Stone Unturned: A Legend of Ethshar

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “I might be able to do something about that one. Wosten might still have the vessel he used.”

  “Maybe,” Arietta agreed. “Wosten—that name sounds familiar.”

  “Do you know him, perhaps? He might still be living in the Wizards’ Quarter, if it was only seven years ago.”

  “Seven years…oh. Now I remember.”

  “Remember what?”

  “Wosten was killed by a demon seven years ago,” she said. “It smashed its way in through the roof of his house, to get past the protective spells on the doors and windows and walls.”

  “So—the demon she sent got to him after all?”

  “Unless he angered another demonologist, I guess it did.”

  “Then how could he turn her to stone?”

  Ariella turned up an empty palm. “How should I know? And no, I don’t know what happened to the vessel he used in the spell. I don’t remember any details, just that he was killed by a demon smashing through his roof.”

  “Someone might know, though. His heirs, or his neighbors, or the magistrate who investigated the case. If anyone did.”

  “I suppose.” Ariella did not sound very convinced.

  “I should write all this down,” Morvash said.

  Ariella turned to glare at him. “Now you think of that?”

  “Now I think of it,” Morvash agreed, annoyed. “Hold on.” He took the candle and lit one of the lamps on the wall, then told the witch, “Wait here.” He hurried downstairs to his workroom, collected his journal and a writing desk to hold his quill and ink, then trotted back up to the gallery.

  It occurred to him on the stairs that this demonologist might be dangerous; after all, if Ariella was right, she had killed a wizard. He might not want to free her immediately.

  Ariella had not waited for him before moving on. “Nothing from either of those,” she said, indicating two statues, a woman and a boy. Then she pointed at a plump, elderly man. “That one’s a merchant named Kelder Sammel’s son. No idea who petrified him, or why. Happened about a hundred years ago.”

  Morvash hurried to set up his writing desk; by the time he dipped his quill the witch had moved on and asked the next, a beautiful lavender-blue chalcedony statue of a woman, its identity. “She calls herself Sharra the Charming, though I get the impression not everyone called her that,” she reported. “Disputed a bill with a wizard named Poldrian. He warned her, but she didn’t think he’d really do it. From what she heard, he did offer to turn her back for a fee, but her family declined. That was in Ethshar of the Sands about thirty years ago.”

  Morvash scribbled, trying to keep up and get down the earlier reports. He hoped this would be legible once the ink dried.

  “Abaran of Fishertown; became a warlock on the Night of Madness and was transformed by a frightened neighbor. Apparently forgotten by the time the excitement died down.”

  That was interesting, Morvash thought. Abran had been very young, perhaps fourteen. “Does he know there isn’t any more warlockry?” he asked.

  “He was never very clear on what it was in the first place—he was only a warlock for a few hours.”

  And if he had only been dangerous because of his warlockry, then he was harmless now; there were no more warlocks. Morvash nodded, and Ariella moved on to the next statue.

  “Alder the Strong. From Lamum. A sculptor there seems to have decided to augment the income from his actual carving by petrifying his models and selling them.”

  They continued down the gallery; in all they found four Lamumite victims of Varrek the Sculptor scattered in the collection, ranging from a young girl to a long-bearded old man. Two other people had argued with wizards, one over unpaid bills and the other over a dispute neither Ariella nor Morvash could follow. As Morvash had guessed, one woman of twenty or so had been a burglar who made the mistake of breaking into a wizard’s home. Three assorted others were petrified on the Night of Madness. One wizard had one of his own spells backfire. Out of all those who Arietta could hear, there were four wizards, four who had briefly been warlocks, the single demonologist, and a ritual dancer. Most did not know who had petrified them, or why. For eleven, she could detect no sign of consciousness.

  None of them except the demonologist seemed remotely dangerous. Even the wizards would not have their spell books or ingredients, though all four still had their athames. Warlocks were no longer warlocks and could do no magic, while the magic of ritual dancers was so weak that it generally took at least half a dozen of them to accomplish anything significant. Morvash had literally never once heard of anyone being harmed by ritual dance; it was, if anything, even more benign than theurgy, which was explicitly incapable of evil.

  And finally the pair of magicians came to the young couple, which Morvash had hidden in the windowless paneled alcove at the north end of the gallery. Ariella looked them over, then called, “Sorry to disturb you at such an intimate moment, but who are you? Who did this to you?” She listened for a moment, then stepped back.

  “Oh, death,” she said. “He’s a prince. A real one. Marek, Prince of Melitha. Transformed about forty years ago. And she’s Darissa, an apprentice witch. They don’t know who did it, or why; she thinks it might be because magicians in the Small Kingdom are forbidden to marry royalty, though they were not married and she didn’t expect to be. He thought they might get married, and was willing to give up his place in the line of succession for her. He suspects agents from one of the neighboring kingdoms might have been responsible, because Melitha had been at war with Eknera, but using magic in a war is a huge violation of law and custom in the Small Kingdoms.”

  “A prince? Really?”

  “He and his woman both think so.”

  “Where was he in the line of succession?”

