Stone Unturned: A Legend of Ethshar

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “How?” the demon demanded.

  “Well, I know my way around the city,” Hakin said. “I make my living running errands for hire, and that often involves finding people. Tell me who this Karitha is, and why you’re looking for her.”

  “She is Karitha the Demonologist. She summoned me and set me a task, and I have completed it; now she must set me another, or dismiss me, or if she will do neither, I will kill her—but first I must find her.”

  “Yes, I can see how that would be necessary. Yes. Um.”

  “If you cannot assist me, then go away. If you hinder me, I will kill you.”

  “I have every intention of assisting you!” Hakin protested. “But I don’t know enough yet. I don’t know this Karitha, but if you give me time I might be able to find her for you. Tell me more about her; where does she live?”

  “She dwelt on Magician Street, on the northeast side, in the fourth shop south of Warlock Street. But she is not there now!”

  Hakin cringed as the monster bellowed this final angry sentence. The demon glared at him, then raised a clawed hand.

  “Wait!” Hakin said, holding up his own much smaller and less-intimidating hand. “So you came here looking for her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why here?”

  “People hide here.”

  “People hide lots of places.”

  The demon did not bother to answer that. It took a step forward, bringing it close enough for Hakin to see faint wisps of steam rising from its back. A burning metallic smell reached him that he guessed was the demon’s own odor.

  “Wait, wait!” Hakin said, both hands held up before his chest. This time he could not prevent himself from taking a step back. “You said she set you a task—what was it?”

  “She sent me to slay Wosten of the Red Robe.”

  “Ah,” Hakin said. “And did you?”

  “Of course! I could not return to Karitha until Wosten was dead. See, his blood is still on my claws.” It held up a handful of talons stained reddish-brown.

  Hakin did not manage to completely suppress a shudder. “How did you find Wosten? How could you be sure you killed the right man?”

  “I had his scent,” the demon replied. “There was no mistake. I slew Wosten of the Red Robe.”

  “So you hunt by smell? But you can’t smell Karitha?”

  “Yes. Her scent leads nowhere. She is not dead—I have consulted the masters of the afterlife, and they have not received her soul—and yet I cannot smell her. Her odor lingers in her home and in the streets of the Wizards’ Quarter, but it is hours or days old; there is no fresh trace.”

  “So ordinarily, you can smell anyone? How close do you need to be?”

  “I can track a human scent across all the World!”

  Hakin cocked his head slightly. He was not sure just how the sense of smell worked, but he knew that nothing natural could smell a person from a hundred leagues away. Demons weren’t exactly natural, and this one obviously wasn’t talking about “human scent” in the same way an ordinary person would use the term. Assuming it wasn’t exaggerating, it probably wasn’t using scent in the usual sense at all, but some sort of demonic magic that served roughly the same function.

  “You don’t know of anything that could hide a person’s scent?”

  “No!”

  “Then it must be magic.”

  The demon’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of magic?”

  “I don’t know,” Hakin said. “Not yet. But perhaps we can find out.”

  “We?”

  “Well, yes. Unless you think you can figure it out without me.”

  The demon considered that, and the glare of those yellow eyes seemed to dim slightly. It lowered its claws. “I am unfamiliar with any magic but my own,” it said.

  Hakin displayed an empty palm. “I’m no magician, either, but I can ask questions.”

  The demon stared at him. “Why?” it asked.

  “Why what?” Hakin replied.

  “Why would you help me? I am a demon. By Ethsharitic standards I am a monster, a killer, a creature of evil. Why would you help me?”

  “First off, so you won’t kill me,” Hakin said, stating the obvious. He tried to think quickly about everything he had ever heard about demons, in hopes of understanding a little of how this one thought. He intended to stick to the truth, since some magical creatures could tell a lie when they heard one, but that still allowed for some variation in how he slanted it. “Second, so you won’t kill anyone else who might happen to get in your way while you go smashing about looking for this Karitha. But third, maybe I can get something for myself out of this. Karitha might think it’s worth a few bits to have her demon returned to her.”

  “Ah,” the demon said. It nodded once. “Greed. Good. I understand greed. Where do we start?”

  “The Wizards’ Quarter seems like the obvious place,” Hakin said. “We can talk to Karitha’s neighbors—or did you already try that?”

  “I did not. You are the first human I have conversed with since I tore out Wosten’s throat.”

  Ignoring the unwanted image of Wosten’s death, Hakin found it slightly surprising that no one else had tried talking to the demon—but only slightly. Most people had probably fled at first sight of it. He wasn’t entirely sure why he hadn’t fled himself. “The neighbors it is, then. Magician Street, you said?”

  “Yes. Near Warlock Street.”

  “Then we’ll head that way.” He pointed north, toward the city beyond the Field.

  “Good,” the demon said, turning.

  “Perhaps we should introduce ourselves,” Hakin said, as he, too, turned.

  “I am Tarker the Unrelenting, a demon of the First Circle, of the original ordering. You are Hakin, called Hakin of the Hundred-Foot Field, son of Nerra the Skinny Whore and Chend the Navigator.”

