And even the Spell of Reversal would simply restore the preexisting situation; it would not return the statue to life.
Lirrim’s Rectification might work, but no one was optimistic about it.
The consensus was that Javan’s Restorative was the only practical way to save all those poor people in his rented gallery.
None of the wizards he spoke to ventured an opinion on whether there might be some witchcraft that could be useful, but he did get the names of three witches who were reported to be good at hearing thoughts and seeing things other people did not see; he intended to find out whether he could learn anything about who the petrified people were, to determine whether Ithinia and Gror were right that some of them might be dangerous and better left as statues. After his disappointing visit to Corinal, Morvash was not optimistic as he set out to find the first of the three, a woman by the name of Ariella the Perceptive who was generally acknowledged as the best in all Ethshar at hearing thoughts, but who was said to be difficult to work with. Morvash had been told her shop was at the southwest end of Witch Alley; the sun was low in the west and hidden by gathering clouds as he left Corinal’s establishment and headed in that direction.
It was raining by the time he reached the corner of Mana Street and Witch Alley, and he had not brought an umbrella or appropriate protective spell. He ducked under an overhanging upper story, took off his hat to shake off the worst of the rain, and looked for a signboard.
“There’s no signboard,” a voice said behind him; he whirled, startled, to find a small dark woman leaning out a window. Before he could speak, she added, “I’m Ariella. What’s this about…a talking statue? No, that’s not it. Why don’t you come inside and tell me about it?” She pointed to a nearby door painted with pink and white flowers on a red background.
She opened the door from inside just as he reached it—she must have moved very quickly, he thought. She beckoned him in, and he entered; he had to remove his hat and stoop to fit through the doorway, and inside the ceiling was too low for him to return his hat to its customary place, so it remained in his hand.
The room was small, with varnished wooden walls and ceiling; the single window beside the door that Ariella had leaned out let in very little light, but a roaring blaze on a hearth opposite the door provided additional illumination, as well as keeping the room uncomfortably hot.
“I like it like this,” Ariella said. “Have a seat.” She gestured toward a tall stool.
Morvash settled warily onto the indicated object. Ariella did not sit, but stood before him, looking him in the eye. For a moment she stared at him, saying nothing. He hesitated, unsure whether he should break the silence.
“I can hear you,” she answered. “You don’t need to speak aloud unless you want to.”
“Then you…well, yes,” Morvash said. “Obviously, you can hear my thoughts.”
“That’s what you wanted,” she said. “False modesty aside, I think I do it better than any other witch in the city.”
“That’s perfect!” Morvash said, smiling.
“Maybe,” Ariella replied. “I don’t know whether I can hear a statue’s thoughts or not—that isn’t something I’ve ever tried before.” She considered him thoughtfully, then nodded. “Let me get my coat.”
“What? Now? But…”
“Why wait?” she called back over her shoulder as she stepped through a door to another room. “And I know it’s still warm, but it’s raining—that’s why I want a coat. Yes, I know that’s not important, but it’s what you were thinking. As for payment, you’re doing a good thing—well, trying to—and I’m happy to help for no charge, though I’ll be glad to accept a share if this does turn out to be profitable for you.” While Morvash was still gathering his wits to respond, she reappeared with a battered oilskin jacket over her shoulders. “Come on,” she said. “Lead the way; for some reason I don’t do well taking directions from people’s thoughts. Maybe because I’m short, so everything looks different than it does from up there.”
Morvash exited first, and waited under an overhang while Ariella locked the door. When it was secure she beckoned to him, and they began walking. Morvash glanced up at the clouds and tried to think of some spell that would keep him—or preferably both of them—dry, but could not come up with one that he could do with the ingredients he had with him.
Ariella’s witchcraft did not seem to be doing any better; her hair was already soaked. Morvash wondered why she had not worn a hat; surely she must own one!
She muttered something, but Morvash did not catch it. He did notice that the water dripping from her hair somehow never went near her eyes or mouth; perhaps her witchcraft was doing some good after all.
They rounded the corner onto Mana Street and headed north. The dirt of the street was packed hard enough that it was still solid, and not turning to mud, which was a relief.
They had not covered even the single block to Games Street before Ariella said, “I think this will be an interesting experience for me, listening to statues.”
They turned left onto Games Street, and then right onto Arena; the rain briefly lessened to a drizzle. After another block or so Ariella said, “I’m not always so generous; usually I want to be paid, but you’re already short of funds and it’s such an intriguing project. If you think about it, you’ll realize I can make money easily enough any time I want to—just walking down a crowded street I’ll find a hundred secrets, dozens of things people will pay to learn, or to be sure someone doesn’t learn. It’s not why I specialized in this sort of witchcraft, but it’s a nice byproduct. I devoted myself to mind-listening because it interested me, and I had a knack for it. Yes, sometimes people do get annoyed when I answer questions they haven’t asked, but it’s so boring waiting for them to speak!”
