Chapter Seven
Morvash of the Shadows
24th of Greengrowth, YS 5238
Once past the iron-bound front door, the house’s interior appeared alarmingly cluttered. Making room for the thirty-two statues might be a challenge, Morvash thought.
Or perhaps he could bring them one at a time, and transform them individually. That would be slower and undoubtedly more expensive, but it might be safer.
Whatever had happened to Erdrik the Grim had clearly not involved packing up and moving all his belonging elsewhere; from the entryway Morvash could see books, papers, and paraphernalia on all sides, as well as carvings and small statues in numbers that Morvash would have found surprising if he had not already become acquainted with Lord Landessin’s collection.
Erdrik also seemed to have been inordinately fond of chairs and tables, at least some of which were animated—half a dozen came trotting into the foyer to greet Morvash and his guide. Alir shooed them away, and led Morvash into the parlor, where another half-dozen chairs were milling about.
A fire leapt up on the hearth as they entered the room. The flames smelled incongruously of cinnamon; in fact, the entire house had a faint odor of spices.
By this point it was very clear to Morvash why the Guild would not sell the house to anyone but a wizard. He was a little surprised the entire thing hadn’t been destroyed, or at least gutted.
Behind the parlor was a dim dining room, lit by a single small window; polished brass and oiled wood gleamed dully, but at least it was not crowded. A big table occupied the center of the room, beneath a brass chandelier, but there were no chairs; Morvash supposed they had wandered off to join the herd in the parlor and entryway. A sideboard held a few modest platters and a brass bowl, but nothing more. The walls were a dark wood Morvash could not identify.
Beyond the dining room was a sloping stone passageway down to a huge stone-and-brick kitchen that Morvash was not sure was in normal space; it did not seem to match any part of what he had seen of the house’s exterior. Two kettles, one copper and one some sort of glazed ceramic, waddled back and forth across the black iron stove-top, while something rattled inside one of the drawers, and a mustard pot with painted-on eyes peered over the top of a cabinet. Several objects elsewhere on the very full shelves were moving about, as well.
“I take it Erdrik specialized in animation spells,” Morvash said.
“I wouldn’t know,” Alir answered.
“It seems obvious.”
“Well, he certainly did a lot of them, I agree,” she said, “but remember, he lived here for two hundred years. You can accumulate a lot of things in that much time.”
Morvash nodded, but he was not really paying attention; he was looking around the kitchen. There were no windows, and no lit candles or lamps were visible, but it was well-lighted anyway; that seemed a very useful trick, and Morvash wondered whether he might learn the spell that made it possible.
He turned, and noticed a door beside the passage connecting the kitchen to the dining room. He opened it, expecting a pantry, and instead found a short, narrow stair leading down into darkness. He conjured a fingertip flame and walked down, to find himself in the cellars beneath the main part of the house. He took a quick look, but saw nothing of any interest. Stone walls, a floor that appeared to be carved from the bedrock on which the city stood, beams close enough above him that he could not stand up straight, a dozen thick stone pillars—a very ordinary empty cellar, remarkable only in its lack of dust. Half a dozen large barrels, suitable for beer, wine, or water, lay on oaken frames along one wall, but the sound and feel when he rapped the wooden sides made him think they were all empty. He could sense no particular magic here, certainly less than he had felt on the floor above.
There was plenty of open space if he wanted to try some of his experiments down here, but some of the statues would not fit down the narrow stairs or under the low ceiling, and the lack of any natural light was not encouraging. He returned to the well-lit and welcoming kitchen and stood for a moment, taking another look around.
The ceramic kettle on the stove butted the copper one with a clang, distracting him, and triggering a new line of thought. This house was full of animated objects; would that hinder attempts to restore petrified people to life? Or might it actually help, having all that magical energy around?
“What happened to Erdrik’s book of spells?” he asked.
“I have no idea,” the agent replied. “It isn’t included with the house, if that’s what you were thinking.”
“All these animated nicknacks—why weren’t they sold off?”
“I believe the more obedient ones were sold off,” Alir said. “The ones that are still here wouldn’t take orders from anyone, or were otherwise uncooperative. Maybe they’d listen to Erdrik, but they mostly ignored everyone else. And some of the furniture that isn’t obviously animated was left here just in case it had some other sort of spell on it.” She waved at some of the cluttered shelves. “There were protective spells on some of this that nobody thought were worth removing, since it all looks like ordinary kitchen supplies—though they did try to clear out anything obviously dangerous.” She grimaced. “And the cleaning out work was interrupted by events elsewhere. They might have removed more, but once they stopped getting started again was difficult, and no one ever got around to finishing the job.”
That made sense. It also meant that the animated things might be a nuisance—but he wasn’t planning to live here, at least not permanently. He would just try out his experiments in magic, and if he had to he could set up wards to keep the various magical trinkets out of the way while he was working.
