Stone Unturned: A Legend of Ethshar

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  The time came to shape the cloud of smoke around its intended target, and Morvash tried to begin, lifting his athame in both hands, but the cloud resisted; it spilled out around his knife, as if it had a will of its own. It swiftly filled the entire alcove, and as far along the gallery as Morvash could see. It definitely covered the cat and soldiers, and at least two of the other statues.

  He knew, with a sinking heart, that he should not have increased the ingredients he used. There would have been enough for the statue; wizardry did not concern itself with physical mass in the same way everyday life did. Perhaps he should not have attempted the spell in the mysterious alcove, either.

  He struggled to pull the magic back, to force the smoke into the alcove and over the two stone figures there. He could feel himself sweating, and steam condensing into his hair and beard, as he dragged the cloud downward onto Marek and Darissa.

  He could not look out at the rest of the gallery without losing what little control he had, but he knew that the smoke there had not dissipated as it should have.

  This, he told himself, was what came of attempting a spell when insufficiently prepared. He just hoped the results would not be too horrible.

  Everything was covered in smoke, so that he could not actually see anything but gray, but at the same time he could see the statue—and he could see living flesh, as well, superimposed upon the stone.

  And behind the statue, in the niche in the wall, something else was moving. Morvash did not know what it was, or why it was there, but he could simultaneously see the carved wood of the niche’s frame and a wooden door, and he was suddenly aware that the ceiling was at two different heights, the familiar lowered level perhaps seven or eight feet above the floor, and the full ten feet of the rest of the gallery.

  This was not right at all—unless the spell was somehow restoring the alcove itself to its original condition, before something had damaged it.

  But it had never looked damaged.

  There were runes on the higher ceiling, runes Morvash did not recognize. There was clearly some other magic at work here, something beyond his faulty casting of Javan’s Restorative.

  Although he knew the spell called for him to keep his attention on his target, a panicky Morvash glanced back over his shoulder to see if Pender was near—not that the Tazmorite could have done much of anything to help, in any case. He did not see Pender, but instead he saw the nearest dozen statues, and all of them were simultaneously flesh and blood and clothing, and lifeless stone.

  Then all at once the spell was over, the smoke vanished in a swirling vortex, and Morvash said, “Gods!” as at least a dozen living people staggered in the gallery, staring around in astonishment. A cat hissed as it dodged between the legs of three full-sized soldiers who were stumbling against one another; they had been placed too close together to allow for their restored dimensions.

  Morvash turned quickly back to the alcove to see a naked couple sprawled awkwardly on the floor, the girl saying, “Get off me!”

  Behind them was that unfamiliar door, above them the rune-adorned ceiling; the alcove was completely transformed.

  And as Morvash watched, a latch clicked and the mysterious door at the back swung open.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Hakin of the Hundred-Foot Field

  26th of Leafcolor, YS 5238

  Hakin leaned against a wall, watching Tarker lift the keel into position. It was a job that would have ordinarily taken a dozen men with ropes and pulleys. A couple of years ago a warlock could have handled it; now there were no more warlocks, but the city of Ethshar of the Spices still had a demon available. Tarker was more efficient than a dozen men, and much cheaper than a warlock would have been. The demon had heaved the massive wooden beam onto its back and carried it, single-handed, to the waiting framework.

  It had taken Hakin’s bosses three or four months to realize that the demon could lift and carry, as well as smash things. It made Tarker’s work far more interesting to watch; raw destruction got boring after awhile, but heaving boats off sandbars, shoving huge stones into place on the city walls, and other such tasks provided welcome variety. The city’s shipyards were particularly eager to make use of Tarker’s immense strength, and the two companions were out here, just outside the city’s northwestern corner, fairly often. Hakin had gotten to know several of the people who worked here—shipwrights and laborers and chandlers.

  He had met various other people, as well, over the last few years. In the effort to find Karitha he had located and interviewed Wosten’s mother Reska of the Curly Hair, and Wosten’s former apprentice, the journeyman wizard Inza of the Bright Smile—or really, Tarker had located them, and Hakin, Shenna, and Orzin had interviewed them.

  Neither woman had known what had become of Karitha. The interview with Reska had been difficult—after all, she had lost her only son. She had been aware that Wosten was feuding with the demonologist, but had no idea what Wosten might have planned, or what had become of Karitha. She had given Hakin the names of a few of Wosten’s friends who she thought might know something.

  Inza had seen the earliest signs of the feud first-hand but had had nothing to do with her former master since completing her apprenticeship. She had stayed away from him specifically to avoid any involvement in his disputes with Karitha. While he had not been an unpleasant master, she claimed to have seen that he was on a path to destruction, and had deliberately tried to erase any emotional connection.

  Neither woman had any idea what Wosten might have done to his foe.

  Hakin and Shenna had gone on to find and talk to the friends Reska suggested, but none were able to offer any help.