  “I…what?” Hakin, who had taken a single step, stumbled. “How did you know that?”

  “I have your scent,” the demon said, as it walked toward Wall Street.

  “You know who my father was?” Hakin said, running to catch up.

  “Yes. Chend the Navigator.” Tarker marched on as it spoke.

  “But I didn’t know that! My mother said she didn’t know that!”

  “I am a demon of the First Circle. I have your scent.”

  “But that…that… I didn’t know demons could do that!”

  “We can.”

  “You…but…” Hakin swallowed, closed his eyes for a second, then opened them again. “Is he alive?”

  “Who?”

  “Chend the Navigator.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell me—”

  The demon marched on without looking at him. “I am not interested in answering your questions,” it said. “This does not concern me.”

  Hakin could hardly argue with that. He wondered whether there was any way he could make it the demon’s concern.

  He also wondered whether the demon was telling the truth. He knew gods never lied, except by omission, but to the best of his knowledge demons were under no such restraint. It could be that every single word this demon had said to him was false.

  Maybe if he knew more about it, he could tell. He had heard that demonologists knew a great deal about the demons they summoned; maybe Karitha, if they ever found her, could tell whether this thing could be trusted.

  Right now, though, Karitha was missing—but they were heading toward the Wizards’ Quarter, and there were other demonologists who lived and worked there.

  He ran up to the demon’s side again and said, “You said your name was Tarker?”

  “I am Tarker the Unrelenting.”<
br />
  That was not a difficult name to remember. Hakin thought that when he had a chance—perhaps when this was all done, and the demon was gone—he would want to do some research. He had never had any interest in demonology, which seemed to focus on greed and violence, but it suddenly had a certain appeal. He wanted to know more about this Tarker, and about Chend the Navigator.

  Assuming, of course, that he lived long enough to do anything. Walking around the city with a demon, harassing magicians, was probably not going to enhance his chances of surviving into adulthood.

  Not that he was walking, exactly—the demon’s stride was much longer than his. Hakin was running hard to keep up with the monster as it stalked up Widow Street, sending pedestrians fleeing in all directions.

  As he ran, he wondered what he had gotten himself into. Who was this Karitha, and why couldn’t the demon find her? The demon said it could smell her anywhere in the World—did that mean Karitha wasn’t in the World? There were stories about gods and wizards being able to travel to other places; had one of them taken Karitha somewhere?

  The obvious way to leave the World was to die, but Tarker said Karitha hadn’t died. Did the demon really know that? Who were the masters of the afterlife it had mentioned? Hakin had never heard about anything like that before. He knew that not all souls went the same place—in fact, some didn’t go anywhere, which was where ghosts came from. Did these masters really keep track of all of them? What about souls that were captured or devoured? Hakin had heard plenty of stories about those when he huddled around the campfires on chilly nights.

  Karitha might be dead, and her soul lost or destroyed. Or she might have been transported to another world. Or she might still be alive and well, right here in Ethshar, but hidden somehow. Tarker said it could track a human scent anywhere in the World, but what if Karitha wasn’t human anymore? What if she had been turned into, say, a toad, or a rat?

  That was something he should ask Tarker about, when he could catch his breath and get within earshot. The demon was half a block ahead of him, and Hakin was starting to have trouble keeping his legs moving.

  They were past South Street, though, which meant they were more than halfway through Southwark, more than halfway from Wall Street to the Wizards’ Quarter.

  What if Karitha had become a warlock? Hakin had heard someone say once that the gods couldn’t see warlocks; maybe demons couldn’t smell warlocks. Gods and demons were related somehow, weren’t they? Could demons perceive warlocks? That was another question for Hakin to ask.

  Or maybe he shouldn’t ask any questions. Maybe he should just turn around and go back to the Hundred-Foot Field, where he belonged. Tarker didn’t seem to be very concerned about his inability to keep pace.

  But he had said he would help, and he really, really didn’t want to make a demon angry. It wasn’t as if he could hide; the demon had his scent.

  He took a deep breath and kept running.

  Chapter Nine

  Darissa the Witch’s Apprentice

  15th of Harvest, YS 5199

  Darissa followed the prince down the stairs; her own much shorter legs could not match his stride, so she gathered her magic and lifted herself off the stone steps, floating down a few feet behind him and a few inches in the air. Levitating upward was exhausting, but gliding down was not hard at all.

  By the time they were halfway down she could hear pounding feet and shouting voices below them. Elzen, the guard they had passed on the way up, was nowhere to be seen.

  At the bottom of the stair half a dozen soldiers had formed into two lines facing another man, presumably an officer from his somewhat fancier uniform. “Captain Korl!” Marek called. “Have you seen either of my brothers?”

  The officer turned, recognized Marek, and saluted. “No, your Highness. I’ve been collecting the household guard.” He turned to his men. “Has anyone seen Prince Terren or Prince Evreth today?”

