Tales of Ethshar

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “But that’s silly,” Darrend said. “Seven doesn’t divide evenly.”

  Santa laughed. “No, it doesn’t, does it? Well, well.”

  “We need to find you a wizard,” Alir said. “And if you’re really in a hurry, the sooner the better.” She frowned. “I just hope this isn’t going to be too expensive; professional courtesy only goes so far.”

  “Oh, dear,” Santa said. “I don’t want to be a bother.”

  “No, it’s not your fault; my apprentice scrambled the summoning. It’s just one of the costs of doing business.” She sighed. “Come on, then.”

  A few minutes later they were two blocks away, at a run-down shop on Wizard Street, explaining the situation to Alir’s old friend Tazar the Magnificent.

  “He’s a spirit?” Tazar said, looking at Santa. “He looks solid enough.”

  “Perhaps a better word would be avatar, or incarnation,” Alir said. “That’s not the point. The point is that we inadvertently hauled him from his own realm to Ethshar, and now we want to send him back, and theurgy isn’t suitable to the job.”

  Tazar nodded. He turned to the fat man. “Where are you from, then?” he asked.

  “I live in a magical workshop at the North Pole,” Santa replied. “On a world called Earth.”

  “Oh, an earth elemental? Fertility-related, perhaps?” Tazar gestured at the visitor’s generous belly.

  “No,” Santa said. “The world is called Earth; I’m not, and I’m not the spirit of Earth. I’m a jolly old elf who brings presents to all good little boys and girls on Christmas morning.”

  Tazar frowned. “Elves are extinct in our World, and a good thing, too.”

  Santa looked hurt.

  “Can you get him home?” Alir demanded.

  Tazar sighed. “Other worlds—I hate other worlds. No, I can’t, but I know how it can be done, if I can find someone who knows the spell.” He turned. “Can you draw?” he asked the red-clad stranger. “Or even better, paint?”

  Santa’s usual smile returned. “Oh, certainly! I like to think I’m quite an artist, really, though I do my best work carving, rather than painting.”

  “Then I’ll need you to paint me a picture of your home, as detailed and accurate as possible, just as it was at the instant you left. If we get it right you’ll be able to step right back to it, and it will be as if you’d never been gone—well, except that you’ll be a year older.”

  “Oh, age isn’t a problem for me,” Santa assured him. “But why a year older? Is that a part of the spell?”

  “No,” Tazar said. “But the spell takes a year to prepare.”

  At that, Santa, Alir, and Darrend all looked shocked and dismayed.

  “And it’s very expensive,” Tazar said to Alir.

  “Oh,” Alir said unhappily.

  When a wizard said something was very expensive, that implied a level of cost beyond the imagination of most people. Alir didn’t have that sort of money, but she would need to find it somehow.

  “It would seem you’ll be my houseguest for a year,” the theurgist told the red-clad spirit.

  “Well, that’s very kind of you,” Santa said.

  Alir waited for a second, hoping he would say something about payment—after all, he was supposed to be a spirit of generosity, and he had that bag, which might have valuables in it.

  He didn’t.

  She sighed again. It looked as if she might be paying this off for the rest of her life—or at least, until Darrend completed his apprenticeship and started repaying her for his error.

  “How are you going to send him home?” Darrend asked.

  “A Transporting Tapestry,” Tazar said.

  That explained to Alir why it would take a year, and why they needed a picture of the destination—a wizard would have to weave a perfect life-sized image of the fat man’s home, and that took time.

  And that was also why it was so expensive; paying for a full year of a wizard’s time could hardly be anything else.

  “If I’m going to find someone who can do this, I had better get started,” Tazar said. “And you should start on preparing a picture, while you should start raising the down-payment.”

  “Of course,” Alir said.

  “And the picture must be as exact, detailed, and accurate as you can make it,” Tazar warned the fat man. “Don’t let your imagination contribute anything!”

