The City of Ravens (14 page)

He looked up at the blue sky, streaked with high, wispy clouds. “At least it finally stopped raining,” he remarked to no one in particular. He polished a stolen apple on one sleeve and took a reflective bite. The Brothers Kuldath suspected him of stealing their rubies. The Knights of the Hawk suspected Elana of something and associated him with her. Doubtless Iphegor the Black very much wanted somebody’s head on a plate, although it was unlikely that the wizard would believe for long that Marcus the knight-commander was the perpetrator of his familiar’s cruel end.

Jack took another bite and picked up a small book and a quill, thoughtfully transcribing a few more Game clues into the journal. Every clue rang of authenticity; Jack had seen dozens of official clues now, so he knew exactly how they were worded. In fact, the journal he was creating

featured half a dozen accurate hints, just to add a patina of truth to the utter fabrication of the rest of the clues. The trick of it was losing the notebook at the right moment of the next Game gathering, without making it look like it had been lost on purpose. With any luck, a few participants would knock themselves out of the Game with Jack’s forgeries.

That task attended to, Jack blew on the page to dry the ink and then put the book away in his vest pocket. The Game was attended to; Elana was not prepared to meet with him yet; that left Zandria and her riddle as the next item of business on Jack’s agenda.

“And that means I’ll need to speak to Tharzon,” he said.

He finished his apple and tossed the core into the water, then scrambled to his feet—only to find a hulking figure in a dark hooded cloak standing over him. “Not so fast, friend Jack. I’d like a word with you.”

“Anders?” Jack peered under the hood. “Please announce your presence next time with a Northman’s drinking song or perhaps a wild war-whoop. You frightened me out of my wits, creeping up on me like that.”

“Someone’s looking for you, then?”

“My talents are widely sought. Failing that, so is my head. Back from Tantras already?”

Anders nodded. “A pair of bandits waylaid me, but I discouraged them from pressing an attack. They did manage to lame my horse by stringing a rope across the road, so I had to walk the poor beast the rest of way there and back.”

Jack glanced around the busy docks, but no me seemed to be paying any special attention to the two of them. “And the ruby? How did you fare?”

Anders offered a gap-toothed grin and held up a small purse. “Better than expected. I fenced it for eight hundred and fifty gold crowns.”

“Excellent! So my share would be four hundred and twenty-five, then.”

“I think your recollection is faulty, friend Jack. We agreed on a sixty-forty split in my favor. To spare you the trouble of figuring it, I have already done so; it’s five hundred ten for me, and three hundred forty for you.”

Jack scowled. “That’s hardly fair.”

“You agreed to it. I don’t consider it fair that I was hounded across the city by a ten-foot-tall demon and now seem to be held responsible for a robbery we committed together while you walk about free and clear.” Anders dropped the purse into Jack’s hands. “Your share. Count it if you like.”

“Later,” Jack replied. “Regarding those bandits: by discourage, do you mean chased off or discouraged in a more permanent manner?”

“Chased off, I’m afraid, although one will walk with a limp for the rest of his days.” Anders frowned and looked down at Jack. “You didn’t hire someone to waylay me, did you, Jack?”

“No, of course not,” the rogue said quickly, holding up his hands. “It’s very bad business to betray one’s partners, after all. Word gets out, and then no one wants to work with you.” He could see that the Northman was not entirely convinced, which stung Jack to no small degree. Making a show of another glance around the wharves, he reached up to put his arm around Anders’s shoulder and said in a low voice, “I consider you to be one of the most trustworthy cutthroats I know. And, since I know that you feel that I have been less than forthright in my dealings with you of late, I earnestly desire the opportunity to win back some of your trust. What would you say if I told you I had another prospect that could prove very, very promising?”

Anders regarded him suspiciously. “Such as?”

“The opportunity to loot one of the most famous of

Sarbreen’s hidden vaults? A potential king’s ransom, waiting just beneath our feet?” “And the opposition?”

“Not opposition per se, but rather rivals seeking to beat us to the prize.”

“Based upon my previous associations with you, I interpret those statements to mean that you’ve learned of a hitherto unnoticed pile of dwarven coppers for which we must strive against an army of angry demons conjured by I’ll-tempered Thayvians.”

“Nothing quite so bad as that. And we have an advantage; the competition doesn’t know that what we intend or what we know.”

