Stone Unturned: A Legend of Ethshar

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “All of you were turned to stone, by one spell or another, and wound up in the collection of a wealthy nobleman named Lord Landessin, who was obsessed with sculpture and statuary. When Lord Landessin died his heirs rented his estate to my uncle, which was where I found you and realized you had been transformed, rather than carved. I took it upon myself to learn enough magic to turn you back. My uncle, understandably, did not want me conducting dangerous magical experiments in his home, so I rented this house and brought you all here.

  “And now, much more quickly and thoroughly than I expected, here you are—a spell I intended to rescue just two of you has misfired, and instead brought all of you back to life at once.

  “Today is the 26th day of the month of Leafcolor in the Year of Human Speech 5238. You are in Ethshar of the Spices, in the upstairs gallery of a wizard’s house on Old East Avenue, near the southern boundary of the district known as the New City, not far from Southmarket and Arena.

  “For the most part, I know nothing of what has become of your homes or families or possessions; I had not yet taken the time to do any research about these matters, since I had not intended to release you quite so soon.

  “You are not prisoners. If you feel you are ready to deal with the World of the present day, you are free to go; my assistant Pender will show you to the door.”

  He paused, looking for Pender, but did not see him anywhere. “Just a moment,” Morvash said, hurrying through the crowd and out to the stairway. “Pender!” he called. “Where are you?”

  “Here,” Pender replied from somewhere downstairs.

  “Well, get up here! I need help!”

  “You were doing magic. I did not want to be in the way. I heard voices, and did not want to interrupt. Were you talking to gods?”

  “No! I’m not a theurgist, I’m a wizard. Get up here!”

  Pender appeared on the stairs, trotting up.

  “The spell worked,” Morvash said, as he led the way back to the gallery. “They’re all alive again.”

  Then they stepped through the door, and despite what Morvash had told him Pender stopped dead at the sight of all the former statues. His mouth fell open, and he stared.

  Then his gaze fell on Erdrik, and his mouth and eyes opened even wider. He fell to his knees, flung out his arms, and shouted something in a language Morvash did not immediately recognize.

  Erdrik stepped forward and answered in the same language.

  All other discussion ceased as everyone turned to watch the wizard and his kneeling supplicant converse. They spoke loudly, obviously unconcerned who might listen. Then Erdrik turned to Morvash.

  “It seems I have important matters to attend to elsewhere,” he said. “There is no rush about removing these people after all. I trust, though, that they will all be gone before I return.”

  “When will that be?” Morvash asked.

  “At least a sixnight. Perhaps a few months.”

  “I think that should be possible.”

  “Good! Thank you, Morvash, for releasing me, however inadvertently. I will deal with the fools who gave you access to my home later, but I will consider us to be even. See to it, though, that you are out of here as well when I return.” With that, Erdrik swept out of the gallery door, and Pender hurried to follow him.

  Pender paused just long enough to call back over his shoulder, “I’m sorry, Morvash.” And then they were gone, Pender’s feet clattering down the stairs, Erdrik’s unnaturally silent. The footsteps reached the bottom and faded away as the two men kept moving.

  The cat that had once been soapstone, which turned out to have gray fur, appeared from concealment behind a door and followed the pair down the stairs.

  Morvash stared after them for a moment, then crossed to the windows and looked out at the street in time to see Erdrik marching away to the south, Pender hurrying along behind his master. He did not see the cat.

  When they had rounded the corner out of sight, Morvash turned to the others and said, “It would appear I have lost my assistant. Did anyone here recognize the language they were speaking, and understand what was said?”

  A man raised his hand, and Morvash recognized him as the wizard Halder Kelder’s son—his yellow robe was almost the same color as the alabaster he had been for the last several years. Morvash beckoned the man forward, and the crowd parted to let him through.

  “What did they say?” Morvash asked.

  “They were speaking Sardironese,” Halder replied. He had a noticeable Sardironese accent himself, but Morvash could understand him well enough. “The servant spoke a mountain dialect, so I didn’t follow every word, but when he saw the tall man he shouted, ‘Master! You’re here!’ Then the tall man asked him who he was and what he was doing here, and the servant said he had come to find his master because the master had not come to the servant’s village on schedule, but everyone here had said the master was gone, so he had been working for Morvash—that’s you, isn’t it?”

  Morvash nodded. “I am Morvash of the Shadows,” he said.

  “Yes. The servant said he had been working for you because you were in the master’s house and he didn’t know what else to do, but now the master was back, and he needed to tell the master that the project was complete and everything was ready.”

  “Did he say what the project was?”

  “No. The tall man seemed to know what he meant. He asked whether the servant was sure, and then said they would need certain things before they could return to Tazmor. He asked whether his supplies were still here, and the servant said no, but he had brought… I don’t know the exact Ethsharitic equivalent. Not precisely money, but close. Wealth, maybe. Anyway, the tall man ordered the servant to come with him. Then he spoke to you in Ethsharitic, and they left.”