Looking around, a thought struck Morvash. A place with this much lingering magic should be overrun with spriggans, but he had not spotted a single one since they entered the house, and even the ones on the street, though obviously interested, had been staying well clear. Perhaps there were wards that actually kept them out, though no one back in Ethshar of the Rocks had known of any spells that would reliably do so.
“Why aren’t there any spriggans?” he asked the agent.
“That’s a good question,” she replied. “If you find out, please tell us.”
Morvash considered that. Not having the little pests around would certainly make his experiments safer. The animated furniture might be inconvenient sometimes, but it would be much less of a nuisance than spriggans.
He also realized that everything he had seen so far appeared clean—he could see no dust or cobwebs anywhere, even though the house had stood empty for years.
“Is there some sort of cleaning spell?” he asked. “It hardly appears to have been abandoned for so long.
“I believe there is a sprite of some sort that dusts everything. My understanding is that the Guild was unable to catch it easily, and decided they might as well leave it.” She cleared her throat. “I mentioned before that the task of cleaning this place out was interrupted. That interruption was the appearance of Empress Tabaea, and once things were back to normal there was enough lingering damage elsewhere to deal with that no one ever got around to coming back here. We really don’t know what might still be around.”
Morvash nodded. He had only been a child at the time, but he remembered how much of a fuss there had been about Tabaea’s brief conquest of Ethshar of the Sands even among the ordinary people of his own city. There had even been confused stories that it had some connection to an assassination attempt on Wulran III, the overlord of Ethshar of the Rocks, that happened at about the same time. Morvash could easily imagine it would have disrupted the normal course of business for magicians here. “Let’s see the rest of the house,” he said.
There were two workrooms on the ground floor—or at least, if they were not both workrooms, Morvash had no idea what the second one was for. There were two large pantries that, going
by the remaining labels, had apparently once held magical ingredients, but now held only dozens of empty shelves and drawers. In fact, the entire work area was bare, especially when compared to the crowded front rooms—beyond workbenches and a single three-legged stool, there was no furniture. One workroom’s floor was black stone, the other battered wooden planks, and neither had any rugs or carpets. Apparently any clutter that had once been there had been removed, either to the front rooms or elsewhere; the Guild’s people must have done this part of the house before Empress Tabaea showed up. As he had seen elsewhere, there was no dust, nor any sign of spriggans.
Returning to the front hall, the grand staircase with its elaborately-carved balustrade led to the second floor, which consisted of a splendid wood-paneled gallery overlooking the street, a large sitting room, a vast bedchamber, and some much smaller bedrooms and closets; a smaller stair led to the third story, where Morvash found four more bedrooms, another workroom, and a storeroom half-full of crates and barrels. There was no visibly animated furniture on either of these upper levels, nor was there any of the other clutter that filled the front rooms downstairs; closets and drawers and shelves and cabinets were largely empty, save for some clothing in a wardrobe, and a single large chest that held towels and bedclothes, both in the master bedchamber. From the robes in the wardrobe it appeared Erdrik had been tall and thin and fond of dark fabrics.
An even smaller stair, a spiral this time, led from the third story up into a tower that gave a fine view of the courtyard behind the house from one side, and a view down the street from the other, as well as a good look at the half-dozen splendid little gargoyles scattered around the rooftop. A set of shelves held several devices Morvash did not recognize, and neither the table nor the two armchairs on this uppermost level appeared to be animated.
Morvash did not actually see any of the gargoyles move, but as he started back down the spiral stairs he thought one of them was in a slightly different position than when he came up.
There was plenty of space for statuary in the house, really; the upper stories were nowhere near as crowded as the ground level. The gallery on the second floor was particularly promising.
“All right,” Morvash said to the waiting agent as he descended from the tower, “this will suit me well. What are the terms for allowing me to use it?”
“A round of silver a month, and reports on anything you learn about the things Erdrik left here. You are not to keep any secrets about anything you learn in your research into petrifaction, either.”
That was not quite as generous as Morvash had hoped, but it was not at all unreasonable. “A round?” he asked, just in case it proved negotiable.
“Yes. Ithinia was very clear.”
Morvash sighed. That did not sound negotiable. “Done,” he said. “When can I begin my work?”
“Immediately, as soon as you sign this agreement in your own blood.”
“Blood?”
“It must be binding by more than mere law.”
“It’s a geas?”
She nodded.
“Let me see it.”
She handed over the document, and Morvash read it carefully.
Whoever had written it had understood how magical compulsions worked, and had tried to be reasonable, qualifying most of the demands with phrases like “when circumstances permit,” “without undue hardship,” and “to the best of his ability,” since a geas that made impossible demands could have very nasty, even fatal, effects. The most inflexible terms had nothing to do with paying the rent or maintaining the property—in fact, that monthly silver round seemed like more of a suggestion than a requirement—but concerned keeping Guild secrets, informing the Guild through the local Guildmasters of any significant discoveries he made, and preventing (“to the best of his ability”) magical mishaps. He was to report anything he learned about what had befallen Erdrik the Grim—in fact, that was given a fairly high priority. Obviously, despite their alleged certainty that he would not return, the Guild had no idea what had become of him.