Chewing his mustache thoughtfully, the Northman watched the longshoremen and sailors thronging the wharves, hard at work. “What’s the prize again?”

“The Guilder’s Vault, a crypt in which the masters of ancient Sarbreen entombed Cedrizarun, the master distiller and a leader of the city.” Anders appeared to waver so Jack decided to set the hook. “Come with me, and I’m sure Tharzon can answer your questions.”

“The dwarf tunneler? Are you cutting him in, too?”

“The very same. And yes, I intend to take him on as an equal partner. Can you think of anyone more knowledgeable in the ways of Sarbreen’s passages and vaults?”

The Northman shook his head. “No, Tharzon would probably know more than anyone. Very well, I admit that I’m interested.”

“Follow me, then,” Jack said and set off at once.

The two rogues hurried up Cove Street and took a left on Nightlamp, following the road to DeVillars Ride and turning right again. Two blocks brought them to Rhabie Promenade, and then they turned left again onto Manycoins Way and followed that road the length of the Temple District, through the Market District, and on into

the neighborhood of Torchtown. Hidden in the back alley off of Vesper Way they found the Smoke Wyrm, a small taphouse in the solid stone cellars under a merchant’s office. The place was favored by many of the dwarf craftsmen who lived and worked in Torchtown, and featured some of the best beer in the city.

In the middle of the day, the place was virtually empty; no self-respecting dwarf would consider drinking when there was work to be done. The only occupants were a couple of Sembians engaged in hard drinking despite the hour, and a sturdy dwarf barkeep—Tharzon.

“Jack Ravenwild,” the dwarf rumbled. “I hold you responsible for a lack of sleep of late. That puzzle you gave me has me tied in knots. Anders Aricssen, good to see you again.”

“I had hoped that you might have solved my riddle by now,” Jack said. “Draw us two mugs of Old Smokey, friend Tharzon; we’ve much to discuss.”

Tharzon eyed him balefully but complied, filling a pair of clay mugs from one of the numerous casks behind the bar. He set it on the worn wooden bar but didn’t slide it toward Jack until the rogue rolled his eyes and set a silver talon on the table. Jack blew the foam off the draft and took a cautious sip; Old Smokey was good dwarfwork, and it would fuddle a man’s wits in two mugs, if not one.

“Did you have any luck at all with it?” Jack asked.

“Some,” Tharzon admitted. He nodded at Anders with a look at Jack, but Jack waved him on. With a shrug, the dwarf reached into his leather apron and pulled out a folded piece of paper, carefully unfurling it with his thick fingers. “I won’t know whether I’ve solved it or not until I stand in the Guilder’s Tomb. Here it is again:

“Other hands must take up my work Other eyes my works behold

At the center of all the thirty-seventh Girdled by the leaves of autumn Mark carefully the summer staircase

and climb it clockwise thrice Order emerges from chaos; the answer made clear.”

“A rather obtuse riddle,” Anders remarked.

“Hmmph. Well, whoever translated this from Dwarven missed a couple of words. Instead of ‘girdled,’ it means ‘encircled,’ and instead of the leaves of autumn,’ it could be read, these leaves of autumn.”” The dwarf shook his head. “And where it says ‘mark,’ you should probably think of it as ‘measure.’ Hasty work, poorly done.”

“Interesting,” Jack said. “I don’t see that it changes the meaning much.”

“No, but you never know what might be significant. Clearly this is a set of instructions for finding the entrance of the vault. Missing even one word might mean that you never find it.”

“It seems to me, friend Tharzon, that understanding this puzzle depends on understanding three things: the thirty-seventh, these leaves of autumn, and the summer staircase. I suppose you could add climbing the staircase to that list.” Jack took another sip and offered a foamy leer. “Fortunately, I have already divined the meaning of the thirty-seventh.”

Tharzon leaned forward, his thick arms planted on the bar. He actually stood on a short runner behind the counter, raising him to Jack’s height. “I hate guessing games, Jack. Just tell us.”

“The thirty-seventh refers to a superior brandy, the Maidenfire Gold of the year 637 (Dale Reckoning) distilled by Cedrizarun. He was, of course, the master distiller of old Sarbreen. It is supposed to be the most noble spirit ever crafted east of the sea.”

