Stone Unturned: A Legend of Ethshar

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

“No, no.” Gror waved away the suggestion. “He’s dead, I’m afraid, and I’m leasing this place from his estate. His heirs didn’t want to live here, and there aren’t too many people who want to rent something like this, so I got a good deal. Lord Landessin’s collection came with it.” He waved at some of the statuary. “It impresses some of my clients. You know it’s good for business if they think I’m ridiculously wealthy; it lets them feel as if they’re dealing with an equal, and that I must know something about quality. Naturally, I don’t tell them that all these things came with the house, or that I don’t own the place. Actually, I have an arrangement with Landessin’s heirs that if any of my customers take a fancy to any of the sculptures, I can negotiate a sale and keep a 25% commission.”

  “Where did he get them all?”

  Gror turned up an empty palm. “His niece told me that he spent most of his life roaming around the World, buying every sculpture or carving he could. He had inherited a fortune and held some position in the overlord’s government that required extensive traveling; the niece was a little vague about the exact nature of her uncle’s duties, but apparently he spent years at a time in the Small Kingdoms or the Baronies of Sardiron, and always returned home with dozens of new statues.”

  Morvash considered that as he looked at the shelves and niches. “Do you think he was a spy?” He had visions of secret staircases or hidden rooms.

  “Probably nothing quite so crude as that, but I suspect he did indeed represent the Hegemony’s interests in some clandestine way.” Gror smiled and patted Morvash on the back. “Come on, lad, and I’ll show you the rest of the house. You’ll want to see where you’ll be sleeping, I’m sure.”

  “Of course, Uncle. Lead the way!”

  Gror led, and Morvash discovered that the displays of statuary extended from the marble-floored entry hall through a grand parlor, a gallery, a dining hall, and a ballroom; the only part of the main floor not decorated with sculpture was the kitchen alcove. Presumably the lower level that held the kitchens proper and the cellars was also free of ornament, but Gror did not show his nephew that. Instead he led the way upstairs. A white marble figure of a boy in a broad-brimmed hat adorned the lower end of the bannister on the staircase leading up from the ballroom foyer to the guest quarters. A shrine to Unniel stood at the top.

  Morvash’s room, just off the landing, was as crowded with statues as the rest of the mansion. A forbidding life-sized figure in black granite stood at the foot of the bed, glowering down at the embroidered coverlet.

  The idea of having that thing watching him while he slept did not appeal to Morvash. “Would it be all right if I moved that one?” he asked.

  “I don’t mind,” Gror said. “And Lord Landessin’s niece didn’t say anything to the contrary. As long as you don’t damage it, I suppose you can put it wherever you please.”

  Morvash contemplated the statue for a moment. Why would anyone carve such a thing? It clearly represented a female magician—a warlock, perhaps? Or a demonologist? Whatever she was meant to be, she was no beauty.

  Then another thought struck him. “Uncle, why are you renting? Why didn’t you buy a house?”

  Gror grimaced. “Because I still hope to go back to Ethshar of the Rocks someday, Morvash. Even after all these years, this city isn’t home; it’s just where I work. We needed someone we could trust completely here, and I got the job, but I didn’t want to come here. Besides, I couldn’t afford to buy a place like this!” He gestured at the huge bedchamber, the brocade draperies, the elegant walnut furniture, the dozens of assorted statues.

  “But—won’t the family always need someone here? How can you ever go back?”

  Gror turned up a hand. “Oh, one of the younger relatives might decide that it would be exciting to work here in Azrad’s Ethshar—up until he married that magistrate’s daughter, I thought your brother Ilzan might be interested. Or the war in Tintallion might end, which would put us out of the arms business.”

  “Not completely, would it?”

  “Well, maybe not, but without the war we probably wouldn’t need to have a full-time agent here, funneling weapons from the Small Kingdoms, and I think I could relocate my other business back home.”

  Morvash was suddenly uncomfortable with the reminder of just what his merchant family mostly sold. To distract himself, he reached out toward the granite statue. He tugged at its shoulder and discovered it was heavier than he had realized; he could not budge it.

  “That one’s pretty solid,” Gror remarked. “I don’t know who put it by the bed, or why anyone thought that was a good place for it. You’ll need help if you intend to move it by hand. Can’t you work a spell to transport it somewhere?”

  “Maybe,” Morvash said, eyeing the figure. It was probably meant to be a demonologist, he thought. Now, why would anyone want a statue of a demonologist? A pretty girl he could understand, and of course gods and goddesses were useful, but a rather ugly demonologist? And why carve it out of such dark granite? It was extraordinarily detailed work, especially for such a hard stone, and a lighter-colored material would have displayed the workmanship better.

  “Where do you want your luggage, when it arrives? Shall I have everything sent up here?”

  Morvash turned. “Most of it is my tools of the trade, Uncle. Is there a room somewhere I can use as a workshop?”

  Gror frowned. “I can find something, I suppose, but you aren’t planning to run a wizard’s business from this house, are you?”

  “Well, I want to do something to earn my keep,” Morvash answered.

