Ithanalin's Restoration

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  She hoped that this would be enough; she couldn’t think of any other quick spells she knew. If she had time for anything more elaborate, anything requiring extensive preparation or other ingredients, she would just have to come back here, or ask another magician for help.

  Of course, she might want things other than magic. She added the linen purse containing all her money—which came to six bits in copper and one in silver, hardly enough to be useful in bribing the fortress guards, but it might be useful somewhere. Ordinarily she let the little bag hang from her belt, but this was not the time to worry about cutpurses, so into the pouch it went.

  If she needed a blade, her athame would work as well as any other knife—or better, really, as it was stronger and sharper than an ordinary knife, and had its ability to keep her free of any bonds.

  She looked down at the pouch for a moment, trying to guess what more she might need, and could not think of anything.

  Her plan was to go to the overlord’s apartments with Lady Nuvielle, bringing Kelder and Opir and Adagan with her, then to simply carry the couch out. Getting it home from the Fortress might involve leading it, or hiring a wagon, or perhaps even levitating it—it would depend on circumstances.

  Leading it might call for a rope. That wouldn’t fit in the pouch, but she intended to bring plenty of rope. Most of the household’s lighter cords were already in use holding the other furniture, but there was the coil of rope she had used to bring back the bench and chair—she had replaced it with shorter, lighter strands when tying them to the line in the chimney.

  She straightened up, fastened her belt and pouch and knife securely around her waist, and slung the rope on her shoulder. Then she told Ithanalin, “It won’t be much longer, Master,” and marched out into the morning sun.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Adagan was waiting at his door, just as Kilisha had hoped he would be, and the two of them strolled down Wizard Street together, then turned north on Cross Avenue.

  As they walked Kilisha asked Adagan what magic he had brought, and was answered with a rambling disquisition on how witchcraft differed from wizardry in requiring no specific ingredients or preparatory rituals.

  “What about herbs?” Kilisha asked as they rounded the corner from Cross Avenue onto the East Road. “Or those crystals?”

  “Oh, well, that’s not the same thing,” Adagan said. “The crystals are just to aid in focusing the mind, and the herbs—that’s really herbalism, not true witchcraft. Most of us learn some of that, but it’s not really the same thing.”

  “So you know two kinds of magic? I thought the Brotherhood didn’t approve of that—and I know the Wizards’ Guild doesn’t…”

  “No, no, it’s all still witchcraft!”

  “You just said it wasn’t.”

  “But it’s…well, herbalism isn’t really magic…”

  “Don’t let Urrel hear you say that.”

  “But it isn’t! Herbalism is just the knowledge of the natural properties of plants, while magic is the altering of nature!”

  “Oh, I don’t accept that,” Kilisha said. “How are you defining nature?”

  That debate lasted until they reached Market Street, where they crossed to the Old East Road, which wound its way up the hill toward the Fortress.

  It wasn’t quite as steep as Steep Street, but it was steep enough that the conversation faded away for a time; both were saving their breath for climbing.

  As they neared Fortress Street, though, and the gray stone walls towered ahead of them, Kilisha asked, “Why didn’t you levitate up here?” She didn’t look at Adagan as she spoke; she was trying to gauge the sun’s angle from the shadows on the pavement.

  “Because it would take just as much energy as walking,” he replied. “Witchcraft doesn’t create energy, just redirects it.”

  “And that’s different from herbalism?” The shadows looked right; Kilisha judged that it was very close to the appointed time of two hours before noon.

  Adagan refused to revive the argument and instead retorted, “Why didn’t you levitate?”

  “I’m saving my spells for later, just in case,” Kilisha replied. “Besides, it wouldn’t be very polite to leave you behind.” The truth was that it hadn’t occurred to her.

  “I thought you didn’t have the ingredients. You wizards always need your strange powders and stones and smoke.”

  “I have a potion right here,” Kilisha said, patting her pouch. “But it would only lift me, and I didn’t want to leave you behind.”

