Lawrence Watt-Evans - Ethshar 6 - The Spell of the Black Dagger

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PART ONE

Thief

CHAPTER 1

The house was magnificent, its dozen gables high and ornate, the cornerposts

elaborately carved and painted, the many panes of the broad windows neatly

beveled and arranged in intricate patterns. Some of the window glass was

colored, but most was clear and of the highest quality; through the

crystalline casements Tabaea could see only tightly drawn curtains and drapes—

draperies of velvet and silk and other fine fabrics, no simple cotton shades

or wooden shutters here.

The house faced onto both Grand Street and Wizard Street, its front door at

the corner, angled to face northeast into the intersection. Small shrines were

carved into the stone archway on either side of this door, each shrine

equipped with both a fountain and an eternal flame. The substance of the door

itself was unidentifiable under its thick coat of glossy black enamel, but it

was bound and trimmed with polished brass, with gleaming bolt heads forming a

complex spiral pattern.

Despite its prominent location, there were no shop windows, no signboards—it

was obviously a residence, rather than a business. Curious, that anyone would

build so fine a house here in the Grandgate district, Tabaea thought—and

worthy of further investigation. She had walked past it many times, of course,

but had never paid much attention before.

She admired the shrines, then wandered on down Grand Street as if she were

just another ordinary young citizen out for a late stroll on a summer evening,

or perhaps an apprentice returning from an errand. She paused at the rear

corner of the house and glanced back, as if trying to remember something; what

she was actually doing, however, was studying the street to see whether anyone

was watching her.

About a dozen people were scattered along the four long blocks between herself

and Grandgate Market, but none of them seemed to be looking in her direction,

or paying any attention to her. No one was leaning out any of the windows or

shop doors. The market itself was crowded, but at this distance that hardly

mattered; even in the bright torchlight, the people there were little more

than faceless blobs. None of them would be able to identify her later.

Thus reassured, she turned and ducked into the narrow alley behind the great

house.

Grand Street was reasonably well lit, thanks to the torches and lanterns

illuminating the various shops and taverns, but there were no torches in the

alley, and no light came from either the house on her left or the shuttered

tea house on her right.

That meant that the only light in the alley came from the cold and distant

gleam of the stars overhead, and the firelight of Grand Street behind her.

Such limited illumination was not enough; the alley appeared utterly black.

She hesitated, hoping her eyes would adjust, but the longer she lingered this

close to Grand Street, the more likely, even with the tea house closed, that

she would be spotted and questioned. She crept forward into the darkness,

moving by feel, as if blind.

The wall of the house felt solid and smooth and unbroken, and as she advanced

into the darkness she began to worry that she might have made a mistake. There

might not be any entrance back here.

She set her jaw. The whole point of an alley, she reminded herself, was to let

people in the back of a house. And even if this particular alley wasn't here

to let people into the back of the big comer house, there must be

windows—houses need ventilation, and the larger the house the more windows it

would need.

Of course, her pessimistic side reminded her, those windows needn't be within

reach of the ground, especially for a girl her size.

Maybe she should have planned this out more carefully, she thought, taken a

look at the house by daylight, maybe found out whose house it was, instead of

just yielding to a whim like this.

But she was here now, and it would be cowardly to turn back.

All the same, she thought, if she didn't find an entrance soon she might do

best to just head home and try again another day.

Then, finally, her hand struck a doorframe, and a smile crept unseen across

her face.

She stood and waited, and at last her vision began to adjust.

Yes, it was a door, though she could just barely make out the outline and

could see no details at all. She tried the handle.

It was locked, naturally.

She grinned, drew her belt knife, and fished the lockpick from her hair. The

darkness didn't matter for this; picking a lock was all done by feel anyway.

This was her chance to put her lessons with old Cluros and all her practice at

home to the test.

Five minutes later she had the door open and had slipped carefully inside,

moving as quietly as she could. The lock had been a simple one; only

inexperience, the weight of the bolt, and Tabaea's natural caution had kept

her from springing it within seconds. Whoever owned this house had not wasted

money on fancy locks and bars.

That was not necessarily a good thing, of course; sometimes a simple lock

meant other precautions had been taken—spells, guards, any number of

possibilities existed.

