Tales of Ethshar (legends of ethshar)

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  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.

  “A year?”

  “We’re having a Transporting Tapestry made.”

  “I’ll ask the Wizards’ Guild to make that a priority.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But, sir...” Darrend began.

  The magistrate turned to glare at him. “Yes, apprentice?”

  “Is it really so terrible, that people are being given these little gifts? I’ve mostly seen happy children playing with the toys they found in their stockings, not the problems you describe. Do we really need to send him away?”

  The magistrate considered for a moment, then said, “Yes.”

  Santa laughed. “After Twelfth Night I’ll be going, then. I’ll come back when the tapestry is ready.”

  “Wait, going?” Alir asked. “Going where?”

  “North,” he said. “Where I always go after Christmas.”

  “But... but...” Alir looked at Darrend and the magistrate.

  “That will be satisfactory,” the magistrate said. “I will inform the overlord.”

  The following morning Alir found a bottle of fine Dwomoritic wine in her stocking, and a note reading, “Thank you for your hospitality! — Santa Claus.”

  Santa Claus himself was gone, though; his attic bed was empty, and there was no evidence he had ever been there.

  At first, Alir kept expecting the fat man in the red coat to turn up again, or at least send word, but there was no sign of him. As the months passed, she gradually turned her attention to other concerns.

  It was on the first day of Midwinter that Tazar came around to Alir’s shop and said, “The tapestry is almost ready; where’s your spirit?”

  “I don’t know where he is,” she admitted. “I haven’t heard from him since last year.”

  “Well, we’ve put a great deal of time and effort and magic into that tapestry, so I hope it hasn’t all gone to waste!”

  “I’m sure it hasn’t.”

  “If he turns up, tell him it’ll be ready in a sixnight.”

  “Thank you, I will.”

  That started her thinking — where had Santa gone? She had heard no reports of sightings anywhere in the World. Over the next day or two she asked a few gods, but none of them admitted knowing anything about any red-garbed spirit from another world. She considered using the spell that had brought him in the first place, but summoning him when he was already somewhere in the World did not seem like a good idea.

  At last, though, when she realized that it was the fourth of Midwinter, she had an inspiration. She hung a stocking on the chimneypiece, and stuffed a note in it.

  She did not go to bed that night; instead she fell asleep in a chair near the hearth.

  She was awakened by the sound of laughter. “Santa!” she exclaimed, sitting up.

  “It’s traditional to leave a glass of milk and a plate of cookies, and slip the note under the plate,” he said gently. He leaned over to kiss her on the forehead. “I’ll come around on the seventh, shall I?” Then he stepped quickly to the fireplace, and vanished up the chimney.

  She stared at the spot where he had stood, and wondered, in her half-asleep state, how he did that. Then she stood up and took down her stocking.

  Candy, a few unfamiliar coins, an orange — nothing of any real value, but still, she found herself smiling. She thought about eleven more days of little treasures — but then she decided not to be greedy.

  Besides, in three days Santa Claus would be going home to his own world.

  She wondered whether anyone else had thought to put up a stocking.

  On the afternoon of the seventh of Midwinter it was snowing, and Alir was wondering whether that would keep Santa away, when there was a knock at the shop door, and Darrend opened it to let Santa in. He had his bag slung over his shoulder, and was laughing heartily. “Merry Christmas!” he called.

  “Merry Christmas, Santa!” Alir replied.

  They chatted for a few minutes; Santa wanted to know how business had been, how her three brothers were, and so on, and she wanted to know where he had been all year.

  “Srigmor,” he said. “And Kerroa, and Aala, and both Sardirons.” Before she could ask for more details, though, he said, “Isn’t there somewhere we should be going?”

  “Yes, of course!”

  Twenty minutes later they were in Tazar’s shop, where he cautiously unveiled the tapestry.

  “My goodness!” Santa exclaimed at the sight of it. “That’s very realistic, isn’t it?” He reached out.

  “Don’t touch!..” Alir began, but it was too late; the fat man in red had vanished.

  For a moment the three magicians stared silently at the tapestry and the empty patch of floor where Santa had stood.

  “Well, it apparently works,” Tazar said at last. “You understand, we couldn’t test it — there’s no way back.”

  “Then how do you know he wound up in the right place?” Darrend demanded.

  Tazar turned up an empty palm. “We don’t,” he said. “But if that picture was accurate, that’s where he is.”

  “I hope it is,” Alir said, staring at the image of that weird workshop.

  “Well, now that he’s gone, what do you want to do with the tapestry?” Tazar asked.

  Alir started. “What?”

  “You paid for it,” Tazar explained. “It’s yours. What do you want to do with it?”

  “Put it away somewhere safe,” she said.

  “You said there’s no way back?” Darrend asked.