Morvash grimaced.
“I’ve been doing it so long I can’t help myself anymore,” she said. “Sometimes it takes a conscious effort to not hear the thoughts of whoever is within a few feet, especially once I’ve already made contact, and when I say ‘effort’ I mean it; it’s hard work to shut it out. And yes, there are plenty of things I wish I didn’t hear; some folks are downright nasty. Your mind is relatively pleasant. Yes, I can see the things you didn’t mean to think about just then, but honestly, Morvash, that’s nothing compared to some people. It’s not as if you would ever actually do those things.”
They walked on, past the Arena itself—if a show had been scheduled for this particular evening it had been rained out, as the gates beneath the arches were closed. The notice board was still there, of course, but no one was looking at it. It had a little cap to keep rain off, like a miniature porch roof, but Morvash could see that the papers at the bottom were getting soaked anyway as the breeze swept in the rain. He glanced at his companion, and saw that her hair was still dripping—but not into her eyes.
As they left the Arena behind the rain was coming down more heavily again, discouraging any conversation, and they picked up the pace as they continued along Arena Street.
“No,” Ariella said after a silence, startling him. “I don’t really know much other witchcraft. A few of the basics, like guiding small objects already in motion—that’s what I’m doing to keep the rain out of my eyes—but that’s about all. I put so much time and effort into hearing thoughts that I never learned much else.” Morvash had not yet put the question into words even for himself, and would probably never have asked it aloud, but he had been wondering about that. “My master was disappointed in me; she thought every witch should know a variety of magic, not just one particular effect. She had to grant me my freedom as a journeyman, though, because I could correctly answer any question anyone asked me, even if I couldn’t necessarily perform the spell they asked about—well, any question almost anyone asked me. There are a few witches who can block me or even lie to me. As for not needing to know any other m
agic, witches don’t have set rules—as long as an apprentice can demonstrate mastery of some branch of witchcraft, she can make journeyman. It’s not as if wizards have a set of specific spells they need to know, is it? Oh, besides that one. Yes, I know it’s a Guild secret, but did you really think I wouldn’t have found it in someone’s thoughts by now?” She sighed. “I’m sorry you find it disturbing, but look at it this way—I’m letting you know everything I hear. I’m not spying on you and keeping secrets to use against you later. You’re right, I can’t prove I’m not digging deep down into your memory; you’ll just have to take my word for it that that’s not how it works. Normally I only hear what’s near the surface. Why would I risk angering a wizard? There are protective spells that can shut me out, at least temporarily, and you can do things I can’t possibly defend against, even if I know they’re coming. How could I stop something like the Rune of the Implacable Stalker? So I won’t intentionally go prying into your secrets, and I’ll keep my mouth shut about any I stumble across.”
Over the course of the half-mile or so they had walked Morvash’s reaction to the weirdly one-sided conversation had gone from wonderment to annoyance to concern, and finally to amusement. He had not said a word since they left Ariella’s house, but she had answered every question he had thought of asking.
“Not very many,” she said. “You’re right, most people don’t like it. I could keep quiet, but what sort of a friend is someone you can’t speak freely with? I do have a few friends, though—I’d trust my neighbor Liria with my life, and my older sister Gazi is genuinely fond of me even though she thinks I’m a pest.”
Morvash glanced at her, then up at the sky; the rain was coming down steadily.
“You’re right, I am treating you like a friend,” she said. “Because I know you don’t mind. You were worried about my snooping earlier, but you got over it quickly. You’re a nice man, Morvash—you think well of everyone, whether they deserve it or not. Devoting yourself to saving a bunch of petrified strangers is really rather noble; there aren’t many wizards who would bother to do it. You don’t see Ithinia offering to help you, do you? Well, beyond that, I mean—she’s not doing anything that costs her any more than a few minutes’ conversation.”
The sun was down and the skies dark by the time they turned left on Through Street; the rain had become a downpour. Morvash glanced at his companion’s short legs, and wished she walked faster.
“You aren’t the only one,” she muttered.
Finally they turned left again, onto Old East Avenue, and Morvash broke into a trot, Ariella into an all-out run, to cover the last two blocks to the tall, dark house of Erdrik the Grim.
The streetlights had not yet been lit, and there were no lights in his house or the nearest neighbors, so finding the keyhole and getting the key into it was a challenge, but at last Morvash swung the heavy wooden door open and let Ariella in.
She stepped past him, and he followed her into the front hall. The darkness was very thick; he could hear furniture moving around, but could see almost nothing. He drew his athame and summoned a blue glow, fed by the ferocious level of ambient magic in the house. “This way,” he said, leading his guest into the parlor.
As always, the fire on the hearth lit itself, providing some illumination. Morvash pricked his finger with his glowing blade and murmured a few words; a flame bloomed from the drop of blood on his fingertip, and he used this to light three or four candles before curling his finger to douse the flame and returning the knife to its sheath on his belt.