Tabaea saw no sign of any of them. Of course, she wasn't at all sure what to

look for to spot protective spells; nobody had taught her any of that yet.

Still, she didn't see anything unusual.

In truth, she didn't see much of anything at all. The mudroom behind the door

was even darker than the alley. She felt her way across the little room,

almost tripping over a boot scraper, and found an inner door.

That was unlocked, and the chamber beyond just as dark as the mudroom.

Reluctantly, Tabaea decided it was time to risk a little light.

She had tinder and flint and steel in her pouch, but it was dark and she was

wary of making too much sound—the house might be deserted, or it might not. It

took several tries before she had a good steady light.

When she had the tinder burning, she looked around by its flickering light for

something more permanent, and spotted a candle by the alley door. She lit

that, then blew out the tinder and tucked it away.

Candle in hand, she looked around the mudroom.

As one might expect, there was nothing of any interest. Half a dozen assorted

pairs of boots were ranged against one wall; below there was a line of hooks,

about half of which held cloaks or jackets; at the other end of the room three

heavy wooden chests took up most of the available space, but a quick glance in

each showed that they held only scarves, gloves, and other appurtenances.

She was not disappointed; this was just the mudroom, and there was plenty more

house to explore. Besides, there were plenty of people in Ethshar of the Sands

who couldn't afford gloves and scarves and coats. In any case, it wasn't as if

the winters here were so long or cold, as they were said to be in Sardiron or

the other Ethshars, that they were truly necessary. A house so rich in winter

wear would surely be rich in more marketable goods, as well.

Cautiously, moving as stealthily as she could, Tabaea opened the interior door

and peered through, candle in hand.

A smile spread across her face as she saw what lay beyond. This was more like

it.

The next room was a dining salon, and the light of her candle sparkled from

brass and gold and crystal and fine polished woods. Catlike and silent, she

slipped around the door and into the room.

The table was heavy and dark, gleaming almost black in the candlelight, its

edges carved with intertwined serpents and the corners with songbirds, wings

spread; above it hung an ornate brass and crystal chandelier. The six

surrounding chairs were of the same dark wood, carved with serpents and

eagles, seats and backs upholstered in wine velvet.

Cherry wood cabinets stood against every wall, and the image of Tabaea's

candle was reflected back at her by a hundred panes of leaded glass set in the

cabinet doors. Behind the glass panels glittered cut-crystal goblets and fine

bone china.

Something moved in the corner of her vision, and for a moment Tabaea froze.

Then she realized that the movement came from inside one of the cabinets.

Warily, she crept closer, and peered through the glass of the cabinet door.

The cabinet held an elaborate silver tea service, and the teapot was moving,

walking about on three long, birdlike legs. Tiny metal toes tapped gently on

the shelf as it strolled. Then, as Tabaea watched, it sank down, folding its

legs beneath it, and settled into motionlessness.

Tabaea smiled and tugged at the empty sack under her belt, but did not yet

remove it from concealment. A magic animated teapot was a very pretty prize

indeed; such things cost a fortune. Unfortunately, since they were so rare and

expensive, and each was a unique piece, they were almost impossible to fence.

The crystal would be worth plenty—but this was merely the beginning. There was

plenty more of the house yet to explore.

Three other doors opened into the dining salon, one on each side. For no

particular reason, Tabaea chose the door on the left, heading more or less

toward the front of the house—as much as this curiously angled corner house

had a front, at any rate.

This brought her into a parlor or drawing room, just as dark and deserted as

the dining salon; the fireplace was empty even of ash, the windows at the far

end shuttered and heavily curtained. Chairs and settees stood here and there;

a potted palm was waving in the breeze.

Except, Tabaea realized, there was no breeze. She froze again, watching.

The palm continued to wave, swaying steadily back and forth; Tabaea noticed

that it seemed to be fanning a particular armchair.

Well, of course—it was fanning the armchair! More magic, clearly—a little

something to help stay cool on a hot summer day, that was all. Another wizard-

or sorcerer-created domestic amenity, like the teapot.

Whoever owned this house was clearly very, very rich, to own two such animated

household objects, both devoted to ordinary tasks. Tabaea lifted her candle

and looked around again.