  “Somewhere very safe,” Alir said.

  Tazar nodded. “We can do that,” he said.

  Alir stared at the tapestry a moment longer.

  She was almost tempted to reach out and touch it herself, to fling herself into that alien world that had produced Santa Claus, the world where there was an annual holiday dedicated to peace, generosity, and good will.

  But it was a world without theurgists; she would be out of a job there. She turned away.

  “Somewhere very safe,” she repeated. She hesitated, glanced at the tapestry once more, then asked, “But could I ha
ve the original painting?”

  About “The Unwanted Wardrobe”

  This is the only story in the book that is not an official Ethshar story. It is, instead, an April Fool’s joke. I had written a novel called The Unwilling Warlord, and after a long delay I had serialized a sequel to it (and to others) that wound up with the similar title The Unwelcome Warlock, so for April 1, 2011, I claimed I intended to follow it up with The Unwanted Wardrobe. I posted alleged details describing outrageous payment terms, saying I intended to write over a hundred chapters, etc., and provided the following as the supposed first chapter. It came out well enough that I decided to include it here.

  The magic described here is all acceptable by Ethsharitic rules, as is much of the background, but some of the names aren’t, and if I were to ever seriously write a story with this premise (which I might, someday) I would not jam in the Oz and Narnia references, and I’m not sure about the “Project Runway” allusion.

  I’m appending some notes at the end, for those who miss the in-jokes.

  The Unwanted Wardrobe

  Chapter One

  The tunic was bright purple, with red bands at the oversized cuffs and midnight-blue embroidery around the ruffled green collar. Lady Shanelle stared at it in dismay. “That totally won’t work,” she said. “I mean, ick. I don’t want Lord Wulran to think I have no taste at all.”

  Her friend Deyor grimaced. “Maybe you should have been more specific in what you told the wizard,” she said.

  “He needed to be told that the clothes shouldn’t be hideous?” Shanelle replied. “I mean, look at that thing! No one would wear that in public.”

  “Maybe one of those clowns performing in the Arena would,” Deyor suggested.

  Shanelle glared at her. “You aren’t helping.”

  Deyor turned up a palm. “All right, what did you tell the wizard? Maybe we can figure out what went wrong and find a way to fix it.”

  “I told him that I wanted an endless supply of beautiful clothes!”

  “In exactly those words?”

  Shanelle hesitated. “Well, no,” she said. “Let me think.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “I said... I said I wanted something that would provide me with new clothes every day, and that they should all be flawlessly made, and should all fit me perfectly, and should be designs that no one in Ethshar had ever seen before, so that I would stand out.”

  Deyor looked at the tunic. “Well, I think it’s safe to say no one ever saw that design before!”

  Shanelle shuddered. “I should hope not.” She snatched up the tunic, wadded it into a large silken ball, and flung it into the open wardrobe. “I hope I never see it again!” She slammed the wardrobe door.

  “You still need something to wear to the Fortress,” Deyor said.

  “I know. I’ll try again.” Shanelle took a deep breath, then spoke the words that would trigger the spell anew. “Timsez mekkitwerk!”

  A sound came from somewhere inside the wardrobe. Hesitantly, Shanelle opened the door and reached in to pull out a gown.

  It was a vivid chartreuse, an ankle-length sleeveless gown with a swooping low neckline and a single shoulder strap. The skirt was slit to mid-thigh on one side, and the slit was edged with silvery lace.

  “I can’t wear that!” Shanelle said, aghast.

  “It’s not your best color,” Deyor said.

  Shanelle threw her friend a dirty look, flung the dress aside, and shrieked, “Timsez mekkitwerk!”

  This time she drew forth a pair of blue cotton breeches with heavily-stitched seams.

  “All right, that’s it,” she said, glaring. “These aren’t even... I mean, they’re breeches! I’m a woman! And they have writing on them, on this little leather patch here — who ever heard of such a thing?”

  “They’re ugly, but they look well-made,” Deyor said, looking at the garment critically. “Perhaps your brother could wear them.”

  “My brother can get his own clothes! I paid fifteen rounds of gold for my wardrobe, not his.” She slammed the wardrobe door, and snatched the chartreuse gown off the floor. “I’m going to go show that wizard what he sold me, and give him a piece of my mind,” she said. “This is not what I ordered.” She stamped away.

  Deyor paused, watching Shanelle go; then she turned thoughtfully back to the wardrobe. She looked down at the dark blue breeches that Shanelle had left lying on the bed, then said quietly, “Timsez mekkitwerk.” Then she cautiously opened the cabinet door.

  Another tunic hung on one of the hooks. This one was shiny black, and actually looked quite presentable. Deyor carefully pulled it out and laid it on the bed. She did not recognize the fabric, and the cut was not quite like anything she had seen before, but it was quite striking. She left it on the bed while she closed the wardrobe again and whispered, “Timsez mekkitwerk.”