  “I’d have levitated if you did,” Adagan said. “It doesn’t take more energy than climbing, it just doesn’t take any less.”

  “Ah. I’m sorry I didn’t suggest it, then, but there’s no point now.”

  And in fact, there wasn’t, as they had reached Fortress Street. Kilisha turned right and led the way to the north door.

  Kelder was waiting for them, chatting idly with the guards, and Kilisha, remembering the dream they had shared, almost blushed at the sight of him.

  There was no sign of Opir. Kilisha wondered whether the dream had reached him. There was no sign of Lady Nuvielle, either, which was rather more important.

  Kelder fell silent and watched their approach, then said, “I haven’t seen the treasurer yet.”

  “She’ll be here,” Kilisha said, not meeting Kelder’s eyes. She hoped her certainty wasn’t misplaced. She didn’t really know Lady Nuvielle, but she assumed anyone the overlord trusted to manage the city’s finances must be fairly reliable. Wulran III wouldn’t have given her the job just because she was his aunt; for one thing, he had plenty of aunts to choose from. Wulran’s father, Doran IV, had had eleven sisters, ten of whom were still alive, and eight of whom were still in the city. Nuvielle was one of those eight, and had been chosen for her current job, so Kilisha assumed she must be at least reasonably trustworthy.

  Opir she wasn’t quite so certain of. Her brother was generally sensible enough, but he had been known to miss an appointment or two. She looked worriedly down the street that dropped away steeply behind her, then realized she was looking north down the Old Coast Road, which was not a route Opir would use, any more than she had.

  Then a metallic thumping sounded, and the heavy door swung open. Two more guards appeared in the opening, stepping out onto the pavement, blinking in the bright sun.

  Behind them came Lady Nuvielle, attired in a gown like nothing Kilisha had ever seen before. This was not the velvet dress she wore when going about the city on business, a dress that had impressed Kilisha as exceptionally beautiful; no, this was what she wore at home, when she had no need to worry about dusty streets or adventurous thieves.

  It was made in layers—an outer layer of fine white lace and gold filigree over a dress of blue silk, and here and there the silk was slashed dramatically to reveal a golden lining. Kilisha could not help staring at this elaborate garment.

  Kelder, she noticed, was staring, as well—but not at the dress, exactly. She felt a twinge of jealousy.

  She silently chastised herself; she was taking that dream too seriously. Kelder had every right to admire a beautiful woman.

  Adagan seemed unimpressed with Nuvielle’s appearance; he bowed, belatedly reminding Kilisha of her own manners. “My lady,” she said as she curtsied.

  “Kilisha,” Nuvielle said. “I’m pleased to see you; do come in! And introduce me to your companions.”

  Kilisha rose, and took a last desperate glance down Fortress Street, and saw Opir hurrying toward them.

  “This is Kelder, one of your tax collectors,” Kilisha said. “He was the one who was at the door when the spell went awry.”

  Kelder bowed. “Kelder Goran’s son of Sixth Company, my lady.”

  Kilisha was pleased she had remembered that name from when Kelder had given it to the Fortress guard a few days earlier; without the patronymic she could not have invoked the Spell of Invaded Dreams, since there were so many Kelders in the World. She smiled at him at the memor
y of that dream. But Lady Nuvielle was waiting, so Kilisha turned and said, “And this is Adagan the Witch, one of my neighbors. He and Kelder have been aiding me in the search for the missing couch, and have agreed to help me capture it and carry it home.”

  “Kilisha!” Opir called, as he came trotting up.

  “And my brother, Opir of Eastgate,” Kilisha said. “Opir, this is Nuvielle, Lady Treasurer, who has found my master’s couch.”

  Opir bowed hastily.

  “And is this everyone, then?” Nuvielle asked.

  “Yes, my lady,” Kilisha said.

  “You know, I would have assigned a few guardsmen to carry the couch for you, had you asked.”

  “Oh.” Kilisha felt her cheeks grow warm. “I hadn’t thought of… I wouldn’t want to trouble you, my lady. The couch is my responsibility.”