  “Thank you,” Morvash said. It seemed that Pender’s original loyalties were intact, and had overruled his supposed position as a slave, which was not really a surprise. And the wealth he had mentioned clearly meant his hidden cache of diamonds.

  At least he had apologized for his desertion.

  “Well,” Morvash said, straightening up, “if anyone would like to leave now, and fend for himself, I will show you to the door. Those who would prefer to take a little more time, and receive what assistance I can provide in adapting to your new surroundings, please wait here; I’ll be right back. Now, who’s ready to go?”

  Three men in the uniform of the city guard stepped forward, along with a middle-aged woman Morvash recognized as one of the unidentified statues, as well as Thetta, the suicidal dancing girl from the Small Kingdoms, and Sharra the Charming, the beauty who had refused to pay a wizard’s bill thirty years ago.

  Morvash hesitated. Thetta was wearing nothing but a bit of flimsy drapery, and would not be safe on the streets, not even when accompanied by three guardsmen—she might well not be safe from the three guardsmen. Furthermore, she had been enchanted for two hundred years—it was amazing she even understood modern Ethsharitic, and Morvash could only guess that for most of that time she had stood somewhere she could often hear people talking. Reluctantly, he caught her arm. “Not you,” he said. “I need to talk to you before you go.”

  She said something that sounded as if he ought to understand it, and he recognized the words “you” and “not,” but he could not make it out.

  “No,” he said. “Stay here.” He gestured to Alder the Strong. “Hold her, please. Don’t hurt her, she hasn’t done anything wrong, but don’t let her leave.”

  “I don’t know,” Alder said, with a thick Lamumese accent. “Why should I do what you want?”

  “Because I just brought you back to life after that unspeakable Varrek turned you to stone for almost sixty years!”

  Alder still hesitated.

  “I’m not going to hurt her,” Morvash said, “but she won
’t be safe going out dressed like that, she’s speaking a dead language, everyone she ever knew is gone, and I want to talk to her before I let her go out and get herself killed!”

  “All right,” Alder said, taking Thetta’s arm. “But just for a little while.”

  “Thank you!” Morvash said. Then he beckoned to the others. As they followed him toward the stairs, he asked, “Are you sure about this? It’s not too late to reconsider.”

  “We need to report in,” one of the soldiers said.

  “It’s been… I forget how long. A hundred years, maybe?”

  “Is the guard still barracked in Camptown?”

  “Well, yes,” Morvash admitted. “Right at the end of Camp Street. But everyone you knew must be gone.”

  The soldiers exchanged glances.

  “We need to let them know Erdrik is back,” one of them said.

  “And they’ll take care of us, no matter how long it’s been,” said another. “We’re members of the guard!”

  “Maybe one of us should stay, at least for now,” said the third.

  “Fine, you stay.”

  That drew general agreement, and one of the soldiers turned back, while the others continued on.

  “What about you?” Morvash asked Sharra.

  “I’m going home,” she said. “I’m not like these others; it’s only been thirty years. Even if my husband is gone, my nephew will still be there.”

  “How will you get back, though? It’s a long way to Ethshar of the Sands.”

  “I’ll find a way. Come on!”

  “All right,” Morvash said. He turned to the other woman, the one whose name he had never learned.

  “I’ll be fine,” she said.

  “You’re sure?”

  She nodded.

  “As you wish, then.”

  Erdrik and Pender, he discovered, had left the front door wide open; animated furniture was crowded around it, as if looking out at the street despite not having eyes. Morvash herded the chairs and tables aside, and watched as Sharra, and the unknown woman, and the two guardsmen walked carefully down the steps, looking up and down the street.

  Then he closed the door and marched back upstairs to the gallery.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Morvash of the Shadows

  26th of Leafcolor, YS 5238

  Darissa had wrapped herself in a bedsheet, and Marek had managed to squeeze himself into a purple velvet robe from Erdrik’s wardrobe, which was about the right length, but so tight across the shoulders that Morvash expected a seam to split. Several people were sitting on the floor, while a few were leaning against walls; Morvash supposed they thought they had been upright for long enough, since almost all the statues had been standing. They looked up when he stepped back into the gallery.

  “Now what?” someone called.

  “Now,” Morvash said, “we’ll see about finding places for all of you. We can send messages, and see whether you have any family or friends who could help.” He spotted the Northerner, Iddamethi or whatever the name was, standing apart from the others, looking bewildered. “Does anyone here speak…whatever language the Northern Empire spoke?”

  There was a chorus of variations on “no.”

  Morvash pushed his way through the crowd and went up to the Northerner, his hands open to show his friendly intentions. “Iddamethi?” he said.

  The Northerner looked puzzled for a moment, then pointed to himself and said, “Dmyethriy.”

  “D’methri,” Morvash tried.

  The Northerner nodded.

  Morvash pointed to his own chest and said, “Morvash.”

  “Morfyash,” the Northerner said.