  Hakin had also tracked down his father, Chend the Navigator, even though that had nothing to do with finding Karitha. They had hardly developed a close relationship. Chend barely remembered Nerra—it had been a single night, and he had been very drunk. He was perfectly willing to admit that Hakin might be his son, but he did not see that as very significant; he had a wife and four young children, and did not feel any responsibility for an accidental impregnation so long ago.

  Over the past seven years Hakin had gotten to know Shenna, the journeyman wizard, well—though she was a journeyman no more, but a master magician, ready to take on her first apprentice should a likely candidate apply. They spoke regularly, though she was no longer the junior magician on the magistrate’s list and could have sent someone else with the regular updates.

  After seven years, despite everything, they had still not found Karitha. They knew more than they had, though; a few months after Wosten’s death a combination of the Spell of Omniscient Vision and the Spell of the Slow Hour had finally allowed a wizard named Korun the Clever to see that Wosten’s spell had turned Karitha to stone, black stone.

  “But she isn’t dead?” Hakin had asked. “How is a stone statue not dead?”

  “It depends which spell Wosten used,” Shenna had explained. Apparently there were at least four different ways a wizard could petrify a person, and two of them weren’t fatal and could, under the right circumstances, be reversed.

  So they knew they were looking for a black stone statue, but that was not really very helpful.

  Over the years they had also conducted a series of tests that Hakin did not understand at all, and suspected Shenna didn’t, either, and concluded that Karitha was not invisible or intangible, had not been shrunk down too small to see, and had almost certainly not been sent into another world. The most popular theory—though at least one senior wizard dismissed it as nonsense—was that Wosten had used something called Pallum’s Returning Crystal to transport the Karitha statue from her workshop to somewhere else. If this was true, then the statue had been sent to the spot where Wosten had performed part of the spell that created the crystal, that being the nature of the magic in question.

  But that spot could
be anywhere the wizard had set foot since learning the spell. He might have made the crystal years before he ever met Karitha.

  A few wizards were gradually trying to retrace Wosten’s steps from the start of his apprenticeship to the day of his death, looking everywhere for a black statue of a demonologist, but as yet they had not found it. Other spells had also been used in various attempts to locate it, but without success; apparently some combination of Karitha’s own demonological magic, Wosten’s lingering wizardry, and the statue’s neither dead nor alive status blocked the divinations.

  If a score of wizards had devoted themselves to the task, Shenna said, the statue would probably have been found by now, but after the first few sixnights the whole matter had been given a low priority; the demon was in check, not rampaging through the streets, and Karitha had no friends or family pressing to find her. Lord Borlan still wanted her found and Tarker released, but the overlord was not willing to provide unlimited funding for the search, so it had become something that a few wizards worked on in their spare time, rather than a matter of any real urgency.

  There had been other distractions, as well, such as the departure of the Warlock Source and the Great Vond’s attempt to take over the city. There had been much discussion of whether to involve Tarker in that, but matters were settled before Hakin and the magistrates reached a decision.

  The keel thumped into place, and Tarker stood beside it, panting.

  The demon did not seem as big and strong as it used to be, Hakin thought, and he was not sure whether it had genuinely shrunk, or whether familiarity, or his own growth, made it seem smaller. He had reached his own full height and was at least an inch or two taller than he had been on that long-ago day when he had stood up in the Hundred-Foot Field and asked the demon what it was doing there.

  But it might be that spending so long in the mortal world was wearing on poor Tarker, weakening it. The demon would not give a straight answer when asked. It had generally been cooperative when various magicians—not just Shenna’s wizards, but also a couple of witches in Lord Borlan’s employ, and at least one demonologist hoping to improve his mastery of his craft—had questioned it, but there were certain subjects it avoided, or addressed only in vague and ambiguous fashion.

  Hakin didn’t think it would have been panting like that when Wosten’s blood was fresh on its claws.

  He pushed off the wall and ambled toward his waiting charge. “That’s all for now, Tarker,” he called.

  The demon turned toward him, started to nod—and then froze, eyes wide and alert, its whole body tensed.

  “I smell her,” it said.

  Hakin blinked. “What?”

  “I smell her! I have her scent!” Tarker the Unrelenting seemed to swell as it spoke, and smoke rose from its mouth, its nostrils, and its back—a phenomenon Hakin realized he had not seen in years. Its yellow eyes gleamed, and almost seemed to glow.

  “What are you talking about?” Hakin asked.

  “I have her scent! Karitha the Demonologist!”

  “But she’s a statue,” Hakin said, baffled. “Why can you suddenly smell her after all these years?”

  “I do not know. I do not care. I have her scent.” It turned and began marching, not toward the workmen’s entrance they normally used, but in a straight line toward a spot on the city wall.

  Hakin hurried after the demon, which was taking longer, faster steps than it had in years, so that he had to run to keep up. It ignored him as it strode forward.

  While there were a few possible reasons for this behavior, Hakin thought only one explanation was likely—someone had found the statue of Karitha and brought the demonologist back to life.

