Maldridge certainly would do nothing to resolve them. What could I possibly gain from such an action?”

Seila wavered, her mouth pursed. After a long moment she asked, “How did it happen?”

“Your father should take up that question with Marquise Dresimil. Her warriors were the fellows responsible for Maldridge’s destruction.”

“The drow set fire to Maldridge?” Seila exclaimed, perhaps more loudly than she’d meant to. Jack noticed heads in nearby boxes glancing in their direction. Fortunately, the orchestra was beginning to tune up, and the theater was filled with the audience’s chatter before the show; Seila’s voice did not carry far. “They were in Raven’s Bluff? Why would they do such a thing?”

“They were very definitely in Raven’s Bluff,” Jack replied. “As far as why they attacked Maldridge, well, I had occasion to speak with Myrkyssa Jelan a few days ago. She informed me that a party of dark elves had tried to spirit her back to the Underdark. I can only speculate that the band that attacked Maldridge was looking for me, and perhaps fired the house in spite when they found that they’d missed me. It seems that Dresimil wants her escaped captives back.”

“You’ve seen Myrkyssa Jelan?” Seila was self-conscious enough to lower her voice to a whisper this time. “By all that’s holy, Jack, what have you gotten yourself into? You couldn’t possibly expect me to believe that she is involved in this, too!”

Jack stifled a small cough. “As long as we are dealing in unfortunate developments, I should probably add a word of warning about Master Tarandor Delhame-you remember, the wizard we met at the party? He represents interests that imprisoned me in my own time, and is dissatisfied with my liberty. He may try to find me through you.” Seila started to protest, but Jack motioned for patience and leaned forward to spy out the crowd as discretely as he could. “A moment, my dear-give me a chance to look for our friend the slaver before they lower the house lights.”

“Fetterfist would seem to be the least of your concerns right now,” Seila said, a little crossly. But she drew closer to Jack and studied the crowd for a moment.

“Look for a tall, clean-shaven man, with straw-colored hair,” Jack replied. “Not too young, not too old-I would guess his age at thirty to forty.”

“Hmm. That fellow in red, in the third row?”

Jack followed Seila’s gaze, and shook his head. “Too fat. Fetterfist is a lean, bony fellow.” Together they searched the crowd until the house’s lamplighters came out to lower the lights, to no avail-the slaver was nowhere in sight. However, Seila did point out several men of about the right frame and appearance that Jack was able to definitively eliminate. The young noblewoman had actually brought a list of the male guests from the Norwood party who answered to Fetterfist’s general description, and she lined out names with a small charcoal pencil.

“Well, that was not as useful as I’d hoped,” Jack remarked as the opening overture began. “What now?”

“Wait and watch,” Seila advised. “It’s not unusual for people to show up late. We might find him at intermission.”

They watched the opening scene of The Fall of Myth Drannor. Jack found it confusing and melodramatic, with far too many Elvish names and characters to keep track of. He soon fell to studying the crowd in the low lighting, turning his attention to the stage only when some particularly spectacular movement of the music caught his ear. Seila, on the other hand, seemed quite affected by the opera and watched with rapt interest as the hero and his lady sang of the folly of love in a time of war and destruction.

At a quiet moment between scenes, Jack renewed the conversation. “I see a number of new arrivals, but no sign of our slaver yet,” he said. “How about you?”

Seila shook her head. “I recognize most of the people who have taken their seats during the first act. None of them could pass for Fetterfist unless he is a master of disguise.”

“Hmmm, perhaps he has no particular liking for opera. When is the next event of social significance?”

“The Lord Mayor’s spring revel, the night of the eighteenth,” Seila replied. “It’s supposed to be a grand affair this year; everybody will be there. I expect to attend with my family, however, so it may be difficult to smuggle you inside.”

“We have three days to think of something,” Jack said. He was not concerned; there wasn’t a ball, masquerade, or debut he couldn’t crash if he put his mind to it. On the other hand, the mention of Seila’s father brought another thought to mind. “As long as we have a moment, my dear, do you know of a reason why your father would be interested in a magic tome? Specifically, a book called the Sarkonagael?”

“The what?”

“The Sarkonagael. It is a book of shadow magic.”

“No, I have never heard of it. What does my father have to do with it?” Seila asked.

“He offered a very substantial reward for its recovery,” said Jack. He started to add more, but the next scene began with a fanfare of trumpets, and Seila looked back toward the stage. The rogue turned his attention from the audience on the floor of the house to the box seats on the opposite wall, studying each in turn with great care; now that his eyes were adjusted to the dim light, he could make out more of the room.

At the next interval of dialogue in the production, Seila belatedly replied to Jack. “My father sponsors adventurers from time to time,” she whispered. “If he offered a reward for some old book, I’m sure he had a good reason.”

“I hope so. The Sarkonagael has something of a sinister reputation.”

“Are you accusing my father of dabbling in dark magic?” Seila asked sharply.

“I said nothing of the sort,” Jack quickly said. “It’s simply that I have personal experience of the Sarkonagael, and it is frankly dangerous. I would like to know what your father wants it for.”

“Am I supposed to question him about it?” Seila turned in her seat to glare at Jack. “Exactly how should I broach the matter, Jack? ‘Father, the Landsgrave Jaer Kell Wildhame suspects you of collecting forbidden tomes. Can you give some account of yourself?’ ”

“Your father may be involved in something … unpleasant,” Jack replied. “Is that so hard to imagine? Many men of his station and position are.”

“As far as I know, he hasn’t answered to no less than three different names in my hearing, or pretended to be lord of any imaginary domains!”

Jack winced. “Very well,” he said. “I retract the question; your father’s interests are none of my concern. Let us put it behind us.”

Seila sat in silence for a long moment, her face turned away from his. Finally, she took a deep breath, and said, “I think you had better go now.”

“Now, Seila, I only asked a simple question about …” Jack began, but he did not finish the thought. Seila’s arms were crossed, and she stared stonily at the opera unfolding below. Jack had great confidence in his powers of persuasion, but he sensed that there was little he could say that would retrieve the situation. He grimaced, surprised to find that he was honestly hurt by her temporary rejection.

With as much dignity as he could muster, he stood and bowed. “I am sorry for this … misunderstanding. Whatever you may think of me, please be careful, Seila. Dark designs are at work in the city, and I am not at the bottom of all of them.” Then he let himself out of the box, leaving Seila to her anger.

“Jack, you fool,” he muttered to himself. “That was poorly done.” It seemed his evening at the opera was at