Something on the mantelpiece was staring at her.

She stared back for a second, startled, and then realized it was probably a

small idol of some sort. It was vaguely human-oid, vaguely froglike, roughly

the size of a small cat, greenish brown, with great big pointed ears. She

crept toward it for a closer look—maybe it had jewels or gold on it somewhere.

It squealed, bounded to its feet, sprang to the floor, and ran off, squeaking

noises that might have been words.

Tabaea almost yelped in surprise, then caught herself and looked around

guiltily.

That was how Telleth the Housebreaker had gotten himself caught, flogged, and

exiled from the city last year, she remembered; he had dropped a statuette on

his foot and sworn at it, and someone asleep upstairs had heard and awoken and

come to investigate, with a sword in hand. She knew better than that.

Well, she had caught herself, she hadn't made a sound beyond a sort of

strangled gasp. Now, if only that weird little creature didn't raise the alarm

. . .

What was that thing, anyway? She frowned.

It must be some sort of magical creature, she decided. Tabaea glanced at the

waving palm. Well, this house had more than its share of magic, certainly.

She wouldn't mind having a little magic. Like every child in Ethshar, she'd

dreamed sometimes of becoming a wizard or warlock, wearing fancy robes, and

having people step out of her way in the streets.

It hadn't happened, of course.

Maybe someday, if she got rich enough, she would buy herself magical things,

the way whoever owned this house had.

She decided to take a look at the next room, and stepped through an arch into

a broad hallway, paneled in dark rich woods. Stairs led to the upper

floors—the house was an ostentatious three stories in all, though she

suspected the uppermost might be a mere attic—but she was not yet ready to

ascend; if anyone was home, he or she was most likely asleep upstairs, and

poking around up there was best left until last.

As she stood at the foot of the stairs, a door to her right caught her eye; it

was half-closed, whereas the others were all either wide open or tightly shut.

That was intriguing; shading the candle with her other hand, she crept over

and peered in.

The dining salon and the parlor and the hallway were spacious and elegant,

richly furnished, uncluttered, and, so far as she could see by candlelight,

spotlessly clean; the room behind the half-closed door was the utter opposite.

It was large enough, but it was jammed to overflowing with books, papers,

boxes, jars, bottles, and paraphernalia of every kind. The walls were almost

completely hidden by shelves and drawers and pinned-up charts. Spills and

stains, old and new, adorned the floor and various other surfaces.

Somebody's workroom, clearly—this would be where the household accounts were

kept, and all the little things that go into running whatever business the

house's owner was in. Those jars were probably old preserves, spare pins, and

other such things.

There was sawdust, or some other powder, on the floor, she noticed, and tiny

web-toed footprints making a beeline through it. That was probably where that

creature had gone when she startled it. She raised the candle higher, to see

if the little beast might be lurking somewhere amid the clutter.

For the first time she noticed what hung from the ceiling and paused to stare

at it in wonder.

Why would someone have a dried bat hanging in his workroom?

She looked a bit more closely at the contents of the room, and saw an

assortment of bones on one shelf, from tiny little bits that could have been

from a mouse or shrew, up to what was surely the jawbone of a good-sized

dragon. A large jar nearby, she now realized, held not pickles or preserves,

but mummified spiders the size of her hand. The red stuff that she had taken

for jellies and jams was an assortment of blood—she could read the labels. The

biggest jar was dragon's blood, the next one was virgin's blood ...

She shuddered in sudden realization. No wonder this place had that magical

teapot, and the waving palm, and the little web-toed creature.

She was in a wizard's house.

CHAPTER 2

Tabaea crept silently toward the door at the far end of the workshop.

The sensible thing to do would be to flee, of course. Messing with magicians

was dangerous. Everyone knew that, and Tabaea was no exception. A tempting but

slightly riskier alternative would be to snatch a few nonmagical treasures,

and then flee.

But she was unable to resist. She was not going to be sensible at all.

Wizardry had always fascinated her, and here she was in a wizard's house. She

couldn 't leave without exploring further!

She would never have dared enter if she had known it was a wizard's house.