“Oh,” Ariella said, looking around at the chairs that were walking slowly toward her.
“Don’t pay them any attention,” Morvash said, speaking aloud for the first time since they had left Witch Alley. Then a notion struck him. “Do they have any thoughts you can hear?”
Ariella stared at the chairs, at a big armchair in particular, then shook her head. “Not really,” she said.
That did not bode well, Morvash thought—but then, the chairs had never been human.
At least, he didn’t think they had; the possibility that Erdrik had turned people into furniture, rather than animating a carpenter’s products, had not occurred to him until just now, but he was not sure he could rule it out.
“So where are the statues?” Ariella asked. “In the front hall?” She nodded toward the clutter they had passed.
“No, they’re…” Morvash began. Then he stopped. He had not yet taken the time to check whether any of the statuary Erdrik had left behind might be petrified people. “Those aren’t mine,” he said. “I don’t know…” There were no life-sized depictions of human beings—but they didn’t really need to be life-sized, and from everything Morvash had heard about Erdrik, he seemed like the sort of wizard who wouldn’t mind working multiple spells on his enemies. Morvash knew of a third-order spell called Riyal’s Transformation that would reduce people to a tiny fraction of their normal size, and someone of Erdrik’s abilities would undoubtedly have known either that spell or one like it. He picked up one of the candles he had just lit. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s see.”
Ariella followed him back out to the front hall, where they carefully went through the various sculptures.
Most were, so far as either Ariella’s witchcraft or Morvash’s athame could determine, exactly what they appeared to be, mere carvings. A full-sized soapstone cat, however, reacted as magical, and three miniatures of soldiers also registered. Ariella picked one of them up.
“Who are you?” she asked.
Morvash heard nothing, but he saw Ariella nod. “Go on,” she said. “When did this happen?”
He stepped up beside her.
“That was over a hundred years ago,” she told the figurine. “I’m so sorry. Morvash, the wizard here, will try to turn you back, but it may take quite awhile—it’s not easy magic.”
“Is it just the one, or all three?” Morvash asked.
“All three,” Ariella said, setting the figure back on its shelf. “They were sent by Azrad the Fourth to investigate a complaint about Erdrik’s experiments. He shrank them and took them prisoner, and sent a message to the overlord, and when he didn’t get the answer he wanted he turned them to stone. They’ve been here ever since.”
“Oh,” Morvash said. As he had suspected, Erdrik, it seemed, had not been a good person. He pushed past Ariella and picked up all three statuettes. “We’ll bring these upstairs, to make sure I don’t forget about them.”
Looking down at them, Morvash wondered whether he had missed others in Lord Landessin’s collection. There might be dozens more petrified people in Uncle Gror’s rented estate that had been shrunk or otherwise disguised. He would need to check that at some point…
“What about the cat?” Ariella asked, interrupting his thoughts.
“Can you hear any thoughts?”
“No. But I can’t from live cats, either.”
“You can bring it along if you like, then,” Morvash said. With the three miniature soldiers in one hand and the candlestick in the other, he said, “This way,” and led the witch toward the grand staircase.
Chapter Seventeen
Hakin of the Hundred-Foot Field
8th of Longdays, YS 5231
There was no other bookmark, the green earthenware jar was unlabeled, and unless the magical powder was indistinguishable from ordinary house-dust, there was no other left-over powder to be found. Tarker refused to help beyond a quick once-over, and simply stood and watched as Hakin went over the workbench and the floor around the body half a dozen times, looking for smears of powder or scraps of notepaper or other clues. The youth did not give up until a pair of guardsmen appeared in the workroom door.
“Hai!” one of them said, and Hakin, who had been on his knees inspecting the gaps between floorboards, looked up to see both men staring warily at the demon.
/> Hakin gave Tarker a quick glance, then said, “You can come in; it won’t hurt you unless you get in its way.”
Tarker growled.
“We heard a demon killed a wizard,” one of the soldiers said, taking one cautious step into the room, his hand on his cudgel.
“That’s right,” Hakin said, getting to his feet. He gestured at the corpse, then at Tarker. “There’s the wizard, and there’s the demon.”
“They’re both still here?”
“Well, the wizard is still here,” Hakin said. “I brought the demon back.”
“Would you care to explain that?” the soldier asked, still eyeing Tarker.
“A demonologist by the name of Karitha summoned this demon, Tarker, and ordered it to kill a wizard named Wosten of the Red Robe, which I assume was this poor fellow,” Hakin explained. “But when it went back to say the job was done and ask to be released, it couldn’t find Karitha anywhere, and it’s stuck in the World until she either dismisses it or dies. So we’re looking for her. We came here because we thought we might find something here that would give us a clue. Which we did.” He waved a hand toward the open bloodstained book. “Apparently the wizard cast a spell on the demonologist. But we can’t tell what kind of spell.”
“Who are you, then?” the second guardsman asked.
Stone Unturned: A Legend of Ethshar Page 16