  “I think I can manage,” Santa said.

  With that, Alir, Darrend, and Santa took their leave, and returned to Alir’s shop to settle the sleeping arrangements.

  Alir really, really hoped that some sort of payment would be forthcoming, and hinted broadly, but the old man paid no heed. He inspected the spare bed in the attic, and pronounced it good; he ate his share of the ham at supper with relish, and drank two pints of Alir’s best beer. He accompanied Darrend down to the shops in Southgate and helped the apprentice pick out a good large board and half a dozen paints, but made no offer to pay for these materials. Throughout, he laughed and smiled; in the street he stopped several times to talk with children and ask them whether they had been behaving themselves. In general, he seemed to be having the time of his life, completely untroubled by his enforced exile.

  Alir’s mood, on the other hand, sank steadily as she realized just how little cash she had on hand, how few favors she could call in, and how expensive her houseguest appeared likely to be.

  Over the next few days Santa spent some of his time familiarizing himself with Ethshar of the Spices and the rest working on his painting, while Alir sent Darrend out to solicit whatever business he could. Tazar searched for a weaver-wizard capable of creating the tapestry, and willing to tackle the job.

  When she had a free moment, Alir watched the other-worldly spirit industriously painting a strange scene of a quaint, toy-cluttered wood-shop decorated with holly and bright red ribbons. It was still sketchy, of course, but looked quite bizarre.

  One night, as Alir was once again going over her accounts and seeing no way to avoid financial ruin, the otherworldly spirit said, “You know, even if you don’t have an actual Christmas in Ethshar, today is the fourth day of Midwinter, isn’t it? Four days past the solstice? I think you might want to hang a stocking by the chimney tonight.”

  “I might…what?” Alir stared at him.

  “Hang a stocking over the hearth.”

  “What are you talking…?” She stopped without completing the sentence.

  He was a spirit. She was a theurgist. She was used to gods making bizarre, seemingly random demands. He claimed not to be a god, but he had appeared when summoned, like a god.

  “A stocking?” she asked. “Any particular kind of stocking?”

  “One of your own. The largest you have.”

  She nodded. “Hung by the hearth?”

  “Above the fireplace, if possible.” He blinked, as if suddenly thinking of something startling. “Open end up, toe down.”

  “All right,” she said.

  “Well, good night, then.” He waved a hand, then turned and headed for the attic.

  Feeling foolish, Alir found a pair of stockings that had started to lose their shape, and took one of them down to the shop, where she turned down the ankle half an inch, then hung the sock from a pothook on the chimneypiece.

  It looked strange and foolish, dangling there. She stared at it, then turned up an empty palm. “The gods are mysterious,” she said, as she turned and headed for her own bed.

  She was awakened by Darrend gently shaking her. “Mistress?” he whispered.

  She blinked sleepily.

  “Mistress, I think you need to see this.”

  She sat up, suddenly alert and dreading whatever had driven Darrend to rouse her. “See what?”

  “There’s a sock…” the apprentice said.

  She sagged. “Oh, is that all? I know there’s a sock. I hung it there myself.”

  “But it’s full of gold!”

  Alir was not entirely sure just how she got from h
er bed to the hearth, still barefoot and in her nightgown, but an instant later she was staring at the stocking.

  It was indeed full of gold—so full that it was gradually tearing loose from the pothook. She reached out and touched it, and the fabric tore further; she caught it with one hand as it fell, and spilled gold coins out into her other hand.

  She stared at them, then smiled at Darrend.

  “It would appear that our guest will be covering some of his expenses,” she said.

  “But why put it in a sock?”

  “Who knows?” Alir said. “He’s a god, or something like one; who knows why they do anything they do?”

  Darrend looked at the gold, then at the stairs that led up to where their guest was sleeping. “Should we thank him?”

  Alir, too, looked at the stairs. “I’m not sure,” she said. “I think…well, let’s just see how it goes, shall we?”