  Something rustled, and she pulled forth a fringed leather skirt that had been dyed a hideous shade of red. She set it on the bed beside the black tunic and blue breeches.

  Shanelle, Deyor told herself, had not thought this through. There was no reason to keep throwing rejected garments back into the wardrobe, where they would vanish; the wizard had provided her with an endless supply of new clothes, and it seemed dreadfully wasteful to keep discarding them. True, most of them had been ghastly, but every so often it produced a winner, like that black tunic, and even with the ugly ones, they were free clothes. They could be sold, or dyed, or taken apart for their fabric, or simply used as rags. A person could make her living off a wardrobe like this.

  Of course, Shanelle was above such petty concerns as earning a living; she had her father’s money to play with. Guchi the Merchant owned almost half the ships sailing out of Ethshar of the Rocks. Deyor’s family, though, was not so fortunate — their pedigree went back to the Great War, when her seven-times-great grandfather had served as General Gor’s quartermaster, but their wealth had dwindled over the centuries.

  This piece of magical furniture might change all that, though.

  “Timsez mekkitwerk,” Deyor murmured. “Timsez mekkitwerk, Timsez mekkitwerk, Timsez mekkitwerk.”

  She had built a fair-sized pile on the bed when she was startled by Shanelle’s voice calling, “Deyor! Aren’t you coming?”

  Deyor started. “Just a moment!” she answered. She looked around, but saw no alternative; she gathered up her various acquisitions and stuffed them back into the wardrobe, then turned and hurried down the stairs.

  A moment later the two young women were trotting down the hill, crossing the East Road from Highside into Center City and making their way to Manolo the Blank’s shop on Wizard Street.

  Shanelle babbled as they walked, waving the hideous gown around, telling Deyor again how unacceptable the spell was, and how much she wanted to impress the still-unmarried Lord Wulran, because after all, the overlord wasn’t actually required to marry a princess or another overlord’s daughter, and wasn’t Shanelle’s own family suitably noble? Deyor said very little; she was trying to think how she might convince her wealthy friend to let her have the defective magical wardrobe. She certainly couldn’t afford to pay fifteen gold rounds, but if Shanelle could somehow be made to discard it...

  Then they were at Manolo’s door, and Shanelle was ringing the bell, and Deyor had not thought of any way to get her hands on the wardrobe.

  Manolo’s apprentice Armani opened the door. “Yes?” she asked.

  “We want to see the wizard,” Shanelle told her.

  “The wizard? But nobody can see the wizard just now.”

  “I have to see him!” Shanelle insisted.

  “My orders are, nobody can see the great Manolo, not nobody, not no how.”

  “Why not?”

  Armani’s shoulders sank. “He didn’t tell me that.”

  “Where is he? In his workshop?”

  “No, he’s... I don’t think I should tell you.”

  “He’s out in the garden, isn’t he?” Shanelle said. “Trying to animate that sta
tue?”

  “He... he might be,” Armani admitted.

  “Does he really think it’s a woman someone petrified?”

  “He says he does,” Armani said, somewhat defensively.

  “That statue is stark naked,” Shanelle said. “Who would petrify someone when she was naked?”

  Armani blinked. “I... I never thought about that. Maybe whoever petrified her did it from a distance and didn’t know she was naked?”

  “I think that statue was carved by someone from ordinary stone. Someone with a dirty mind.”

  “Or maybe smooth skin is easier to carve than clothing,” Deyor suggested.

  “Maybe,” Shanelle said, clearly unconvinced. “He went into plenty of detail, though.”

  “My master thinks it’s a real woman who got petrified,” Armani said. “Turning her back would be a great kindness!”

  “You think he’s doing it out of kindness?” Shanelle asked.

  “Yes, of course!” Armani replied.

  “Does he have any clothes ready for her, if he succeeds?”

  “Uh...”

  “Just show us to the garden,” Shanelle said. “We won’t interrupt his spell.”

  “He told me — ”

  “We aren’t leaving until I see him,” Shanelle interrupted.

  Armani gave in. “This way,” she said. She swung the door wide to let the two visitors into the wizard’s home, and led them through the passage from the front parlor to the back gate.

  They emerged into the sunny garden behind the house, where a tall iron fence separated the property from the neighbors’ courtyard, and a line of statuary stood in front of the fence. There were two life-sized marble statues of handsome young men and one of a bearded patriarch dressed in the styles of a century earlier; one of a full-grown dragon was nowhere near life-sized, or it wouldn’t have fit in the rather small yard. A rather overpowering wooden carving appeared to represent the goddess Piskor somewhat larger than life — or perhaps, for all Shanelle and Deyor knew, she really was nine feet tall.