“Here,” the demon said, releasing its hold.
Hakin staggered slightly as he got his feet under him, then looked around.
They were on the second floor, overlooking the courtyard behind the house where several small gardens, marked off by a variety of low fences, were scattered around the neighborhood’s shared well. Clotheslines were strung higgledy-piggledy from porches and poles, and laundry hung from most of them. A few charcoal stoves were smoking here and there, adding to the cacophony of odors.
Given where they were, most of the houses surrounding the courtyard presumably belonged to magicians, but it did not look or smell noticeably different from any other neighborhood’s back court that Hakin had seen in his travels around the city—not that he had seen many. He had lived in the Hundred-Foot Field almost as long as he could remember, never in an ordinary house; he had only seen such courtyards when he had been hired for an errand that took him to one.
Still, if there was anything to distinguish this from the others he had glimpsed, it was not obvious.
He turned his attention from the courtyard to Karitha’s house. The balcony was perhaps six feet deep and twenty feet wide, with two windows and a door opening onto it. All were closed, though the shutters were not. Hakin crossed to the door and tried the latch.
It opened easily—and why shouldn’t it? They were not on ground level; if he had not had the demon’s assistance Hakin would have had a hard time getting to this balcony. What’s more, what sort of idiot would try to rob a demonologist? Far less dangerous targets abounded, and while demonologists were certainly reputed to handle plenty of gold, most of it supposedly went to pay the demons for their services, and the rest would undoubtedly be well hidden and well guarded. The front door was locked to keep out customers and curiosity-seekers when the shop was not open for business, and the back door was probably locked to keep out unwanted neighbors, but locking the balcony door would not seem necessary.
The youth swung the door open and looked in; he did not cross the threshold immediately, since there might be magic guarding it.
Beyond the door was a workshop of some sort, not the bedroom he would have expected at the rear of an upper story. The floor was bare planking, with no carpet or tiles, and a circle about eight feet in diameter was gouged into the wood in the center of the room; runes and other symbols were everywhere, drawn—rather sloppily, Hakin thought—in charcoal and several colors of paint, or in some cases carved, like the circle, into wood. The whole place smelled of smoke and candle-wax.
“That is where she summoned me,” Tarker said over Hakin’s shoulder.
The youth nodded. “Are there any traps here? Is it safe to go in?”
“The wards are broken,” the demon replied.
Hakin was not entirely sure what that meant, but he stepped cautiously through the door, into the workshop.
Tarker followed close behind; its bulk blocked out much of the daylight. Hakin tried not to let that frighten him as he walked across the room to the door on the far side.
The door led to a corridor and a stairwell. “Hello?” Hakin called.
There was no response.
It took no more than a quarter hour to search the house thoroughly, from attic to cellars. Except for the workshop and some interesting storerooms in the cellar, it was very much like any other Ethsharitic shopkeeper’s home. The demonologist’s closets and pantries were fairly full, which implied that she had not planned a long trip.
Tarker had followed him as he wandered through the house. The demon had said nothing, and had not done any searching of its own; apparently it was certain of Karitha’s absence and felt no need to verify anything.
There were no signs of any pets; Hakin had gotten an impression somewhere that most magicians kept a cat or dog around. He considered saying something to Tarker, but when he turned to look at the demon he realized that there were probably good reasons for a demonologist not to have any small animals around. The barking of a startled dog, or the hissing of a cat, might provoke an unfortunate response.
“You’re right, she’s not here,” Hakin said at last, when he had been through the entire house twice. “Let’s go talk to the neighbors.”
Tarker growled. If it had intended the sound to include any words, Hakin could not make them out. A wisp of smoke rose from its nostrils.
The next question was whether they should leave through the front door, onto the street, or the kitchen door, into the courtyard—Hakin had no intention of leaving by way of the balcony. He considered for a moment, then chose the street.
He did not ask the demon’s opinion. If Tarker had anything to say, it would undoubtedly say it without prompting. Hakin led the way through the parlor and out onto Magician Street.
It was well into the afternoon; the sun was nearing the western rooftops and painting window glass with golden fire. The street was neither crowded nor empty. Most people who had business somewhere had arrived there by now, and the rush to get home before dark would not begin for another hour or so, but there were always a few people out and about. Hakin ignored the people gawking at the demon as he chose a nearby shop more or less at random.
The signboard simply said Anduron, Warlock—no fancy titles or extravagant claims, no explanatory images. The door was unlocked and had a bell hanging above it, so Hakin did not bother to knock before walking into the shop.
Tarker had to stoop and pull in its shoulders to fit through the door, but it followed the youth inside.
Anduron, it seemed, was a tall, thin man of middle years; he had been seated by the hearth, reading a book, but he put it aside and rose to his feet immediately when the door first opened.
“Greetings,” the warlock said. “I am Anduron the Tall. How can I help you?” His eyes widened at the sight of the demon, and his nose wrinkled slightly, perhaps at Tarker’s peculiar scent.
“Actually,” Hakin said, “we’re looking for a neighbor of yours—her name is Karitha.”
