Ithanalin's Restoration. Lawrence Watt-Evans

as he brushed ash from his breeches. “You’re the one trying to steal them!”

      “They’re mine,” Kilisha said. “Or my master’s, at any rate.”

      “Prove it! Fine, you’re a wizard, but how do I know you aren’t trying to steal these from the wizard who really owns them?”

      Kilisha frowned, amazed at the man’s stubbornness. How in the World was she supposed to prove it? There was no Spell of True Ownership on them, no names written on them, no distinctive marks she could point out—they were a completely ordinary bowl and spoon that happened to have parts of Ithanalin’s soul in them.

      “Give them to me, and I’ll show you,” she said, sheathing her athame and holding out a hand.

      She had no way of proving ownership. Her actual plan was to simply grab them and run, and hope that she could lose the man in the streets, or at least get back to the shop before he caught her. He was considerably larger than she was, but he didn’t look particularly fast or agile—and if he had any sense, he would not want to anger any wizard.

      The man looked from her to the spoon, then back.

      “Here,” he said, holding it out. “I’ll hold onto the bowl until you prove they’re yours.”

      Kilisha hesitated for half a second, remembering the way the spoon had been writhing about and slapping at the man’s arm. If she took it, and it struggled, she might still run with it, but how would she ever get the bowl? She didn’t want to rely on threats; the Guild didn’t approve of outright extortion.

      The spoon didn’t look particularly violent just now, though; it had twisted around so that its bowl was turned toward her, leaning forward as if listening to her. She took it, holding it just below the bowl.

      The instant the man released it it wrapped its handle around her wrist, bent its bowl down, and began rubbing against her wrist, like a cat asking to be petted.

      “You see?” she said, struggling to hide her astonishment. “It knows me!”

      “Oh,” the man said, staring.

      “Now, the bowl?”

      Sheepishly, he took the bowl from under his arm and handed it over.

      “Thank you,” Kilisha said, accepting it. Seeing no harm in being conciliatory, she added, “I’m sorry about your tunic. If you ever need a little advice, or a spell at a small discount, come to Ithanalin’s shop on Wizard Street.”

      The man mumbled something, and Kilisha turned and marched away.

      The spoon was still stroking her wrist in a thoroughly disconcerting manner, and the bowl seemed to be flexing slightly. She quickly tucked it under one arm, as its previous captor had.

      The spoon unwound its handle and the tip of that began stroking her arm. She suppressed a scream and kept walking.

      She would get these safely tucked away somewhere, under lock and key, then go out after the rest of the furniture, she told herself. She trotted quickly up Wizard Street.

      She had gone a block or so when she happened to glance down a side-street and noticed a coat-rack standing there, in the middle of the narrow little street, with no one near it.

      It was an ordinary coat-rack consisting of a square wooden post mounted on four short, curving wooden legs, with two large, graceful iron hooks on each side, one set of hooks at waist level and one set level with the top of her head. It looked absurdly out of place standing out in the open, rather than in someone’s front room.

      “What is that…” Kilisha began—and then she realized that the coat-rack was a very familiar one.

      It wasn’t moving just now, and that, combined with focusing on getting the bowl and spoon home, had been why she didn’t recognize it immediately, but it was definitely Ithanalin’s coat-rack, the one that had stood by the front door for as long as Kilisha had lived there.

      This whole furniture-collecting task might prove easier than she had expected, Kilisha thought as she turned into the side-street.

      On the other hand, it might not—she had the spoon in one hand, and the bowl under the other arm, which did not leave anything completely free to carry the coat-rack. She tried to pass the spoon from her right hand to her left.

      It wrapped itself more tightly around her right wrist.

      “Come on, let go,” she said, as she tried to tug at it with her left fingers without dislodging the bowl from her elbow—which was made more difficult by the bowl’s own slow movements. She told the spoon, “I’m not putting you down, I just want to use my other hand.”

      The spoon seemed to hesitate, then reluctantly allowed itself to be pried away.

      It promptly wrapped itself around her left wrist, so securely that she didn’t bother holding it in her hand at all. She had to keep her left elbow at her side to hold the bowl, but now both hands were free. She stepped forward and reached her right hand out for the coat-rack.

      It abruptly started to life and backed away from her, removing any possible doubt of its identity.

      “Oh, don’t be like that,” she said. “It’s just me. I’ve come to take you home.” She stepped forward again.

      The coat-rack backed away again, but found itself pressing up against the stone wall of a tinker’s shop, unable to retreat further. It shivered, then uncurled a hook and pointed it threateningly at Kilisha.

      She stopped abruptly, with the rounded end of the hook just inches from her eyes. “What are you doing?” she demanded. “It’s me, Kilisha! You’re part of my master’s spirit trapped in a coat-rack! Let me take you home, so we can restore you to your proper state.”

      It waved the hook back and forth in a definitely negative gesture.

      Baffled, Kilisha stared at it for a moment. She hadn’t really thought about the possibility that some of the furniture would actively resist capture; she had assumed that even if it was hiding, it would all have gotten over its initial panic and be willing to return home and be restored to its natural state. After all, it was all animated by Ithanalin’s spirit, and surely he would have wanted to go home.

      The coat-rack, however, clearly did not agree with her theory. It was pressing back against the stone, all eight of its hooks uncurled and pointed at her.

      The mirror had told her that the furniture had been frightened and did not remember whose life animated it, but she had still never expected so hostile a reception. She had thought it would be confused, a little skittish, perhaps, but no worse than that. The spoon had seemed downright enthusiastic about being recaptured, the bowl indifferent—but the coat-rack plainly had other ideas.

      Maybe, she thought, it had forgotten Ithanalin’s prior existence so completely that it thought it was just a coat-rack.

      “Don’t you know me?” she asked. “I’ve hung my coat on you a hundred times!”

      It shuddered, and waved its hooks back and forth. No, it did not know her, and it was clearly upset.

      “I won’t hurt you,” she said soothingly. “I promise! I’m just a girl; what could I do to a big strong coat-rack like you? You’re solid wood and iron.”

      That seemed to calm it slightly; it stopped twisting and shivering.

      It did not step away from the wall or recurl its hooks, however.

      “Come on home with me,” Kilisha coaxed. “We’ll take care of you, make sure you don’t get caught out in the rain—it would be very bad for your shellac, you know.”

      The coat-rack seemed to hesitate, then shook its upper portion no.

      “Oh, come on.”

      Again, it said no.

      “Well, I can’t force you,” Kilisha said—and as she spoke she realized that