  Darrend nodded.

  Santa did not appear until the morning was half-over. Alir had wearied of waiting for her guest to arise, and had gone to Tazar’s shop to make a long-delayed down-payment on the tapestry, so when Santa did finally descend from the attic he found Darrend sitting alone at the kitchen table.

  “Ho!” he called. “How is everything this fine morning?”

  The apprentice smiled at him. “Good,” he said.

  “Did Alir find her gift, then?”

  “Yes, she did.”

  Santa winked at him. “You know, my lad,” he said, “Christmas properly lasts for twelve days. Particularly when it’s never been celebrated here before.”

  “It does?”

  Santa laughed. “It really does,” he said.

  Darrend absorbed this, then hesitantly asked, “So should I put up a stocking, too?”

  “You, and every other good boy or girl in this city!”

  That didn’t sound right to Darrend; what did anyone else in Ethshar have to do with this red-clad spirit? But he certainly thought he should put one up.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Now, I believe I should finish up that painting of my workshop, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The fat man laughed so hard at that that his belly shook like a bowlful of…well, actually, like a bowlful of one of those nasty seafood puddings Darrend couldn’t stand. Then he turned, gathered up his board and paints, and settled in a sunlit corner to finish his illustration.

  When Alir returned Darrend pulled her aside, out of earshot of the fat man—or at least, he assumed it was. “Mistress,” he said, “he says there are twelve days of this Christmas thing, and we should put up stockings again.”

  “Stockings? Plural?”

  “One for me, and one for you.” Darrend frowned. “And he said, ‘and every other good boy or girl in this city.’ But I don’t know how he means that.”

  “He’s a god,” Alir said. “He probably means it literally.” She stared thoughtfully across the room at the red-clad spirit. “That much gold could unbalance the economy, though. And why ‘boy or girl,’ rather than man or woman? And we don’t know how he defines ‘good.’” She shook her head. “I don’t think we want to worry too much about that part, but perhaps we could speak to a few people. Tazar, for example.”

  Santa looked up from his work. “And tell them to leave the dampers open on their flues,” he called. “It makes it much easier for me.”

  Alir and Darrend stared at him, then looked at each other, remembering how the god in red had vanished up the chimney, then come back down. “What is this thing about him and chimneys?” Darrend asked. “What does that have to do with being a spirit of giving?”

  Alir turned up an empty palm. “Who knows?”

  On the far side of the room Santa Claus laughed. Darrend tried not to think about that shaking belly.

  The next morning Darrend hurried to the hearth to see whether the two stockings were really filled with gold. He knew that as an apprentice he would need to turn his over to his mistress, but still, the prospect of holding all that money was exciting.

  And there the stockings were, bulging very promisingly—but they looked different. He frowned, and took his down. He turned it over.

  No gold spilled out, but there was definitely something in there, something that was snagged in the fabric. Carefully, he reached in and worked it free.

  It wasn’t gold. It was a book, a very old, very worn little book in a soft leather binding. Darrend stared at it, and read the title inked on the cover: How to Win Friends and Influence People, by Deyl Karneggi, translated into Ethsharitic by Lieutenant Kelder Radler’s son. Darrend opened it carefully, and read a few lines here and there; it seemed to be a collection of advice.

  Very interesting advice. Darrend began reading in earnest, forgetting about the other stocking.

  He was roused from his reverie by Alir’s arrival. “What’s that you have there?” she said.

  He showed her the book. “It was in my stocking,” he said.

  She stared at it for a moment, then hurried to her own stocking.

  “No gold,” she said. “But…” She looked at the objects she had shaken out of her sock.

  “What are they?” Darrend asked.

  Alir shook her head. “I’m not sure,” she said. “But there’s a pamphlet…” She opened the little booklet. “It’s instructions.” She glanced at Darrend.

  “Instructions for what?”

