They all crowded away from her, toward the far end of the bench but not jumping off. She stepped to one side, to go around the bench and grab them.
The instant she stepped to the side, though, and was no longer between the bench and the door, the bench bolted.
“Hai!” Kilisha called, staring stupidly as the thing charged past her, its four legs churning, its wooden joints creaking, and all four spriggans still clinging to it. “Come back!”
The bench paid no attention, but dashed out into the sun, pivoted on one leg, and galloped westward along Shipyard Street.
Kilisha took one look at the chair, then ran to the door and screamed, “Kelder!” at the top of her lungs.
Several men in the shipyard turned and watched as the bench ran away, but Kilisha did not see anyone in the yellow tunic and red kilt of a guardsman. She hesitated; if she ran after the bench the chair might escape. And the bench was heading westward, into Hillside and the Fortress district, while almost the entire city lay in the other direction; if it didn’t double back it would reach the seaside cliffs in a few blocks, and she could corner it there.
But it could double back, or turn up a side-street, or throw itself over the cliff…
But the chair was behind her.
She whirled, dove for the chair, grabbed it up, hoisted it overhead with the squealing, giggling spriggan still clinging to its back, and ran for the door. She promptly whacked the chair into the lintel, almost throwing her off her feet; she was not tall, but even so, the doorframe was not meant for the combined height of a woman and a chair.
The spriggan on the chair squeaked and fell off, hitting the floor with a thump; the spriggan on her shoulder squealed, “Fun!” and grabbed a double handful of hair while digging its toes under the coil of rope she still carried.
“Damn,” she said as she regained her balance. She lowered the chair and tried again, and this time made it out onto Shipyard Street.
The bench was still in sight, well around the curve to the west, the four spriggans still riding it and shrieking happily. Kilisha raised the chair over her head again and ran after it.
The chair finally overcame its surprise and began to wave its feet feebly, joints creaking. Kilisha ignored that and ran.
The street was not crowded, and both she and the bench easily dodged the occasional passerby, leaving various men and women standing there, staring after her. Kilisha called out, “Stop that bench!” but no one reacted in time.
The gap between the bench and herself narrowed briefly, then widened again as the bench picked up the pace and Kilisha could not. In fact, she began to slow; running while carrying a chair over one’s head was surprisingly tiring.
“Kelder!” she called again. She kept moving, alternately running and trotting.
The bench had passed two intersections without turning, but she could see it was nearing the fork where Shipyard Street continued straight ahead, leaving the curving side of the shipyards and continuing up the hillside toward the Fortress and the coastal cliffs, while Old Seagate Street curved down to the left, toward the Throat and the Fortress Docks.
Old Seagate Street remained open to one side, overlooking the shipyards, though tall old houses replaced the storage sheds on the other side; Shipyard Street beyond the fork was lined with housing on both sides.
The bench slowed, and for a moment she thought it was going to stop and give her a chance to catch up, but then it seemed to make its decision and went charging on up Shipyard Street, up toward the Fortress.
If she followed, in a few moments she would be out of sight of the shipyards and Kelder would be unable to spot her—but, she asked herself, what did that matter? She had the chair, even if it was starting to squirm a little, and she could catch the bench soon enough, she was sure—especially if she could get some passing pedestrian to help her. She had rope to tie the bench and chair together, once she had them both cornered, and then she could lead them both home. She didn’t really need Kelder.
At least, she hoped she wouldn’t need him.
She charged onward, in pursuit of the bench.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Two blocks past the fork Shipyard Street began to curve to the left, the better to follow a fold in the terrain. The bench was still two and a half blocks ahead of her; by the time she passed the fork it was vanishing around the curve, out of sight.
And there were no other people around to call on for help; the street was, just for the moment, deserted. She strained to run faster, ignoring the whooping and babbling of the spriggan on her shoulder, and the twisting and kicking of the chair she carried above her head.
The chair and the spriggan did not slow her as much as the street itself did; it was sloping up steeply by the time she passed the third cross-street, so steeply that along either side stone steps were provided. The earthen center was intended primarily for wheeled vehicles, not pedestrians; in dry weather, such as the city had experienced for the past two sixnights, it was suitable for walking, but in wet weather, when the dirt turned to slick mud, the steps were needed.
By the time she reached the first steps Kilisha could not see the bench.
Two blocks later Shipyard Street ended in a T with Steep Street—and Steep Street lived up to its name; it was all stone steps, with grooves cut into them for cart wheels. To the right Steep Street continued up the hill toward the Fortress; to the left it dropped down toward the Fortress Docks.
Kilisha stopped, panting, the chair still over her head, and looked both ways.
She did not entirely understand how the bench, with its short legs and cross-braces, could move so fast, or how it could negotiate the steps of Steep Street, but it seemed to have done so; she could not see it in either direction.
She stood in the middle of the trapezoidal patch of level pavement where the streets intersected and slowly turned, left to right, in a full circle.