  Nuvielle turned up an empty palm. “In any case, you’re all here now,” she said. “Come inside, and I will show you the way.” She turned and strode into the dim interior.

  Kilisha followed, mentally cursing herself. Of course Lady Nuvielle would have provided soldiers! She was the Lady Treasurer, the overlord’s aunt—she must have a hundred guards and servants ready to tend to her every whim. Just because she had come to a wizard’s shop unattended did not mean she could not summon a dozen strong men in an instant in her own home; it wouldn’t have cost her a thing.

  And here Kilisha had brought three assorted strangers along uninvited, not just into the Fortress, but to the overlord’s own apartments. She had wanted to be prepared, and to plan everything out in advance for once, but that was no reason to forgo common courtesy. She needed to use common sense, as well as plan ahead!

  She was glad that the light in the stone passageway was dim and cool, so that her flushed cheeks would be less noticeable, and she could attribute their color to stepping in out of the bright sun. She marched on silently, not trusting herself to say anything more.

  After a slight hesitation, Kelder and Opir and Adagan followed the two women inside. The two guards who had accompanied the Lady Treasurer then brought up the rear, closing the doors behind them, leaving the outside guards to resume their vigil.

  Kilisha’s upset at her own foolishness was sufficient that she had gone a dozen yards down the passage before she realized that she was inside the Fortress for the first time in her life, and she really ought to pay attention to her surroundings. She might never have another chance to see the interior of the overlord’s stronghold.

  Nuvielle was leading the party down a stone corridor, broad enough for Kilisha’s three helpers to walk abreast without crowding, but still far taller than it was wide. Kilisha looked up to see an arched stone ceiling perhaps fifteen or twenty feet above her.

  The stone was surprisingly plain. Kilisha knew that the Fortress had been built during the Great War as a bastion against the Northern Empire, and of course she had seen the unadorned exterior often enough, but she had still expected the interior of the overlord’s home to display at least some of the trappings of wealth and power. After all, the overlord and his family had had more than two centuries to make improvements.

  This corridor, though, was bare—no carvings, no tapestries or other hangings, no carpets. The stone blocks in the walls were square and unpolished, the corners not even rounded, and the joints in the masonry clearly visible. The few doors they passed were heavy oak planking bound in black iron, dark with age but uncarved and unpainted. The only sign of wealth was the numerous oil lamps that lit the passage; these were large and bright, and wrought of brass and crystal. Kilisha assumed they were not the wartime originals, but a later addition—for one thing, they didn’t match the plain black iron brackets on which they hung.

  Then Lady Nuvielle turned a corner and led them up a stone staircase, likewise straight and unadorned; sunlight trickled in faintly from an unseen window somewhere ahead and above.

  They ascended two stories and emerged into another corridor, narrower than the previous one and with a ceiling no more than twelve feet high. Here, at last, the Fortress began to look less like a dungeon—the floor and walls were still plain gray stone, but a strip of lush red and brown carpet ran along the passage, and a few tapestries hung between doors that had been painted with bright floral designs.

  Nuvielle led them down the passage, through a salon that was far more in keeping with Kilisha’s expectations, along a side-passage, and around a corner into an anteroom.

  There she stopped dead, evidently surprised by the presence of four guards. Kilisha almost walked into her. The others had left a little more space, and halted without crowding each other—but by the time Nuvielle’s own guards entered, the antechamber was rather full. The room was not especially large.

  The four guards, standing two on either side of an elaborately-carved pair of doors, had been chatting idly; at the sight of the treasurer they snapped to attention and thumped the butts of their spears on the stone floor. Kilisha blinked at them, noticing that their uniforms were much cleaner and better-made than Kelder’s, and that their spears and breastplates were wonderfully polished. Two of the four wore unfamiliar golden insignia on their right arms.

  “Wulran is in?” Nuvielle asked.

  “Yes, my lady,” the guard nearest the right-hand side of the doors replied. He was one of the two with the insignia.

  “I thought that at this hour he would be conducting business downstairs.”