  Alir was staring at the mysterious little cylinders and boxes. “They’re cosmetics,” she said. “But they aren’t like any I ever saw before.” She looked back at the booklet. “Hmmm.”

  Darrend was not very clear on the concept of cosmetics, beyond the fact that they were things rich women used to improve their appearance. He supposed it was a minor sort of magic—a branch of sorcery, perhaps, or wizardry, or maybe just herbalism. It wasn’t anything that concerned him. He turned back to his book.

  Later that day Alir called on Tazar, and virtually the first words the wizard said were, “How did you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “This,” he said, pointing at a small table by the door of his workshop.

  An empty sock lay at one side of the table; beside it were several cones of bluish incense, two cut roses, a small bunch of pine needles neatly bound up in a black ribbon, and an assortment of other junk. Alir stared at this uncomprehendingly.

  “It’s the ingredients for the Transporting Tapestry!” Tazar said. “Some of them, anyway—we’ll also need all the yarn, of course, and threads of gold and silver, and a loom. But the rest of it is right there! How did you know what was needed? How did you get it into the sock? And where did you get that incense? It’s the right kind, and I didn’t know there was any of it in the city! I thought we’d need to make it ourselves!”

  “I didn’t do anything,” Alir said. “Santa did.”

  “Well, he’s pretty amazing,” Tazar said, staring at the table.

  “Ten more days,” Alir said, staring at the sock.

  By the sixth day of Christmas Alir had told virtually everyone she knew about the stocking trick, and various people had received gifts of sorcerous talismans, rare and precious ingredients for spells, books on a dozen subjects, candy, coins, toys, jewelry, clothing accessories, and various other small treasures. Tazar had all the materials for the tapestry spell, and Alir, after collecting her fee for telling everyone how to obtain mysterious gifts with nothing but a sock, had paid half of the total cost.

  Santa had finished his painting, and Alir stared at it in fascination. The workshop in the picture was amazingly cluttered, but still very clean. Toys and tools and devices were everywhere, most of them very alien.

  The painting was delivered to Tazar, who assured Alir, Darrend, and Santa that a tapestry-capable wizard had at last been found, and that she would be starting work on the spell immediately. Tazar was as fascinated by the picture as Alir had been, and Santa began identifying and explaining the various details to the wizard. After a few m
oments Alir decided the conversation was going to continue all day; she made her excuses and slipped away.

  Santa had not come back by the time she went to bed, but she didn’t worry; after all, he could always come down the chimney. She had hung her stocking once again.

  By the eleventh day of Christmas virtually the entire city of Ethshar of the Spices had heard about stocking magic, and the overlord had sent a magistrate to question Alir and Santa about it.

  At first, neither of them understood just why the overlord was concerned; the magistrate wearily explained, “These gifts are putting a large amount of new coinage into circulation. That can affect prices. Meanwhile, certain merchants have complained that their business has suffered, because their customers have received goods from this godling without making any payment. As for all these sorcerous talismans, and potent herbs, and other magic, well, you know that magic is tricky stuff, no matter what form it takes. Having more of it in circulation is not helping the overlord sleep more easily.”

  “Oh.”

  “And there’s the matter of fairness—one person gets a stockingful of gold, another a stockingful of candy. The obvious injustice is troubling.”

  “Everyone gets what they want and deserve,” Santa said.

  “And how is that determined, sir?” the magistrate asked.

  “I have a list,” Santa explained. “I know who’s been naughty and who’s been nice. I know when anyone writes to tell me what they want; I know what they tell family or friends.”

  “Naughty or nice?” The magistrate glanced at Alir, who turned up an empty palm.

  “He’s not from the World,” she said. “I know nothing about his standards or abilities.”

  The magistrate frowned. “Is this stocking phenomenon going to continue indefinitely, then?”

  “Oh, no!” Santa exclaimed, with a laugh. “No, no. Just one more day, and Christmas will be over for another year.”

  “And a year from now, we hope to send him back where he came from,” Alir said.