  When it reached the wall Tarker did not hesitate, but began punching handholds in the stone blocks and climbing straight up. Hakin stared at it for a moment, then turned and dashed for the nearest gate, running as fast as he could.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Morvash of the Shadows

  26th of Leafcolor, YS 5238

  A dozen or more voices were clamoring for his attention, talking over one another, and at least one person was laughing hysterically, but Morvash ignored them as he watched this mysterious door swing open.

  Beyond it stood a room with bare gray stone walls, and the door was being opened by a tall, slender man in an ankle-length velvet robe of a blue so dark it was almost black; his face was lined, but his hair and beard were still black, unmarred by any gray.

  “Finally!” he said, as he stepped out into the alcove and pulled the door shut behind him. Then he looked down at Marek and Darissa, who had managed to sit up but were still stark naked, at the assorted ingredients and paraphernalia scattered on the floor, at Morvash, and finally past him at the others. “What is going on here?” he demanded. “Who are all you people, and what are you doing in my house?”

  My house? “Erdrik the Grim, I presume?” Morvash said.

  The clamor of other voices faded as the newly-liberated former statues turned to watch the two wizards.

  “Yes,” Erdrik said. “And who might you be?”

  “Morvash of the Shadows,” Morvash replied. He decided against offering a hand; someone called “the Grim” was not likely to accept the gesture. “The Wizards’ Guild allowed me the use of your house for certain experiments. They believed you to be dead.”

  “Did they? How convenient for them!”

  “In their defense, you vanished without a trace eleven years ago. They did search for you, without success.”

  “I dare…” He stopped in mid-word. “Eleven years, did you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “I knew it was a long time, but I had hoped my mind was playing tricks on me, making it seem longer than it really was. Apparently not.” He looked past Morvash at the motley assortment of people in the gallery, then down at Marek and Darissa. “And who are all these people?”

  “They were the subjects of my experiments,” Morvash said. “They had all been turned to stone, and I took it upon myself to turn them back.”

  “I see. How noble of you. I want them out of my house.”

  “And I am sure that that can be arranged, but there may be a few delays. Those two need clothing, for one thing, and someone, possibly an assassin, is looking for them. I would prefer to keep them here, behind your protective spells, for the present.”

  “This is not my problem.”

  Irritated, Morvash replied, “And it is not entirely your house at the moment. You have not paid the overlord’s taxes in more than a decade; the Guild has. There is no need for hostility, sir; I have, after all, just freed you from some sort of imprisonment, have I not?”

  Erdrik frowned. “Have you?”

  “I believe so. I cast Javan’s Restorative on this alcove and its contents.”

  Erdrik turned and looked at the wall, and the door, and the ceiling. Then he scanned the remnants of Morvash’s spell-making that were still scattered on the floor. “Indeed,” he said. “I take it you had no particular intention of freeing me, though.”

  “Not particularly, no. I had no idea you were in there. No one knew where you were.”

  Erdrik gestured toward the door. “I was in my vault. It would seem something out here triggered the transformation spell that normally hides it, trapping me inside. I did not have with me the ingredients I would need to free myself.”

  “I am somewhat surprised that the Guild did not find you.”

  “Don’t be,” Erdrik replied. “After all, I did everything I could to make the vault difficult to find. The entire house tests as magical, so that this alcove would not stand out, and none of the usual spells would show anything here. I admit it had not occurred to me that I might someday want someone to find it.” He stepped past Darissa and Marek and looked out at the gallery.

  A crowd
of strangers stared back.

  Erdrik turned to Morvash. “Who are all these people?”

  Morvash turned around, and began walking along the gallery. “This is Alder the Strong,” he said, pointing to an exceptionally large and well-muscled young man wearing only a kilt. “I don’t know these next two. This is a wizard who had a spell backfire—I’m not sure of his name.”

  The unidentified wizard started to speak, but Erdrik held up a hand for silence. “Yes, I see,” Erdrik said. “Just people who had been turned to stone. Wherever did you find them all?”

  “The late Lord Landessin’s gallery,” Morvash replied. “He collected statuary, and wasn’t very careful about his sources.” He looked down the gallery, trying to see how many of the statues had been restored to life.

  It appeared all of them had. He had not expected that; he had been unable to see just how far the cloud of magical smoke had extended.

  That, it seemed, put a successful end to his experimentation with Javan’s Restorative. He smiled at the thought.

  “What happens now?” a woman asked. She had been one of the statues Ariella had not been able to hear.

  That, Morvash thought, was an excellent question, and one it was his responsibility to answer. He raised his arms and shouted, “May I have your attention, please? Everyone?”

  The room, already relatively quiet, fell silent.

  “Forgive me if I repeat things you already know,” Morvash called, “but not all of you responded to attempts to communicate, so I can’t be certain who knows what. Bear with me. I am Morvash of the Shadows, a wizard, originally from Ethshar of the Rocks but sent several months ago to live with my uncle in Ethshar of the Spices. Some of you may know the city by its older name, Azrad’s Ethshar; some of you may not know it at all. Some of you may not understand a word I’m saying; we’ll arrange for translations later.