“The demonologist?” Anduron’s eyes fell to the youth, and he turned up an empty palm. “I haven’t seen her lately.” He did not sound at all concerned about this. He looked past Hakin at his companion again, and added, “I take it this…entity has business with her?”
Hakin nodded. “It can’t go home until she releases it, and it can’t find her.”
“I’m sorry; I haven’t seen her.”
“She’s missing,” Hakin insisted. “Tarker, here, would know if she were anywhere in this area.”
“I wish I could help, but I really have no idea where she is.”
Hakin got the distinct impression that the warlock did not much care where she was, either.
“Did she have any particular friends who might have known what she had planned?” Hakin asked.
“Not that I know of.”
“Did you know someone named Wosten?” Hakin asked. “Wosten of the Red Robe?”
“The wizard? Certainly. He lives on the corner two streets…” He started to point.
“He is dead,” Tarker interrupted, speaking for the first time since they entered the warlock’s shop. Its voice seemed to shake the entire room.
Anduron started. “He is?”
“I slew him,” Tarker rumbled.
“Ah,” Anduron said, looking at the demon and keeping his tone noncommital. “I see.”
“Karitha the Demonologist summoned me, and commanded me to kill Wosten of the Red Robe. I tore out his throat. Now I seek Karitha so that she might release me.”
“Ah. Yes.” The warlock was visibly uneasy now. “Well, I knew she and Wosten didn’t get along; I was going to say that if you thought Wosten was her friend then someone had misled you badly.”
Hakin concluded that Karitha the Demonologist had not been well liked. If one of her closest neighbors could
name her enemies but not a single friend, that did not exactly demonstrate great popularity.
“She is a demonologist,” Anduron said, before Hakin could ask another question. “She was probably killed by one of her demons.”
“No,” Tarker growled. “I would know.” Despite Hakin’s earlier concern, it appeared that this demon, at least, had no problem seeing or hearing warlocks.
Anduron gave Tarker another quick glance, then shuddered and returned his attention to Hakin. “I don’t know what happened to her, then.”
“Have you heard anything?” Hakin asked. “Even a hint?”
“Have you smelled her?” Tarker demanded.
“No,” Anduron said. “I’m sorry. I can’t sense her, if that’s what you mean.”
“Is there any magic you can do that might find her?” Hakin asked.
Anduron shook his head. “Warlockry is not the magic you want for something like that. Warlockry is for moving, making, and breaking, not for finding or knowing.” He frowned. “You say Wosten is dead?”
“Yes,” Tarker rumbled.
Anduron glanced uneasily at the demon again, then turned back to Hakin. “Shouldn’t someone do something about that? Inform the magistrate? Or the wizard’s family?”
Hakin looked up over his own shoulder, then turned up an empty palm. “That might be a good thing to do,” he said, “but it’s not my place to do it. I never met the man, and I haven’t seen that he is dead; I’ve only heard this demon tell me so.”
“But still…”
Hakin interrupted the warlock. “I don’t think I’ve made the situation clear,” he said. “I’m not here about Wosten, and for myself, I don’t care about Karitha. I’m here because I promised this demon I would help it find Karitha, and I did that so that it would not go rampaging around the city looking for her. If you want to report the crime to the magistrate, go right ahead. If the magistrate wants to capture and punish the demon for Wosten’s murder he’s welcome to try, but I doubt he’ll manage it. If he wants to find and punish Karitha, that’s fine, too, so long as he lets us know where she is; Tarker, here, may well save the overlord’s government the trouble of hanging her.”
“If she is hanged, she will be dead and I will be free,” Tarker growled.
“Ah,” Anduron said again. “I see.”
“So you don’t have any idea how we can find Karitha?” Hakin asked.
The warlock shook his head. “I really don’t.”
Tarker growled, but Hakin raised a hand. “There are plenty of other people we can talk to,” he said. An idea struck him. “And maybe we should see what really happened to poor Wosten.”
“I tore his throat out,” Tarker interrupted, before Hakin could finish.
“Yes, I know,” Hakin said. “But maybe he cast a spell on Karitha, and that’s why you can’t find her. Maybe we can find some clues at his place.”
“That’s a good idea,” Anduron said.
“Thank you,” the youth answered. “Now, could you direct us to Wosten’s…”
“I know where it is,” Tarker said, before Hakin could finish the request.
“Of course you do,” Hakin said. “I should have realized that. Then we’ll be going, Anduron. Feel free to tell the magistrate, and please, do let your neighbors know we’re looking for Karitha, and that Tarker, here, is already getting irritable about not being able to find her. I don’t know how long I can keep it from smashing things.”
“Ah,” Anduron said once more. “I’ll tell them.”
With that Hakin rose, and followed Tarker out the door into the street. He trotted after the demon as it led the way to the dead wizard’s workshop.