  “Close enough. We’ll help you. We’ll find someone to translate. Hold on.” Then Morvash looked around, wishing he still had Pender, or someone else, to run errands for him.

  “What about her?” Alder called, holding up Thetta’s wrist. “She tried to bite me.”

  Morvash looked around and spotted the guardsman who had decided to stay. “Can you take charge of her for now?”

  The soldier did not look pleased, but he took Thetta’s arm from Alder.

  “All right,” Morvash called, “I know who some of you are, but not all of you. Most of you understand Ethsharitic, but not all of you, which is going to complicate matters. I had not actually intended to bring all of you back to life at once; my original plan was to rescue you one or two at a time, but I accidentally made my spell more powerful than it should have been, and here we are. I don’t have room for all of you here. I don’t have food for all of you here. I had intended to send my assistant out to bring help, but he deserted me because his former master showed up, so there’s just me, and about thirty of you. For anyone who missed it before, we are in Ethshar of the Spices, in the district called the New City, and the year is 5238. For most of you that must seem like the far future, but if you look out the windows you’ll see it isn’t all that strange. The Hegemony of the Three Ethshars has been fairly stable for about two hundred years now, and most of you aren’t that old.” His eye happened to catch one particular face, and he continued, “I know there are at least four of you who were warlocks, though you may not all be familiar with the word. You aren’t warlocks anymore; that magic stopped working a little over a year ago, when the thing that appeared in Aldagmor on the Night of Madness went away again. Whether that’s good news or bad for you, I don’t know.”

  Another face caught his attention. “Some of you are wizards. I don’t know what spell-making supplies you have with you—probably not much. I don’t have any to spare. However, the Wizards’ Guild knows about what I was doing here, and will probably be able to help you. Once I have matters a little more sorted out I will arrange for you to see a Guildmaster, Ithinia of the Isle, who will decide what to do with you.”

  “Ithinia is still alive?” someone called.

  “Oh, yes,” Morvash replied. “Very much so.” He tried to think what other magicians there were. “Virzia of Freshwater,” he asked, “are you here?”

  “Where else would I be?” she replied, from her seat against the far wall. She looked miserable, which seemed odd, given that she had just been freed from imprisonment.

  “You’re a ritual dancer, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. Or I was seventeen years ago, anyway.”

  “In Freshwater? Or is that just where you grew up?”

  “In Freshwater.”

  “As soon as I have a chance, I’ll see if your old troupe is still in business. Do you have any family?”

  “Seventeen years ago I did.”

  “Do you want to go see if they’re still there? Freshwater isn’t very far, after all.”

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  “Well, if I can help—”

  “Just shut up, will you, wizard?” she burst out. “I’ve just lost seventeen years. I spent seventeen years as a stupid statue, blind and mute, unable to move; I thought it was a blasted nightmare, I hoped it was, and now I’m awake and alive and it’s all real! Give me a little time to take that in, will you? Let me think about how my parents are going to react if I show up—if they’re still alive! And my sisters, the three of them were all younger than me, but they aren’t anymore, are they? So leave me alone and let me decide how I feel about it and what I want to do!”

  “I’m sorry,” Morvash said. “Of course. Take your time.”

  The dancer curled up, arms wrapped around her knees, and buried her face in her arms.

  “For those of you with nowhere to go, and no family or guild or brotherhood to help you,” Morvash announced, “I’ll see if you can stay with my Uncle Gror; his home is much larger and more comfortable than this house. Not permanently, but until you can find a place for yourself.”

  “
What about us?” Darissa called. “Didn’t you say there was an assassin looking for us?”

  “I don’t know if he’s an assassin,” Morvash said. “Uncle Gror did say someone was looking for you, but we don’t know why. He might be an assassin.”

  “It’s been what, forty years? Then the war with Eknera is long over,” Marek said. “We were celebrating the victory when we were enchanted. Why would anyone be looking for us now?”

  “I don’t know,” Morvash said. “If you’ll recall, I asked you that last night.”

  “Would we be safe at your uncle’s place?” Darissa asked.

  “I don’t know,” Morvash said. He looked around thoughtfully. “Maybe you two should stay here; this house has protective spells on it. A lot of protective spells. Powerful ones.”

  “Why can’t we all stay?” someone called. “Why should we go live with this uncle of yours?”

  “Because…well, two reasons,” Morvash said. “First, this house isn’t big enough; it was never meant for so many guests. But second, and more importantly, this is a wizard’s house, it’s been home to that same wizard for two hundred years, and there is dangerous magic scattered all over it. Nobody knows how many odd spells and artifacts have accumulated here. You were all just rescued from petrifaction; do you really want to risk being turned into a rat or a squid if you pick up the wrong thing, or sit on the wrong chair?”

  There was a murmur at that, but no one spoke up.

  “Then Uncle Gror’s place it is. You’ll like it; it’s much nicer than here. I’d have done my experimenting there if my uncle hadn’t been afraid I’d blow something up.”