He could sense the magic that had gone into preparing the agreement; this was no ordinary rental contract.
“I’d rather use ink,” he said, when he had gone through the entire document.
“Ithinia wants blood.”
Morvash sighed again, and pulled the silver dagger from his belt. He used the point of the blade to prick his finger, and scrawled the six runes of his name in blood at the bottom of the last page. It was not particularly neat or legible, but it was close enough to his usual signature to be magically binding.
Alir took the contract with a satisfied smile. “It’s all yours,” she said as she rolled it up.
“Thank you,” Morvash replied.
She tucked the contract under one arm, and then handed him a ring of keys. “This is all the keys that were found here. This one,” she said, indicating the large, ornate piece of black iron she had used to let them into the house, “fits the front door, and has been enchanted to deactivate all the external wards the Guild could find. All the others you use at your own risk.”
“Does anyone know just how much risk there really is?”
“No. The Guild removed or deactivated or destroyed everything they could that they knew was dangerous, but no one knows how much they missed, and there were some spells they couldn’t understand or defeat. So be careful.”
Morvash sighed, already regretting that he had signed the lease in blood. “All right,” he said.
“I’ll be going, then. Good luck!” She turned before Morvash could reply, and headed down the stairs to the second floor. She seemed to be in a hurry, and he belatedly realized that she was uncomfortable and eager to be out of the house, despite whatever protective spells she bore.
Chapter Eight
Hakin of the Hundred-Foot Field
8th of Longdays, YS 5231
Hakin was awakened from his nap by someone’s scream, followed by a man’s voice shouting. That was not particularly unusual in the Hundred-Foot Field, but he rolled over, away from where he had been nestled at the foot of the city wall, and pushed aside one corner of his crude tent to see what was happening.
All he saw was the near wall of Green Abia’s hut, and a few feet of dried mud, but the shouting was louder now, as other voices joined the first, and there were more screams, as well. Hakin got to his knees and leaned out to peer around the corner of Abia’s shack just as half a dozen people came running past, obviously fleeing from something.
That was a bit worrisome. Was the city guard clearing the field for some reason? That hadn’t happened in Hakin’s lifetime, but there were stories about it, and it would explain the shouting and fleeing. The screaming did not seem to fit, though. Hakin snatched up his pack and got to his feet as several more people ran past, all of them heading east, in the direction of Southgate; if he had to make a hurried departure, he did not want to leave any of his meager belongings behind. Then he moved along the wall of Abia’s hut and looked around the next corner to see what was happening.
Ordinarily, this stretch of the Hundred-Foot Field was thickly inhabited, with a few narrow paths winding around dozens of makeshift shelters and campfires. Now, though, most of the fires and tents and shacks had been trampled flat, and the normal crowd of ragged inhabitants had vanished; only a single figure was marching across the packed earth toward Hakin. He stared.
Although it walked upright, that figure was clearly not human.
Just what it was Hakin was not entirely certain, though he could make a guess. It stood easily seven feet tall, with glossy black skin and huge pointed ears, and it had four arms, rather than the customary two. Hakin could see no sign of hair anywhere, but it did have fangs and horns.
Hakin thought he would give five to one odds that this thing was a demon.
But other than scaring away the
regular inhabitants, what was a demon doing in the Hundred-Foot Field?
Obviously, none of Hakin’s neighbors had thought it was safe to ask. Demons, after all, were ridiculously dangerous; ordinarily no one but a trained demonologist would have anything to do with them.
But ordinarily they didn’t come marching through the Hundred-Foot Field, and while the creature’s features weren’t fully human, Hakin thought it looked confused, as well as angry. It was slowing down, looking around at the field, as if it was searching for something.
It wasn’t just on an uncontrolled rampage, then. It might, Hakin thought, be running an errand for a demonologist. In fact, it almost had to be there at a demonologist’s command—everyone said that demons couldn’t enter the World unless summoned.
Maybe it could use some help—and maybe if it got some, not only would it stop terrorizing the field, but a demonologist somewhere might owe Hakin a favor, and it never hurt to have a magician in one’s debt. “Hai!” he called, stepping out from behind Abia’s hut. “What do you want here?”
The demon stopped and looked at Hakin, and when he saw the fury in those slanting yellow eyes the boy wished he hadn’t spoken up. He was hesitating, debating whether to turn and run, when the demon said, in a rough and inhumanly deep voice, “I seek Karitha the Demonologist.”
Hakin considered that for a moment, then said, “I…I don’t believe I know her.” His voice only shook a little.
The demon growled wordlessly, a sound like slow thunder. It took a step toward Hakin.
“I might be able to help you find her, though,” Hakin hastily added, resisting the urge to step back. There was no need to let the demon see how frightened he was, and he was fairly certain that the demon could catch him if he ran, especially with the city wall to the south, preventing him from going more than a few feet in that direction.
Stone Unturned: A Legend of Ethshar Page 8