Chapter Twelve
Darissa the Witch’s Apprentice
16th of Harvest, YS 5199
The Melithan army, under the command of Crown Prince Terren, had met the invading Eknerans and halted their advance some five miles from the border—approximately halfway to Melitha Castle. The two roughly equal forces had stopped a hundred yards apart, and had not clashed immediately, but had instead set up improvised defenses on either side of a cornfield. The local farmers had formed a sort of militia that helped with these preparations and carried messages, but they clearly intended to leave the actual fighting to the professionals.
News reached the capital quickly—a runner could easily carry word from the front to the town in under an hour, after all, and sentries in the castle tower could see the situation for themselves—so everyone was aware of what was happening, if not the reasoning behind it. Some of the Melithans wanted to know why there had not yet been a battle, but these hotheads were generally shouted down by the parents and siblings of soldiers, who wanted their men to come home safely. Most people wanted to see everything resolved without bloodshed, with the Eknerans retreating without a fight.
Darissa was very much in this latter category, though she realized it was unlikely. She was further concerned because no one seemed to know what had become of Prince Marek since she had last seen him. King Terren was in the castle, sending and receiving emissaries, overseeing preparations for a siege, and making patriotic speeches. Prince Terren was commanding the army, while his wife, Princess Indamara of Pethmor, was organizing domestic matters at the castle and ensuring that the army had the supplies it needed. Prince Evreth was now known to be out of the country on a secret mission of some sort. Princess Hinda was said to be arranging for an evacuation of the town should it be necessary.
But no one seemed to have word of Prince Marek—or if they did, it was not reaching Darissa.
Various non-combatants had been fleeing the area; the foreign traders who usually made up perhaps a third of the market’s vendors had all vanished. Other foreigners, though, had been arriving in ones and twos, on foot or horse or mule, and vanishing into the castle. Rumors as to who these strangers might be abounded, but the most common theory, and the one Darissa thought the most likely, held that they were emissaries from neighboring countries come to discuss alliances—or to discuss what bribes would keep them neutral.
Some of them did not look much like royal emissaries, though. Following Nondel’s instructions to stay out of sight, Darissa had not gone up to the market since the invasion, but she watched the people passing the house. She was not making any particular effort to feel their thoughts, but she was not shutting them out, either, and she could sense caution, concern, fear, eagerness—a variety of emotions, often in the same individual.
From a few, though, she sensed nothing at all. Usually, in her limited experience, that meant a magician of some sort. That worried her; why would magicians be arriving during a war? Wouldn’t that violate the Wizards’ Guild’s ban on using magic to fight?
Or perhaps they were not here to fight, but to perform other magic for the king, magic that he thought would be acceptable to the Wizards’ Guild.
In fact, one tall, unusually straight-backed old woman with an intimidating face and expression, who marched past Nondel’s house two days after the invasion, appeared to be a wizard; perhaps the king was consulting a Guild representative as to just where the boundary between acceptable and unacceptable fell. The woman wore a loose, dark blue gown and a matching broad-brimmed hat, and had a leather bag slung over her shoulder as she strode up the hill at a pace that Darissa knew she herself could not match without running.
At supper that night Nondel did not eat much; he was clearly worried.
“Is there anything I can do for you, Master?” Darissa asked.
He shook his head. “Not without risking our lives. I’m worried because the battle hasn’t happened yet. The Eknerans wouldn’t just walk in without a plan—either they thought they could win an open battle, or they wanted to negotiate terms, or they had some sort of strategem planned. If they wanted a fight, it would have happened by now. If they wanted to ne
gotiate, we’d be hearing about it. That means they have a scheme, and they’re waiting for something, and I’m worried about what it might be.”
“Another neighbor invading us, perhaps?” Darissa suggested.
“It could be,” Nondel agreed.
“Is there anything we can do about it?”
“Us? Absolutely not. We’re witches. We can’t get involved.”
“But we’re Melithans!”
“We’re witches first,” Nondel told her.
“We can’t do anything even if we don’t use magic?”
Nondel grimaced. “Be honest with yourself, Darissa,” he said. “Can you do anything now without magic? Without sensing what the people around you want? Without seeing the secrets they want to hide? Without knowing what’s around you, even when you can’t see it?”
“Ah…” Darissa had not really thought about that, but it was true; she could no more stop using magic than she could stop her other senses. She could close her eyes, and block her ears, but she would still smell the air and feel the ground beneath her feet, light would penetrate her eyelids, muffled sounds reach her ears; even if she did not allow herself to use that information consciously, it would affect her actions. Similarly, the information her magic gave her could not be completely suppressed or ignored.
She was not merely someone who used witchcraft; she was a witch, and could not be anything less.
She spent most of the evening trying unsuccessfully to read, and worrying about Marek instead. Why did no one seem to know what happened to him? When she last saw him he had been organizing the castle’s defense, but all the more recent reports said that was being handled by regular officers and Princesses Hinda and Indamara.
But why, she asked herself, did she care so much? Yes, he had been kind to her—and to everyone else around him—and he had clearly been interested in her in pretty much every way a young man could be interested in a girl, but really, she scarcely knew him, yet she could hardly think about anything else.
Stone Unturned: A Legend of Ethshar Page 11