  “Yes, of course you do, and I’ll be glad of your services, but…there’s no need to rush, is there? Take your time, get settled in first. Oh, is there anyone you need to talk to? Anyone from the Guild, I mean?”

  Morvash turned up a palm. “Not really. It would probably be polite to eventually tell the local Wizards’ Guild official that I’m here—Guildmasters, we call them. But I don’t have to formally report in or anything; the Guild doesn’t work like that.”

  Gror nodded.

  There were a few seconds of awkward silence, and then Gror said, “You must be tired, and probably hungry, if the shipboard food was the usual sort. I’ll go see to your luggage while you rest, and then we can have a little something to eat. Would you like to join me in the parlor, or have something sent up?”

  “Oh, I’ll be down in a few minutes,” Morvash said. “I’m not so tired as all that, and after being confined to the ship, I’m glad to stretch my legs a little.” Morvash gave the granite statue an uneasy glance; its presence was another reason he was not eager to stay in this room.

  “Good, good! I’ll see you in a few minutes, then.” With that, Gror turned and left, closing the bedchamber door behind him.

  Morvash turned back to the statue of the demonologist. He frowned, then crossed to the windows and pushed back the brocade drapes, letting as much light into the room as he could. He went so far as to hook the draperies over nearby furniture or statuary, to expose as much glass as possible. Sunlight spilled across the parquetry. Then he slowly and carefully approached the granite figure, studying it closely. A horrible suspicion was growing in him.

  The statue’s face was unbelievably realistic. The nostrils went so deep into the stone that Morvash could not see their end, even with the additional light provided by a quick fire spell. The hair was flawlessly accurate in its texture. A small pimple was half-hidden by the hairline.

  Surely, no sculptor carved in such detail. Morvash knew the truth even before he drew the silver dagger from his belt and touched the enchanted blade to the demonologist’s cheek, but the faint blue glow that indicated the presence of residual magic confirmed his fears.

  This wasn’t a true statue at all. This was a living woman who had been turned to stone. Morvash had no idea who it was, or why she had been petrified
, or when, or by whom, but this was a real person.

  Or it had been, anyway. Whether the spell was reversible was another unanswered question. There were reversible petrifaction spells, and irreversible ones, and Morvash did not know how to recognize which had been used, or even whether there was a simple way to tell.

  He sighed. It appeared he was going to be busy for awhile, figuring out just what the situation here was, and what, if anything, he could, or should, do about it.

  He definitely wanted to do something. He did not want to sleep in the same room as a petrified demonologist.

  He glanced around at the other statues and carvings, and he remembered the hundreds of other sculptures jammed into the house. Most of them were probably exactly what they appeared to be, examples of a carver’s art, but where there was one enchantment, there might well be others.

  He had some research to do.

  Chapter Two

  Darissa the Witch’s Apprentice

  11th of Harvest, YS 5199

  Darissa strolled up the row of stalls and displays, taking in the sounds, sights, and smells, and sensing the thoughts and moods of the merchants and customers. Most were fairly relaxed, focused on the business of buying and selling. The farmers generally seemed to look on this market day as an excuse to avoid the heavy labor that was their usual lot. Craftspeople tended to be slightly more anxious—if their wares didn’t sell, they might starve during the coming winter. Farmers could always eat their own produce.

  The folks who had come down from the castle were a varied lot. Some were just happy to be out in the fine weather, looking over the various wares offered for sale, but others had been unable to put aside their other concerns. Darissa picked up worries about the possibility of war, though she discern no details, and several more personal issues weighed on various minds. She could hear the thoughts of a man working himself into a fury—he suspected his wife was unfaithful; elsewhere, a woman was trying unsuccessfully to convince herself that nothing was wrong with her pregnancy, the baby being so quiet did not mean anything, and the cramps were perfectly normal…

  Darissa frowned. She should attend to that one. Those cramps were not normal for late in the fifth month of pregnancy, and witchcraft might be able to do something about the situation. She stopped walking and craned her head, trying to pick out the source of the thoughts.

  She sensed a man’s happy appreciation of the sight of a pretty girl—common enough, but not helpful. It drowned out the other thoughts. She turned, and suddenly found herself face to face—or really, until she looked up, face to chest—with a young man. He smiled down at her.

  “Looking for something?” he asked.

  “A pregnant woman,” she said, without thinking. “But the pregnancy may not be very obvious yet.” Only after the words came out did she realize that this was the man who had been admiring someone—and that someone was her.

  “Ah,” he said, glancing at the crowd. “Do you know what she’s wearing? Tall, short?”

  Darissa shook her head. “I don’t know what she looks like at all.”

  He cocked his head to one side. “Then how do you know…well, why are you looking for her?”

  “Something’s wrong. I want to see if I can help her.”

  “How do you know?”

  Darissa did not look at him; she was trying to spot the mother to be. “I’m a witch. I heard her thoughts.”

  “You’re dressed as an apprentice.”

  “Fine, I’m an apprentice witch. Do you see her or not?”

  “A moment.” He straightened and gazed out across the crowd, and Darissa found herself envying his height—he was looking over everyone’s heads, while she could not even see over his shoulders. “Bergan!” he shouted. “My banner!”