  “Well, he had two older brothers, but one of them had just died in the war, so I suppose he was second in line.”

  “You said it was forty years ago?”

  “Almost. It was 5199, Leafcolor of 5199.”

  “I wonder who’s ruling Melitha now?”

  “I have no idea.”

  A burst of rain rattled against the windows, and Morvash turned to look the length of the gallery. “None of them remembered a wizard with a glass goblet?”

  “Not particularly. But we didn’t specifically ask.” Before Morvash could say anything, she added, “No, we didn’t ask any of the wizards if they knew how they could be turned back. I didn’t ask them anything you didn’t hear, Morvash—they can’t hear my thoughts, only what’s said aloud.”

  “Then we should ask them,” Morvash said, leaving the prince and his witch alone in their alcove as he strode up the gallery to the nearest of the four wizards.

  A few minutes later Morvash had his answer; one of the wizards had no idea how they might be saved, and the other three all agreed that Javan’s Restorative was the best counter-spell. Two of the three had no idea how to find the glass vessels used in their petrification; the third suggested Fendel’s Divination.

  None of them knew any lost secrets that might help.

  After that, Morvash settled himself on the floor, his back to the wall, as he went over his notes and discussed the situation with Ariella. He never needed to say much; she generally heard his thoughts and responded before he could put his questions into words.

  There were thirty-six petrified people, counting the three shrunken guardsmen. The oldest was the Northern spy; the most recently enchanted was the demonologist from 5228. There were eleven with no thoughts Ariella could hear, but they might just be asleep.

  Some seemed surprisingly calm despite years of immobility; others, such as the slave-girl dancer, were very close to madness. At least two were convinced they were in the midst of a very persistent nightmare. Most had no idea how long they had been petrified until Ariella told them that i
t was the twenty-eighth of Greengrowth in the year 5238.

  “They can all hear us,” Ariella told him. “At least, all the ones I can hear. It would probably be a good thing to talk to them sometimes, and keep them up to date on your progress toward freeing them. Even the ones who don’t understand Ethsharitic would probably find the sound of a human voice soothing.”

  “Of course,” Morvash said, adding a note to his journal. “It’s the least I can do for them.”

  Ariella snorted. “The least you could do would be nothing, which is what everyone else has done for them for years, or decades, or centuries.”

  “I can’t do that,” Morvash answered, lowering his pen.

  “Because you’re a nice man, as I told you before. That’s why I came—and I’m glad I did; even if I can’t bring them back to life, I think it’s a comfort for them to know someone’s trying to help them.”

  Morvash shook his head. “I need to learn Javan’s Restorative. That’s far beyond any magic I can do now; this is going to take me months, maybe years.”

  “It may not be as difficult as you think.”

  “Maybe not. But I was told it’s an eighth-order spell, and I’ve never attempted anything near that level.”

  Ariella stared at him for a moment, then said, “I live in the Wizards’ Quarter.”

  Morvash did not look up from his notebook. “I know that.”

  “I hear thoughts.”

  Puzzled, Morvash lifted his gaze and said, “Yes.”

  “That means I hear wizards’ thoughts fairly often. I know a great many things I should not.”

  Morvash was not sure where Ariella was going with this, but she had his interest. “Yes?”

  “I’ve heard of Javan’s Restorative before—it’s a very useful spell, so knowledge of it is fairly common. Whoever rated it as eighth order probably misclassified it. I’m not saying it’s easy, but I’ve overheard wizards who were pleasantly surprised that it wasn’t as difficult as they had expected. In fact—you’re from Ethshar of the Rocks, aren’t you?”

  “You know I am.”

  “Do you know a wizard named Kilisha of Eastgate?”

  “I don’t…” he began. Then the name registered. “She was the one who saved the overlord’s life from an animated couch, wasn’t she? About the same time as Tabaea’s Rebellion in Ethshar of the Sands, though I don’t know whether the Empress had anything to do with the attack.”

  “That’s right. Twelve years ago.”

  “I was just a child then—I hadn’t even started my apprenticeship yet.”

  “She was an apprentice at the time. But her master declared her apprenticeship complete when she performed Javan’s Restorative to undo a spell of his that went wrong.”

  “I hadn’t heard that!”

  “Well, I heard it, from a wizard’s thoughts a few years back. And if an apprentice could do it…”

  “Then I can,” Morvash finished. “You know, I think I met her once, and she never mentioned that.”

  “Why would she?”

  He did not bother to answer, since he knew Ariella could hear what he was thinking.

  It was still going to take some time, he was sure; Kilisha had probably learned the Restorative from her master’s book of spells, and he had no such advantage. He would have to find a way to trade for the spell—but if it was that common, and that easy, that might not be as big a challenge as he had feared.

  “Thank you,” he said. He looked along the gallery, then back at the witch. She had done all he had hoped, really, and it was past time they both got some supper.

  “Yes,” Ariella replied. “I know a tavern on Games Street that serves fine roast beef.”

  He glanced out the nearest window at the weather, which had built itself up into a serious storm—but he was a wizard, and now that he was back here where he kept his supplies, he knew a few spells that would keep them dry. “Then that’s where we’ll go,” he said.