  “I thought Prince Evreth was on a mission to Shulara, Captain,” one of the men in the back row said.

  “He is? I hadn’t heard that,” Marek said.

  “It…might have been confidential, your Highness.”

  “Ordinarily I would ask why you know about it, Molvir, but right now I think we have more urgent concerns,” Marek replied. “No one’s seen Terren?”

  No one spoke up, so Marek saluted Captain Korl, told him to carry on, and hurried onward, Darissa at his heel.

  “Prince Marek,” she called as they rushed down a corridor. “Your Highness!”

  He stopped dead, and turned to look at her. “You don’t need to call me that,” he said.

  Baffled, she said, “But everybody calls you that!”

  “You aren’t everybody; you’re Darissa, and please, call me Marek. At least, in private.”

  “I…all right.”

  “Now, what is it?”

  “Should I go home? It seems to me I can only be in the way here.”

  He looked around thoughtfully, then nodded. “You’re right,” he said. “You should go. We can’t have magicians involved in a war, and you’ll probably be safer if you’re somewhere else.”

  She could feel honest regret in his thoughts. “I’m not worried about my safety,” she said. “I just don’t want to be underfoot.”

  “Well, whatever your reasons, I am sorry to say that yes, you should leave. I can send a soldier to escort you…”

  “Oh, please, that’s not necessary. I can find my own way. Your soldiers all have responsibilities right now, I’m sure—as you do.”

  “Of course.” He hesitated, started to reach for her, then drew back. “Go. Take care of yourself, and be safe. Tell anyone who you speak to that we are at war with Eknera, and quite possibly with other neighboring realms, as well. We’ll need to see…” He broke off in mid-sentence, frowning. “Go,” he told her. Then he turned and called to a passing soldier, “Saldan! Has anyone taken Debren’s place on tower watch? Are there sentries posted yet?”

  Darissa took a second to look at him, at his strong features and fine shoulders, then turned and, guided by her witchcraft, headed for the exit into the courtyard.

  The yard was full of running, shouting people; the children who had been playing earlier were nowhere to be seen. Darissa did not try to make sense of it, but continued on through the tunnel and over the bridge across the moat. The doors were still open, and no one tried to interfere as she walked through them. The guards in the passage who had been so casual before, and so deferential to Prince Marek, were now alert and on edge, staring out across the market, eyeing everyone suspiciously. They watched her pass, but said nothing; people coming out of the castle were not their problem.

  The guards at the top of the stair, though, did stop her. “State your business,” one of them said, as he blocked her path with his spear.

  “I’m going home,” she said. “I’d just be in the way up here.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m Darissa the Witch’s Apprentice.”

  “She came in with Prince Marek,” said another guard—Arra, Marek had called him when they arrived, perhaps an hour before.

  “Does His Highness know you’re leaving?”

  “He does,” Darissa said. “He’s busy with preparations for war, and sent me home.”

  “She could be a spy,” one of the other soldiers suggested.

  “If the Eknerans sent any spies,” Darissa said, “wouldn’t they either want them to report back before their army started marching, in which case I’d have left long ago, or to stay and find a way to get news to them from inside the walls? This would be a stupid time for a spy to leave.”

  The guards considered that, but one of them said, “You might have sent messages before the army marched, but stayed on until the war began in case you found more to report, and you’re l
eaving now so you won’t be stuck inside during a siege.”

  Darissa started to reply, then stopped as she realized that scenario made sense. “That’s a good point,” she said. “I hadn’t thought of that. But I’m not a spy—I’m a Melithan, born and raised. I don’t speak a word of Ekneran. What can I do to prove it?”

  “She wasn’t in the castle until today,” Arra said. “At least, I never saw her before today. And she did come in with Prince Marek.”

  “All right,” said the soldier who seemed to be in charge. “Where do you live?”

  “Down there, just outside town,” she pointed. “My master is Nondel the Witch.”

  “Fine,” the commander said. “We’ll let her go, but Pergren, escort her home and talk to this Nondel, see if he seems honest. Then get back here.”

  Pergren nodded, and trotted down the steps at Darissa’s heels. She did not want to keep him from his post, so she did not tarry in the market or stroll the streets looking for anyone who might need her help; instead she marched straight home, where Nondel confirmed her identity. Pergren covered the essentials in a few minutes, then turned and hurried back up the slope to the castle.

  “What’s going on?” Nondel asked, the instant the soldier was out of earshot.

  “We’re at war,” Darissa explained. “There’s an army marching this way from Eknera. Marek was showing me the view from the big tower, and we saw them crossing the border.”

  Nondel’s expression, already serious, turned grim. “War?”

  Darissa nodded.

  “You aren’t old enough to remember the last one, are you?”

  “I was born six months after the peace was signed.”

  “Then you don’t know what it’s like.”

  “Not first-hand, no, but I’ve talked to plenty of people who remember it.”

  Nondel shook his head. “Hearing about it is not like living through it.” He sighed. “We’ll need to stay out of sight as much as we can, but be ready to heal the wounded.”