  “What?” She looked up at him again, startled, and finally registered that he was not merely taller than most men, but impeccably dressed and coifed, with strong features.

  “Your highness!” came an answering shout. Darissa turned to see where this reply came from and saw a man in the king’s livery unrolling a blue and gold pennant.

  “People of Melitha!” the tall man roared, in an amazingly powerful voice. “I am Prince Marek, and I ask any woman here who is with child to present herself to me, here and now, that I may reward her for adding to the kingdom’s prosperity and strength!”

  The normal chatter of the market quickly died as people turned to look at the prince, or at one another. Then, as Prince Marek lifted a fat purse from his belt, women began to step forward. Darissa stood beside him, watching, as they made their way through the crowd to the waiting nobleman.

  As women approached, Marek shook their hands, handed each a silver bit, said something encouraging, and glanced at Darissa, not necessarily in that order. It was the fifth recipient, a thin, pale woman in shabby clothes, who was tensed against cramps or other pains.

  Darissa hesitated, glancing at Marek. What should she do?

  Marek caught her glance, and Darissa sensed his thoughts as clearly as if he had spoken: Is she the one?

  Darissa nodded.

  “Ah,” the prince said, not releasing the hand of this mother-to-be. “Mistress, could I trouble you to wait here for a moment? There is another matter I would like to discuss, once I have finished my task.”

  “I…of course, your highness.” The woman looked startled and confused, but did not argue. Darissa sensed that she was too involved in other concerns to resist the prince’s request.

  “Then if you would please stay with this apprentice, I will be right with you.”

  “Yes, your highness.” The pale woman attempted a curtsey, but had obviously never learned to do one properly and almost fell over when she tried to bob back up. Darissa reached over and caught her.

  Marek smiled at them both, then turned his attention back to the crowd and continued handing out coins.

  “If you’ll forgive me, Mistress, I believe you may need my services,” Darissa murmured to her charge.

  “Oh, I’m fine,” the woman replied weakly.

  “No, you are not,” Darissa said firmly. “I’m a witch’s apprentice, a few months short of journeyman, and it’s very clear to me that you are not fine. You and your child are, in fact, in great danger.”

  The woman had been half looking at the prince, and half down at her own belly, but at this she focused her entire attention on Darissa.

  “Are you sure?” Her expression hardened. “I…I mean, how do I know this isn’t a trick? How do I know you don’t want the child yourself, to sell to the wizards for their spells?”

  Darissa had seen how the woman looked at Marek, and quickly improvised, “Do you think I would be allowed in the prince’s company if I were as vile as that? I promise you, I want only what’s best for you.”

  The prince had apparently been listening. He turned and added quietly, “I put my full faith in this apprentice, dear lady. Please, do us all a kindness and allow her to tend to you. My footman, Bergan, will be happy to assist you in any way.”

  Darissa was suddenly aware of a sharp pain in the woman’s abdomen. She reached out to steady the woman. “Please, let me help you,” she said.

  The woman’s face, pale to begin with, had gone white. She nodded, and Darissa threw an arm around her waist and led her from the market toward her master’s cottage. She was vaguely aware of the prince’s footman, Bergan, following them.

  * * * *

  It was clear to Darissa and her master, Nondel of the Oaks, that they had been just in time. Without their intervention, Darissa was fairly certain that Alasha, as she called herself, would have been dead by nightfall. As it was, they were unable to save the baby—it had already been dead for some time, Nondel said, and even if it weren’t, the poor misshapen thing would never have survived its birth. The mother had develop
ed a severe infection; it took hours to stop the bleeding, heal the injuries to Alasha’s womb, and soothe the mother’s anguish enough to let her sleep. Nondel did most of the magic, drawing energy from Darissa when his own reserves were depleted, but both of them worked hard to keep their patient alive.

  When it was done, when all three adults had been cleaned up and the tiny, pitiful remains of the unborn infant wrapped up and put safely aside until the mother was able to attend to them, Alasha lay unconscious in Darissa’s own narrow bed, in the back of the cottage. The master gave his apprentice a nod and said, “Well done, girl. Well spotted.”

  “Thank you, Master,” Darissa said. She glanced at the window, and saw the slanting light of late afternoon; the market would be largely deserted by now, the prince and his man back at the castle.

  It had been very kind of him to draw the pregnant women out that way. Darissa was fairly sure he only did it to impress her, in hopes of getting into her bed—that had certainly been the trend of his thoughts when she first noticed his presence—but still, it was kind. He could easily have relied on his royal status to sway her; it undoubtedly worked on plenty of women without the aid of extravagant acts of charity. Further, he had continued to hand out coins, staying true to his promise, rather than following Darissa under the guise of helping see Alasha safe. His presence would have been a distraction while the witches worked.

  I should, she thought, send him a message to let him know his actions were appreciated. She could just leave a word with one of the castle guards; a small spell of persuasion would ensure that the guard would pass it on promptly.

  “Excuse me, Master,” she said. “I have an errand.”

  Nondel cocked his head. “You’re tired; can’t your errand wait until you’ve rested?”

  “I think it would best be done quickly, Master.”

  He smiled. “The easier to get him out of your thoughts, eh? As you please.”