"We are employed by an organization that provides a type of insurance to various mercantile companies of the city," Morgath said. "Last night, one of our clients suffered a small loss. We are investigating his claim, so to speak."

"They were robbed," Saerk said. "By a large, blond-haired Northman and a small rat of a burglar who knew some magic."

"That is all very interesting," Jack said, "but I don't see what it has to do with me."

"We have reason to believe that you may have a more intimate knowledge of this case-" Morgath said.

"We know you were responsible," Saerk interrupted.

"-and we expect you to see to the return the stolen property-"

"Or we'll kill you if you don't," Saerk finished.

Jack looked from the one man to the other. "If I were the man you were looking for," he said, "I would carefully consider your warning. However, I have no idea what you're talking about, I don't have any property of yours or your employer's, and until just a few moments ago, I'd never seen that barbaric fellow in my life. If you'll excuse me?" He stood and started to push past the two.

Morgath and Saerk caught him by the arms and pushed him back down into his seat. "We're not unreasonable men," Morgath began with a pained expression. "In fact, we feel that your talents do you credit. Not very many rogues could have pulled off the stunt you pulled off last night in House Kuldath. We'd rather work with you in a mutually profitable arrangement-"

"-instead of cutting you up like live bait and dumping you in the harbor for the sharks," Saerk finished. "You've got three choices, Jack Ravenwild. Sign up, ship out, or sleep with the fishes." With that, the two thieves sauntered away, smug smiles on their faces.

Jack watched them leave. He picked up the tankard Anders had emptied and swirled it, hoping to find some significant amount of ale left, but the Northman had drained it dry. Then, as the two reached the front door, he muttered a small spell and conjured up an unseen hand. As swift as an arrow Jack directed the invisible presence to the bar and seized a full pitcher of beer. Then he dumped the entire contents on the head of a big, burly longshoreman by the door, dropping the pitcher to the ground right at Morgath's feet.

Roaring in rage, the longshoreman leaped to his feet. "Why, you-"

Morgath stood staring in amazement at the pitcher. When he looked up, it was just in time to observe the impact of the dockworker's fist on the end of his nose. He howled and fell. Saerk drew a dagger, as did all three of the longshoreman's companions, and in less time than it takes to tell, both thieves were involved in a vicious, violent bar brawl complete with knives, chairs, low blows, and cudgel-armed bouncers wading in to break it up.

Jack laughed aloud and slipped out the back door.

The next morning, Jack woke early, bathed himself in bracing cold water, shaved, and then dressed in his very finest clothes-dark blue hose, a shirt of impeccable Mulhorandi cotton, and a stuffed doublet of green and yellow brocade. He donned a short cape that matched the hose and selected a soft, burgundy cap with a long feather in it. Then he pulled on rakish boots of brushed leather and buckled on his rapier and poignard. Jack attired himself with great care every time he visited Lady Illyth Fleetwood.

The day was clear and bright, by far the best day of the spring so far, but Jack hired a coach despite the fine walking weather. He had the coachman drive him six miles beyond the city walls to Woodenhall Manor, the home of the Fleetwood family. The ride took the better part of an hour, which Jack used to admire the scenery outside the city. As far as he could remember, he'd left the city no more than ten times during his entire life, and he'd never been farther away than Woodenhall. He was a Ravenaar, born and bred.

The coach turned into the lane leading to the Fleetwood Manor, rumbling to a stop in front of an impressive veranda before a palatial estate. Liveried guardsmen stood watch over beautiful grounds and hedged gardens, attending a great wooden manor house that was big enough for dozens of family members and three or four times their number of retainers, guards, servants, and guests.

Jack told the coachman to wait for him, then strode up the steps to the nearest servant and said, "Please inform Lady Illyth that the Landsgrave Jaer Kell Wildhame humbly requests an audience this morning."

The servant bowed. "At once, sir. Would you care to wait in the study?"

Jack made a show of acquiescing. "That will do quite well, thank you."

He allowed the servant to show him to a comfortably appointed drawing room and busied himself with examining the decor while he waited patiently. He noted several small items he might pocket and sell later but restrained his larcenous impulses. The Lord Jaer Kell Wildhame was no petty thief!

"Jack! What a surprise!"

Almost dancing in delight, Lady Illyth Fleetwood swept into the room and embraced Jack. Despite the fact that she was well past her schooling and into the years when a noblewoman was expected to be safely married and already raising a child or two of her own, Illyth had never lost the look of girlish enthusiasm and wide-eyed eagerness one might expect of a lady ten years younger. Where other ladies primped for hours over the exact set of their hair and fretted for days over which dress best suited them, Illyth absently kept her long, black hair in a shoulder-length cascade of soft midnight and favored simple, comfortable dresses more suited to a merchant's wife than a nobleman's daughter. Her fingers were habitually marked with faint ink stains instead of painted nails. Illyth was an accomplished scholar and prided herself on her personal library, assembled book by book as her interests carried her from one topic to the next.

Other than Ontrodes, she was the next best thing to a true sage he could consult with, and she would gladly work for nothing at all-if Jack managed to pique her interest in the topic at hand.

"Hello, Illyth," he said. He bowed deeply. "You are lovelier than ever! I find myself wondering how it is that I've allowed two months to pass since I saw you last."

"Because you're a fickle and flighty scoundrel," Illyth said with a smile.

As far as she knew, Jack was the wandering son of a minor nobleman from the Vilhon Reach, seeking his fortune abroad since his older brother had inherited his father's lands and exiled him into penury to keep him from marrying the woman he loved. Illyth thrived on stories just like that, and Jack had been carefully embroidering the tale of Jaer Kell Wildhame for Illyth's benefit for the better part of a year now.

"Lovely, wise, and cruel, all at the same time," Jack said. "How do your studies proceed, Illyth?"

"Well enough. I've spent a lot of time over the last couple of months studying the natural environs of Woodenhall-sketching the lay of the land, tracking just how many creatures of what sorts inhabit the manor, keeping records of the weather, things like that. It's all quite fascinating-but I can see that it would just bore you. How about you, Jack? Is the theater open yet?"

"Oh, I need to find another sponsor or two, and a play worth producing," Jack replied. He'd met Illyth a couple of years ago, when he was occasionally employed by various theaters in the city. Many of the noble patrons of the arts enjoyed inviting actors, playwrights, and artists of note into their social circle for a time. The rich and powerful engaged in a subtle competition to attract the most interesting personages into their retinue, in the same way that they might bid against each other to own the most striking paintings or to stock the most outrageous menageries. Ingratiating himself among the well-to-do of the city was one of Jack's favorite pastimes.