Since she had noticed the house on her way to and from Grandgate Market, where

she had gone in hopes of picking up a few valuables, she had thought of the

house as being on Grand Street, and had forgotten that it was also on another

major thoroughfare—Wizard Street. Ordinary people didn't antagonize magicians;

that was very probably why there weren't better locks and other safeguards.

Shops and houses on Wizard Street didn't need them.

She would never have broken in if she had known—but now that she was inside,

she just had to see more.

There was light coming from beneath that door—not very much, just a little—and

she wanted to see what was causing it. Very slowly, very carefully, very

silently, she knelt and lowered her eye to the crack.

Behind the door were stairs going down, stone stairs between gray stone walls.

She blinked and looked again.

Stairs going down?

Most buildings in Ethshar of the Sands did not have cellars; the sands on

which the city was built, and for which it was named, made digging difficult.

Excavations had a tendency to fall in on themselves. That was also why

structures were almost never more than three stories in height: anything

taller than that tended to sink or fall over. Some people had cellars dug for

cold storage—root cellars, wine cellars, and the like—but such extravagances

were generally small, and reached by ladders rather than by stairs.

Tabaea had heard about cellars and basements all her life, in tales of faraway

places, but had never been in one, unless you counted crawlspaces or the gaps

between pilings. The whole idea of cellars tended to put her in mind of the

overlord's dungeons—she had heard about those all her life, too, or at any

rate as long as she could remember—and of secrets and exotic places. She

stared at the stone step and wished she could see more; from her vantage point

at floor level she could see the iron rail, the walls, the sloping roof, but

nothing below the topmost stair.

However, she could, she realized abruptly, hear something.

She held her breath and listened intently, trying to ignore her own heartbeat.

An older man's voice, speaJdng quietly and intently—she couldn't make out the

words.

Could it be the wizard in whose workshop she was?

Of course; who else would it be?

Could he be working a spell? Was that an incantation she heard, the invocation

of some spirit, the summoning of some supernatural being? She could only hear

the one person, no answering voice, but he seemed to be addressing someone,

not just muttering to himself.

A shiver of excitement ran through her.

He had to be doing something secret, down there in the cellars. He couldn't

just be fetching a bottle; he wouldn't be talking like that, and she'd be able

to hear him moving around. His voice was steady, as if he were standing or

sitting in one place. And he wouldn't be doing his regular work, or just

passing the time, in the cellars—cellars were for secrets and mysteries, for

concealment, and protection.

Something rustled, and she leaped away from the door, sprang to her feet, the

candle in her hand almost, but not quite, blown out by her sudden motion.

That little greenish creature was watching her from atop a stack of papers. It

squeaked and scurried away into the darkness, scattering papers as it went.

She watched it go in the dimness and made no attempt to follow. All around

her, the shadows were flaring and wavering crazily as her candle flickered;

she feared that if she moved anywhere she might trip over something unseen, or

bump into something, in that tangle of black and shifting shapes.

Worse, her candle might go out, and the wizard emerge from the cellars before

she could relight it. She stood by the cellar door, shielding the candle with

her hand, until the flame was strong and steady once more, and the animal, or

imp, or whatever it was, was long gone.

At last she turned back to the door, intending to listen again, and caught her

breath.

The line of light across the bottom had become an L She had bumped the door

when she sprang up, and it wasn't latched; it had come open, very slightly.

She knew she shouldn't touch it. She knew she should just go, get out of the

house while she could—but a chance to watch a wizard at work was too much to

give up.

Who knows, she thought. Maybe if things had gone a little differently for her,

she might have been a wizard. She might have had the talent for it; who could

say?

Well, she supposed a master wizard could say, but she'd never had the chance

to ask one.

Or maybe she'd just never had the nerve to ask one.

She snorted, very slightly, at that. She was Tabaea the Thief, she'd taken the

cognomen for herself just last year, she was a promising young cutpurse,

burglar, and housebreaker, and she was here in a wizard's house planning to

rob him, but she'd never had the nerve to talk to one.

Of course, it was too late now, anyway. She was fifteen, and nobody would take

on an apprentice who was past her thirteenth birthday.

If her family had been willing to help out when she was twelve, if her

stepfather had offered to talk to someone for her ...