  “The overlord found the discussions wearisome and decided to take a brief rest, my lady.”

  “Ah.”

  Kilisha thought that Nuvielle’s tone managed to convey an amazing amount of information in that single meaningless word; it was clearly a tone of unsurprised resigned disapproval.

  For a moment no one spoke; the eleven people in the room simply stood there, considering the situation. Then Nuvielle said, “I suppose I’ll want to speak with him sooner or later in any case; could you tell him I’m here, please, and that I’ve brought guests?”

  The guard bowed, but stayed where he was; it was the other insignia-bearing guard, to the left, who opened the door and stepped silently through.

  The door closed, and the party waited.

  Kilisha was uneasy, standing here surrounded by soldiers; even Kelder seemed slightly threatening now. She glanced at the others in her group, and saw Adagan studying the overlord’s guards with evident interest while Opir looked acutely uncomfortable.

  That was hardly surprising. She had told him that they were going to the Fortress to retrieve the couch; she hadn’t said anything about meeting the overlord himself!

  She hadn’t expected it herself; she had assumed, as Nuvielle apparently had, that the overlord would be busy elsewhere, allowing them to slip into his apartments and take the couch without his knowledge.

  His presence did complicate matters, but after all, it really was Ithanalin’s couch, it wasn’t as if she had come to steal something. Nuvielle and the others would all testify that it was Ithanalin’s couch. The overlord would surely have no objection to letting them take it back.

  She might need to explain how it had come here, though. It wouldn’t do to lie to the overlord, or even to seem to lie; she started to plan out what she would say, if he asked.

  And she needed to remember to curtsy, as deeply as she could—or would it be better to bow? He was the overlord, ruler of the city and master of one-third of the Hegemony, heir and direct descendant of General Gor, who had turned the Western Command into the peacetime city of Ethshar of the Rocks; she wanted to be as deferential as possible.

  She could feel herself starting to tremble at the thought of speaking to him, and she tried to prevent it. She reminded herself that Wulran III was just a man, even if he was the overlord. He was only twenty-six, not so very much older than herself. He deserved respect and deference, but there was nothing to be frightened of…

  Well, except that he could order the soldiers to kill or imprison or torture her on his slightest whim.

 
; But he wouldn’t. He was said to be a generous and kind young man, and besides, even an overlord didn’t dare anger the Wizards’ Guild by abusing a wizard’s apprentice without cause. The Guild had never yet killed an overlord, but they had reportedly come close more than once—most recently Azrad VI, in Ethshar of the Spices, was said to have been given a very direct threat over his treatment of the early warlocks a quarter-century ago.

  She took a deep breath and stood up straight. She started to put her hand on the hilt of her athame—she always found the feel of the knife reassuring—but then noticed one of the guards watching her closely and shifting his spear slightly, and she stopped before her fingers touched the leather.

  She hoped she would be permitted to carry the weapon into the overlord’s rooms; if she needed any magic to restrain the couch, she would need her athame.

  Then the door opened and the guardsman reappeared. He bowed to Lady Nuvielle.

  “My lady,” he said, “the overlord consents to see you, but says he would prefer not to deal with a horde of strangers just now.”

  Nuvielle glanced at the others, then said, “Of course. I will be accompanied only by Kilisha, and the others will wait here.”

  The soldier bowed again, then turned, and he and his partner swung open the doors. Nuvielle strode in, Kilisha following with a gait far more timid; the two guards stepped in behind them, then closed the door, leaving Kilisha’s three friends, Nuvielle’s two guards, and the overlord’s other two guards in the antechamber.

  The two women found themselves in a large and elegant room; Kilisha could not tell whether the walls or floor here were stone, as they were all covered with draperies and carpets, but the high ceiling was painted wood, depicting clouds and birds and butterflies against a blue background. A few sculptures, mostly statues of young women, stood about; a gilded shrine gleamed in one corner. Assorted couches, tables, and chairs were arranged in three neat groupings. Kilisha took all this in quickly, but then her attention focused on one specific couch in the nearest group.