She saw narrow houses, so black with centuries of smoke that she could not tell whether they were wood, stone, or plaster between the heavy wooden beams. The figures on their carved cornerposts were worn down to facelessness, and their chimneytops thrust up crookedly above sagging gables; a few had shop windows displaying jewelry or fine fabrics. She saw the grey stone steps of Steep Street leading up the hill, kept clean and worn smooth by rain and passing feet, curving to the left so that she could not see to the next intersection.
She turned past the upward-bound street.
On the corner stood a larger house, gargoyles leering over the cornice, and almost-unreadably-worn runes carved deep into the lintel spelled out “Armorer.” She doubted that any armorer still lived or worked there; to the best of her knowledge all the armorers still operating were based in Wargate, near the parade ground. Presumably this house dated back at least to the end of the Great War.
Then, past the corner, came Shipyard Street, back the way she had come, tumbling down the hillside away from her, houses and shops on either side; the bench could not possibly have gotten past her in that direction.
Then the other corner, occupied by a shuttered house of no great distinction.
And finally, the other side of Steep Street, narrow stone steps curving down to the right, dropping away so steeply that a level gaze looked into third-floor windows half a block away.
Somewhere on this street lived that man who had wanted his bed enchanted, but she had no idea which house might be his, or whether that had anything to do with why the bench had come this way. Had some shred of Ithanalin’s memory guided it here, seeking out that customer? Could the bench possibly be heading that way? It didn’t seem likely. Ithanalin had presumably known where the man lived, and the bench might remember that, but why would it want to go there? It wasn’t a bed, and it surely knew that.
The customer had said he lived near the intersection with Hillside Street, and she was fairly certain that was farther up the slope—but did that mean anything? She saw no one, no sign of movement, no sign of the bench in any direction. She could
hear distant voices as the city went about its business, and the faint hissing of the sea breaking over the rocks below the cliffs, but nothing that gave her any clue to the bench’s whereabouts.
“Damn,” she said.
“Not fun?” the spriggan on her shoulder asked.
“No,” Kilisha said. “No fun at all.” She realized that her arms, legs, and feet were all sore, and that she was still holding the chair over her head. She lowered it, and set it carefully on the pavement.
She looked down at it for a moment, not releasing her hold, and then did the obvious thing. She sat down, taking the weight off her feet.
The chair did not react at first; it seemed as inert and lifeless as any ordinary chair. She looked down past her hip at the edge of the seat, wondering whether she had somehow done something to it, perhaps inadvertantly broken a part of the spell. Her sheathed athame might have brushed against the wood when she sat down, she thought; might that have triggered something?
Could it possibly be that simple to restore Ithanalin’s life to its rightful place?
And then the chair abruptly lifted her up an inch or so, then dropped back.
“Oh!” she said, startled by this proof that the enchantment had not been broken.
“Ooooooh!” the spriggan replied.
Kilisha had no time to respond to that; the chair was moving, and she was too busy clinging to the seat to say anything more.
It moved with an odd rocking gait that felt horribly unsteady, but was not actually bumpy or uncomfortable. It carried her to the west, to the upward-bound side of Steep Street, up to the base of the first step.
Perhaps the bench and chair really were trying to deliver the customer his spell, even though it had all gone wrong? Kilisha blinked, and brushed hair from her eyes as she tried to think.
Then the chair paused, and tentatively lifted one leg, straining and creaking as it tried to gain purchase on the step.
Kilisha was fairly certain that if she had not been sitting on it, holding it down, it would have been able to manage the step. As it was, however, it was rocking backward threateningly, on the verge of tipping over backward and spilling her out onto the granite pavement.
“No,” she said. “Don’t you dare.”
The chair hesitated, then lowered its probing leg.
Then it turned suddenly, and before Kilisha could protest it trotted across to the downward half of Steep Street.
“No, wait!” Kilisha called; she was sure that if it tried climbing down it would send her tumbling down those steps.
The chair hesitated.
“Do you know where the bench went?”
The seat seemed to quiver slightly. She could not interpret that as a useful answer.
“Tap a leg once for yes, twice for no,” she said. “Do you know which way the bench went?”
The chair tapped twice. Kilisha sighed.
Then a thought struck her. Spriggans were drawn to wizardry. Presumably that meant that they could sense wizardry, and the bench was enchanted. She turned her head and stared at the spriggan on her shoulder.
“Oooh!” it said. “Pretty eyes.” It grinned.
Kilisha blinked again. No one had ever told her she had pretty eyes before, and she wondered whether it was the spriggan half of the creature’s personality, or the Ithanalin half, that had spoken.
But it didn’t matter. “Do you know which way the bench went?” she asked.
“Oh, yes!” it said happily. “Down, down down! With spriggans.”
She was sure, now, that Hillside was farther up; then it hadn’t been looking for Ithanalin’s customer. Winding up on Steep Street had just been a coincidence. “Why didn’t you say so sooner?” she demanded angrily.
“Didn’t ask,” the creature replied.
“Augh!” She had no intention of riding the chair down the steps of Steep Street; she got up, carefully keeping a solid hold with one hand. She looked down the slope and reached to pick up the chair again.
Her muscles ached at the very thought.