But he hadn't. And when she'd asked he was always too busy, or too drunk. He

promised a dozen times that he'd get around to it later, that he'd do

something to set her up, but he never had. And her mother hadn't been any

better, always busy with the twins, and on those rare and precious occasions

when both the babies had been asleep she'd been too tired to go anywhere or do

anything, and it wasn't an emergency, Tabaea was a big girl and could take

care of herself. She could help Tabaea's sisters and half-brothers with their

reading and numbers, but she couldn't leave the house, what if the twins woke

up?

And then Tabaea's thirteenth birthday had come and it was too late, and old

Cluros was the only one who'd been interested in her, and maybe it wasn't an

official apprenticeship, maybe there wasn't any guild for burglars and

lockbreakers, but it was better than nothing.

And better than a bed in the brothels in Soldiertown.

Besides, she wasn't sure she even had the looks or personality for a brothel;

she was always nervous around other people. She might have wound up walking

the streets instead and sleeping in the Wall Street Field when she couldn't

find a customer who would keep her for the night. Maybe she should have run

away, like her big brother Tand, but she never had.

So now she was a sneak thief. Which suited her just fine; she was good at not

being noticed. She'd had plenty of practice, all those years staying out of

her mother's way and avoiding her stepfather's temper when he was drinking.

At least she hadn't disappeared completely, like land, or their father. And

her thieving had kept her fed when her stepfather wouldn't anymore. Thennis

had taken to begging in Grandgate Market, and Tessa was spending a suspicious

amount of time in Soldiertown, but Tabaea was taking care of herself just

fine. Being a wizard or something else respectable and exciting would have

been much better, certainly, but Tabaea wasn't going to complain. Her career

in burglary had gotten her plenty of nice little things over the past two

years.

For one thing, it had gotten her here, with a chance to spy on a wizard at

some secret business in his cellar. Carefully, inch by inch, holding the knob

so the hinges wouldn't creak, she opened the door.

Yes, there were stone steps going down, between gray stone walls. The glow of

a distant lamp spilled in through an archway at the bottom, and threw Tabaea's

shadow down the full length of the room behind her.

Cautiously, she descended the stairs, pausing on each step, watching and

listening. The man's voice—the wizard's voice, she was sure—grew louder with

each advance, droning on and on. And with each step she could see a little

more of what lay beyond that arch.

There was a small square of stone floor and then steps to either side and a

black iron railing straight ahead—the cellar went down even further into the

ground!

At the bottom she hesitated. Straight ahead she could see through the archway

into an immense chamber, lit by a great three-tiered chandelier. That

chandelier was directly ahead of her, beyond the archway and the landing and

the iron railing. She couldn't really see much of the space below.

But if she advanced any farther, out onto the landing, she would be terribly

exposed.

She paused, listening, and realized she could make out words now.

". . . it's a part of you," the wizard was saying. "A part of your soul, your

essence. It's not just some random energy, something mat anybody could

provide, or that you could get from somewhere else."

For the first time Tabaea heard a second voice answering, a higher-pitched

voice, a woman or a child. She didn't catch the words.

That was simply too fascinating to miss. She crept forward, crouching lower

with each step. By the time she passed through the arch she was on her knees,

and by the time she peered through the railing she was lying flat on her

belly, hands braced to either side, ready to spring up if she was spotted.

The cellar, or crypt, or whatever it was lay before her, a single huge space.

The stone-ribbed ceiling arched a dozen feet above her, and the floor twenty

feet below—she realized that that floor must be thirty feet below ground, and

marveled that the sea had not flooded it.

But then, the walls were massive stone barriers, sloped and buttressed to hold

back the sand and water. Those great braced

walls enclosed a square thirty or forty feet on a side—the room was almost a

cube, she decided. In the center of the far wall was a broad slate hearth

below a fine smooth stone chimney; there were, of course, no windows. Heavy

trestle tables were pushed against the walls, four of them in all.

The floor was more stone, and in the center a thick carpet was spread, and

seated cross-legged on that carpet, facing each other, were two people—a man

perhaps half a century in age, and a girl two or three years younger than

Tabaea herself. The man wore a red silk robe and held a silver dagger; another

dagger and a leather sheath lay on the carpet by his knee, and several other

small objects were in a clutter to one side. The girl wore a simple white robe

and sat with her hands empty, listening intently; the man was speaking.