“That would be more than seven centuries old ” Anders rumbled. “I am sure it was very fine in its day, but none can possibly survive any longer.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Tharzon said. “A human lifetime burns brightly and gutters out in less than a hundred years, but my folk sometimes live to see their fourth century. We contemplate works requiring decades, even centuries, that humans would call impossible. I have seen dwarven spirits two or three centuries old; the Master Distiller might easily have crafted a spirit that might pass decades like a human-wrought brandy would pass years.” His eyes grew dark and thoughtful as the dwarf contemplated the notion. “But where would you find such a thing? And how much would it cost? A single bottle might bring a thousand gold crowns—two thousand gold crowns—in the heart of a dwarven kingdom. I cannot imagine where else you would find it.”

“I know someone who has a bottle,” Jack said. “For the moment, let us assume that we can borrow it when we need it. Why would a seven hundred year old bottle of brandy be at the center of all? What can it mean to this riddle?”

“Where was the inscription found?” Tharzon asked.

“My acquaintance with the expensive taste in liquor took the whole design on this parchment as a rubbing from Cedrizarun’s tomb. No, I don’t know exactly where that lies yet; again, let’s assume that we will be able to gain that knowledge when we need it.”

“That is twice now you have assumed that a very difficult obstacle to your plan will be easily overcome,” Anders pointed out. “I am not reassured.”

“Friend Anders, the boldest plans and the loftiest designs demand a mind that is capable of spanning insuperable difficulties to apprehend the most fantastic rewards.” Jack indulged himself in another draught of the

ale. “An impossibly rich prize is, by its nature, impossible to obtain, so therefore the prize that is almost impossibly rich is therefore almost impossibly difficult. And if something is almost impossible, well, that means that it is really possible but simply damned hard. Let us not turn away from a wondrous prize until we are certain that it is truly impossible to attain.”

Tharzon laughed in a low voice. “No one doubts the excessive reach of your ambitions, Jack. It is the length of your grasp that is in question.” The dwarf paused to draw himself a mug of Old Smokey. “This riddle is inscribed on Cedrizarun’s tomb. The vault in which his funerary wealth is interred will be located somewhere near that spot, concealed by the most cunning secret entrance the master masons of old Sarbreen could devise. This riddle must tell you how to find and open the secret door.”

“Are you certain that Cedrizarun did not intend a good jest at the expense of future tomb robbers?” Anders said. “How do you know that this has anything to do with a vault? For all we know, this is simply his favorite beer recipe, encoded for future brewmasters.”

“I have spent almost fifty years learning all that I can about Sarbreen’s old wealth and the disposal thereof,” Tharzon said. “Trust me; the Guilder’s Vault exists, despite the fact that it has never been found. Cedrizarun could not be certain that his descendants would retain the secret of his vault’s entrance over the years, so he created the riddle as a clue in the event the knowledge was forgotten.”

“Yes, but why leave any hints at all? Why leave an entrance to the vault, if it was simply designed to hold the wealth that Cedrizarun chose to take to the grave?” Anders wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Forgive me for saying so, Tharzon, but everyone knows that

dwarves despise grave robbers. Why leave potential thieves any kind of a chance at all?”

Tharzon’s eyes glittered—he’d made quite a handsome living by looting the crypts of his forefathers, even though he viewed it as restoring the glories of lost Sarbreen to their place in the light—but he held his temper. “Because Cedrizarun would want his sons, and their sons, and their sons after them to one day be buried at his side. His body doesn’t he under the stone or slab this inscription was found on; it lies inside the vault itself, with other places prepared for those who would one day join him there. That is why they would leave a door, Anders Aricssen.”

“Back to the riddle,” Jack said. “What of these leaves of autumn”? Does that make any sense?”

Tharzon shrugged. “No, not to me. I have been—”

“What about these?” Anders reached over and pulled the parchment toward him. “The dwarf-runes are all carved here, in the center of the stone, but there’s a border around the inscription. Grape leaves, perhaps? Could the inscription refer to the border around the words?”

Tharzon frowned and pulled the parchment back, looking at it more carefully. “I think you are right. Look, in the leaves—see how strangely the vines and the veins are worked? There are runes hidden in the border!” He studied them furiously for several minutes, ignorant of the fact that the Sembians in the other corner demanded more ale. The dwarf didn’t even object when Anders got up and threw out the two merchants, barring the door behind them. After a long time, the dwarf rubbed his eyes and looked up. “Damn it. They mean nothing. Pieces of letters and words, but nothing complete, all of it jumbled together.”