“No,” she said—and then she belatedly remembered that she had come equipped. She reached up and slid the coil of rope from her shoulder.
As she snugged the first knot down tight against one of the two slats in the seatback she prayed to whatever gods might be listening that none of the essence of Ithanalin’s athame had wound up in the chair.
Her prayers appeared to have been answered; a moment later one end of the rope was securely tied to the chair, the other end wrapped around her wrist, with no indication that the chair could escape as the spriggan had.
She set the spriggan on the seat of the chair and said, “Ride there for awhile; my shoulder’s tired.”
“Yes, yes!” the spriggan said. “Ride chair.”
The chair did not seem happy with this; it tried to pull away, but Kilisha tugged on the rope.
“It’s just for a little while,” she said. “It won’t hurt you; you share the same soul.” Then she straightened up and looked down Steep Street.
The bench had had plenty of time to build up a lead by now, but she didn’t see where it could have gone. Two blocks down Steep Street would bring them to Old Seagate Street and the foot of the cliffs. If it had doubled back to the east Kelder might well have seen it and caught it; if it had turned west again the road wound its way up to the Fortress in no more than a quarter of a mile. She set out down the steps at a steady trot, trailing the rope behind her.
The chair hesitated, then followed, keeping a comfortable slack in the line.
Half a block from the corner Steep Street straightened out, and she could see the ocean ahead, sparkling in the afternoon sun. She smiled at the sight; then her smile vanished as a horrible thought struck her.
What if the bench had dived off into the sea?
It couldn’t drown, not being capable of breathing in the first place, but she would never find it if it were underwater!
And that assumed the waves hadn’t pounded it to bits against the rocks, and the tide hadn’t swept it out of reach of land.
Well, she told herself, she would just have to hope it hadn’t done anything so foolish. Even if it thought it would survive a plunge into the sea, salt water would ruin its finish, and surely it would realize that.
She crossed the intersection with Straight Street, pausing just long enough to glance in both directions. Straight Street was not level, but it was straight; to the right she could see right up the slope to the east door of the Fortress, the massive structure’s grey stone walls blocking out the western sky at the end of the street. To the left she could see down past houses and shops and warehouses into the shipyards.
She saw a few people going about their business on the shipyard side, but no ambulatory bench. She continued on down Steep Street without stopping—until she heard a sudden clatter behind her and felt the rope go slack.
She turned to see that the chair had tumbled down several steps, dumping the spriggan. The little creature now yelped, “Sorry sorry sorry!”
Kilisha couldn’t be sure what had happened, but she supposed the spriggan had moved at the wrong time and thrown the chair off-balance on the steep steps. She hurried back up and righted the chair, petting it on the back.
“There, there,” she said. “I’m sorry. These steps must be hard for you!”
The chair tapped a leg, just once.
Then she looked for the spriggan, and spotted it two steps up.
“Hop back on,” she said, gesturing toward the chair.
“Don’t want to,” it said, thrusting out what would have been its lower lip if spriggans had actual lips. “Too bumpy!”
Kilisha glared at it. “Get on the chair!” she growled.
The spriggan took a step back, but crossed its arms across its chest and said, “No.”
Kilisha glowered, hoping that Ithanalin wouldn’t remember any of this when he was restored to himself.
“All right,” she said. “Get back on my shoulder, then.”
She held out her arm.
The spriggan cheered up instantly and hurried up her arm, settling comfortably on her shoulder, one hand clutching her hair. Once it was securely in place she once again headed down Steep Street, being careful not to go fast enough to overbalance the chair again.
The odd little party reached the corner of Old Seagate Street without further incident. Kilisha hurried across to the far side, where the land dropped away to the sea.
At the moment the tide was mostly in, so most of the rocks at the foot of the fifteen-foot drop were partially submerged. Waves were breaking noisily across the exposed stone, sending plumes of spray into the air, and a few stubborn tufts of seaweed washed back and forth across the broken rock.
If the bench had plunged down there it would have landed on rocks, not open water. It might have survived such a fall and scrambled on to open water, but Kilisha doubted it would have any reason to…
And then a thought struck her. The bench was wood. Heavy oak, yes, but still wood. It wouldn’t sink to the bottom, out of sight; it would float.
She shaded her eyes and peered out to sea, and saw no sign of a drifting bench or anything like one. She could see ships at the piers of Seagate, and another at sea rounding Seagate Head, and in the distance beyond the headland, almost lost in haze and spray, she thought she could see the masts of more ships docked in Southport—though those last might have just been her imagination.
But she didn’t see the bench.
She looked down Old Seagate Street, where it wound its way down the rocky verge toward the Fortress Docks and the shipyards; for once the curvature of the road favored her, so that she could see past the two docks and almost to the Throat. A crowd of men was hauling on ropes, securing a barge to the nearer of the docks, and a few other people were watching this labor, but she did not see the bench.
A guardsman was coming up the street past the docks, the mustard-yellow tunic and blood-red kilt unmistakable even at this distance, but she wasted no time trying to determine whether this was Kelder or someone else. She turned the other way, to where Old Seagate Street zigzagged up the rocky slope toward the Fortress.
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