The City of Ravens by Richard Baker Page B

all of his kind, the dwarf was as solid as an old anvil, with the strength of a hale human constrained in a thick frame four feet in height. He was a professional acquaintance of Jack’s, a master tunneler and lockpick who made his living by burrowing in on his prizes with careful deliberation. “So stealing from a thief is an honest act then?” The dwarf barked laughter, a sound like wet gravel sliding down a hill. “Two wrongs make a right!”
    “Today I’ll choose to believe so,” Jack replied.
    He frowned in distaste at his surroundings. He’d replaced the fine clothes and noble trappings of the previous few days with what he thought of as his working clothes—black leather over gray cotton, all veiled in a fine dark cloak of light wool. But his flesh crawled as he contemplated what might or might not be scurrying past him in the rainwater. Jack was more fastidious than he cared to let on, and he would never wear these clothes again without imagining a faint whiff of the sewers in the fabric, no matter how many times he cleaned them. “Are we almost there?”
    “Almost,” Tharzon replied. “So, what’s this dwarfwork mystery you wanted to ask me about?”
    “Have you ever heard of Cedrizarun?”
    “The master distiller of ancient Sarbreen?”
    “The very one. I take that as a yes.”
    “Of course!” Tharzon said. “I’ve spent a human lifetime exploring old Sarbreen and studying the lore of my fathers. Cedrizarun’s name is still revered among my folk.”
    “Can you think of a reason why a Red Wizard—leader of an adventuring company—might become intensely interested in Cedrizarun’s resting place? Specifically, a riddle or an inscription on or around the tomb?”
    “Certainly. Your mage seeks the Guilder’s Vault.”
    Jack looked up so quickly that he knocked his head on the tunnel roof. “The Guilder’s Vault? Hold a moment, friend Tharzon, and tell me of the Guilder’s Vault.”
    Tharzon looked back over his broad shoulder. His eyes smoldered beneath his heavy brow, and gold bands glinted in his ringleted beard. He paused in the next intersection, a high chamber where water streamed down from the glow of daylight above, and set his lantern on a ledge high on the wall.
    “What do you know of old Sarbreen, Jack?” the dwarf asked, hunkering down on a dry ledge.
    “A great dwarven city, built about seven hundred years
    ago but destroyed soon after. Raven’s Bluff sits on top of Sarbreen’s ruins. Many of these sewers are old dwarfwork… as are cellars, vaults, and catacombs underneath much of the city.”
    Tharzon shrugged. “About as much as a human might be expected to know, I guess. Well, let me tell you a little more. These passageways were indeed built by master masons of the City of the Hammer, but carving stone and delving chambers is not all that there is to a city. Dozens of masters skilled in the other arts—armorers, weaponsmiths, jewelers and miners and woodcarvers and glass-blowers and all the others—ruled thousands of skillful craftsmen. That was the wonder and the strength of Sarbreen, my friend. Skill and industry, ceaseless labor in a great thriving city that shone for a brief moment as the richest of all dwarven holds.
    “Everyone knows the work of the old stonecutters, but the master masons were only a part of Sarbreen’s Ruling Ring. Other masters whose works do not survive today were held in high honor, too—swordsmiths whose blades are scattered from here to Waterdeep, merchants whose wealth now lies in dragon hoards or lost at the bottom of the sea, and others. They were sometimes known as Guilders, since they led guilds of craftsmen.
    “Cedrizarun was the master distiller, the maker of dwarven spirits whose fire would consume any lesser mortal who dared imbibe them.” Tharzon offered a sere smile. “My folk delight in work well done, but we also delight in strong drink, and it’s said that none crafted a better spirit than Cedrizarun. He was an old and