"The edge will never dull, as long as you remain whole and strong," he said.

"And the finish will stay bright as long as your spirits do." The girl nodded.

Tabaea stared. This was a wizard, beyond question—and his apprentice.

"If you can so much as touch it, it will cut any bonds put upon you, even

heavy chains," the wizard continued."Physical bonds, at any rate—while it can

dispel a minor geas, or ward off many spells, there are many others it will

not affect."

Tabaea let the muscles of her arms ease a little. The two were intent on their

conversation and would only notice her if she were to somehow draw their

attention.

"Those are just side effects, of course," the wizard said. "Incidentals. I'm

sure, after these past four months, you understand that."

"Yes," the girl said, in a hushed voice. "So, if you understand what an athame

is, and why a true wizard must have one, it's time you learned how to make

yours, is it not?"

The girl looked up at the wizard's face and said again,"Yes." "It will take

several days to teach you, but we can at least make a start tonight."

The apprentice nodded. Tabaea folded her hands beneath her

chin and settled down to listen, her heart fluttering in her chest.

She had never heard that word the wizard used, but if it was

something every wizard needed—well, she had never heard of

such a thing. It must be one of the secrets of the Wizards' Guild, something

only wizards were permitted to know— probably one of the most important of

their secrets.

Knowing such a secret could be very, very useful. Blackmailing a wizard would

be impossibly risky, but it might be possible to sell the information

somewhere.

Or just possibly, if she could learn the trick, she could make one of these

things for herself.

Perhaps she could even become a wizard herself, without a master, without

anyone knowing it. If she could learn how to work magic ...

She listened intently.

CHAPTER 3

Sarai, a little nervous, looked around the justice chamber.

She was seated at her father's left hand, just off the dais, a foot or two in

front of the red velvet drapery that bore the overlord's seal worked into it

in thick gold braid. The chamber was long and narrow, deliberately built with

a slight slope to the floor, so that prisoners and petitioners would be

looking up at the Minister of Justice as if from a pit, or as if they dared to

look up at a god descending from the heavens—but would probably not

consciously notice the slope at all.

The overlord's palace was full of tricks like that. The Great Council Chamber,

under the overlord's Great Hall, was arranged so that all the doors were

partially hidden, to make it easier for people to believe that what they said

there was secret, when in fact there were spy-holes in several places; the

Great Hall itself was open to the huge central dome to overawe petitioners;

there were any number of clever constructs. The justice chamber hadn't been

singled out.

What the architects had never considered, however, was that this slope left

the minister, her father—and herself, at the moment—looking down. Or perhaps

they considered it and dismissed it as unimportant, or thought it would

enhance the minister's self-confidence.

She couldn't speak for her father, but the effect on her was to be constantly

worried about falling. She felt as if at any moment she might slip from her

chair and tumble down that hard gray marble floor into that motley collection

of brigands, thieves, and scoundrels waiting at the far end of the room. She

clutched the gilded arms of her seat a little harder. This was the first time

she had ever been allowed in here when her father was working, and she didn't

want to do or say anything that would embarrass him or interfere in any way,

and, she told herself, that was why she was nervous. She knew that she was

being silly, that the slope was really insignificant, that she was in no

danger of falling from her chair. After all, she had been in this room dozens

of times when it was empty, starting when she was a very little girl, little

more than a toddler, and she had never so much as stumbled on that subtle

slope—but still, the nervousness persisted.

Maybe, she thought, if she paid more attention to what was going on in the

room, and less to the room itself, she'd forget about such foolishness.

"... and really, Lord Kalthon, how you can take the word of this . . . this

peasant, over the word of your own third cousin, is utterly beyond me!" said

Bardec, the younger son of Bellren, Lord of the Games, in a fairly good

imitation of injured dignity. "It is not, however, beyond me," Lord Kalthon

replied dryly, "since I have the word of our theurgist that you did exactly

what this good woman accuses you of."

Bardec threw a quick, angry look at old Okko; the magician stared

expressionlessly back, his long forefinger tracing a slow circle on the

Lawrence Watt-Evans - Ethshar 6 - The Spell of the Black Dagger

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