  Chapter Twenty

  Morvash of the Shadows

  29th of Greengrowth, YS 5238

  The morning after Ariella’s visit Morvash returned to the Wizards’ Quarter to ask what had become of Wosten’s belongings, and to inquire what it would take to obtain the instructions for Javan’s Restorative. While several people remembered Wosten and the demon that had killed him—apparently it had continued to wander around the neighborhood after the murder with a human companion until the city guard took it into custody—no one recalled what had become of Wosten’s belongings. His former home and shop now housed an herbalist, who knew almost nothing about her predecessor. Cleaning out the wreckage had been an expensive undertaking; the entire house had been gutted and rebuilt. The hole the demon had smashed in the roof had become a generous skylight, allowing the herbalist to raise some of her products right on the premises.

  The quest for Javan’s Restorative was rather more successful; several wizards were willing to trade it if Morvash could come up with suitable spells in exchange. Morvash had expected this, and had brought a list of every entry in his book of spells.

  The first wizard went through the list, then shook her head. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing there I want.”

  The second was willing to discuss trading the Restorative for everything on the list; Morvash was able to talk him down to a mere half-dozen of those forty-some spells, but no further. Morvash said he needed time to think it over, and moved on.

  And finally Kardig of Southgate, a specialist in curses, agreed to trade Javan’s Restorative for three easy spells—Hult’s Visceral Pang, the Curse of Irrationality, and Lugwiler’s Dismal Itch. Part of the agreement was that Morvash would never tell anyone that Kardig had not already known all three—especially the Dismal Itch, which many wizards learned fairly early in their apprenticeships.

  “My master skipped it,” Kardig explained. “As for Hult’s, that’s more a northern thing, it’s not common here in Ethshar of the Sands. And I just never happened across the Curse of Irrationality before. How do you come to know it?”

  “My master liked curses,” Morvash replied. “That was one reason my family chose him for me.”

  Kardig seemed slightly taken aback by that, and Morvash went on, “I come from a family of merchants; I’m the first magician we’ve ever had. My father deals in weapons, supplying both sides in the Tintallionese civil war. He thought curses might be valuable merchandise. I disagreed, which is why I’m here instead of back home in Ethshar of the Rocks—you know the Guild rules about using magic as a weapon of war.”

  “Ah, I see,” Kardig said, nodding. “Well, bring your book of spells when you’re ready, and we’ll each learn from the other.” He leaned forward. “You know, Javan’s Restorative is officially considered eighth-order,” he whispered, “but I’d rate it as more like fifth or sixth. I think it may have been simplified over the years since it was first ranked. It still works just fine, though.” Then he lifted his own book of spells, an impressive iron-bound volume, onto the counter, and opened the three locks keeping it closed. No longer whispering, he said, “Let me give you the list of ingredients now, so you’ll know what to bring when we go over it.”

  “Thank you,” Morvash said. Thinking over his own offerings, he said, “You’ll need tannis root. And a fragment of a human skull—the younger the better.”

  Kardig riffled through pages, then stopped. “Younger, how? You mean more recently dead?”

  “No, no,” Morvash said. “I mean, the younger the person was when he or she died. An old man’s skull would be very hard to use; a stillborn baby’s is excellent. That’s what I have. My master said a toddler, perhaps two years old, would be perfect.”

  Kardig looked across the counter at him. “Where am I supposed to get that?” he said.

  “Any decent ingredients shop should have
it,” Morvash said, startled. “I got mine from Gresh the Supplier, back home. You don’t need the whole skull, just a little piece; as long as it’s bigger than your thumbnail it should do.”

  “Which spell is that for?”

  “The Curse of Irrationality.”

  “No wonder it’s rare.”

  “You’ll also need a drop of dragon’s blood, but I assume you have that on hand.”

  “Of course I do. Anything else?”

  “No. Tannis root for Lugwiler’s, skull and blood for Irrationality, and for the Pang you’ll need the target’s name and a half-ounce of blood, but any kind of blood will do, including your own. It doesn’t need to be human or dragon or anything; pig’s blood from a butcher shop will work fine.”

  “All right,” Kardig said with a nod. Then he turned his own book around so Morvash could read it, and set out a quill and ink.

  “Feathers,” Morvash said, writing notes on the back of his list. “I don’t have the white one. What’s jewelweed?”

  “An herb. It’s also called touch-me-not. Shouldn’t be hard to find.”

  Morvash decided he would go back to the herbalist who had rebuilt Wosten’s house for that, let her earn a little something for her trouble. “Where can I get the white plume and the incense?”

  “Any decent… Oh, you’re new in town. Try the intersection of Games Street and Wizard Street; there are four or five shops right around there.”

  “Thank you.”

  With that settled, he headed back to Erdrik’s house for lunch. He double-checked his supplies to be sure he had most of what he would need, spent a few minutes talking to the statuary to assure everyone that he was making progress on their rescue, then gathered up his book of spells and his writing desk. Thus equipped, he returned to the Wizards’ Quarter to continue his work.