Ithanalin's Restoration. Lawrence Watt-Evans

a quick farewell to the mirror.

      She’d already spent the whole morning and half the afternoon tracking down cat’s blood, an hour or more consulting the mirror and the books of spells, and she was not looking forward to spending the rest of the day hunting furniture…

      She had reached the middle of the street when she realized that the cat’s blood was still on her belt. She did not want to risk spilling it, after all the trouble she had gone to to obtain it. She sighed again, and trudged back into Ithanalin’s workshop, where she placed the vial of blood in a rack, then looked around again.

      Was there anything else she was forgetting?

      Of course there was. Yara and the children. What would they think, when they came home and found Ithanalin petrified and the furniture gone?

      She found a piece of paper and wrote a note—Yara and Telleth could read, and Lirrin was learning.

      “Master’s spell went wrong,” she wrote. “Am seeking ingredients for antidote. Mirror is enchanted, can answer questions. Back as soon as I can be.” She signed it, “Kilisha, app.”

      Just as she finished something chimed—the brass bowl on the tripod had rung like a bell. She looked at it, startled.

      It looked exactly the same—the lamp was burning, the brown goo was bubbling, and the spicy smell was stronger than ever.

      Presumably the chime was some part of the enchantment; probably it was a signal that something was ready, or something needed to be done to continue the spell. Unfortunately, Kilisha had no idea what it meant or what should be done. She stood there for a moment, her note in one hand, staring at the bowl and trying to decide what to do.

      Eventually she decided that the best thing she could do, in her present state of ignorance, was to leave the thing completely alone and hope for the best while she did everything she could to restore her master. If the brass bowl exploded or started spewing dragons she would deal with it then. For now, she wanted to leave her note and get on with the furniture-hunting.

      She considered adding a line or two advising Yara to leave the lamp, tripod, and bowl alone, but surely a wizard’s wife would have the sense to do that without being told by a mere apprentice. The note would be fine as it was.

      She thought about where to post it, and for a moment she considered leaving it on Ithanalin’s lap, but she decided that would be disrespectful. Instead, she laid it carefully on the floor just inside the front door.

      Then she stepped out into the street, closed the door cautiously behind her, and looked around. She wanted to recover the furniture—but where should she start?

      She was on Wizard Street, in one of those ill-defined parts of the city that weren’t really part of any recognized district—the magistrates said this was part of Lakeshore, but no one else thought so. Ithanalin’s shop was on the north side of the street, in the middle of a long block. Two blocks to the north—a little over a hundred yards—was the East Road, which ran through the center of the city from just below the Fortress to the market at Eastgate; a couple of blocks beyond that was Wizard Street again, as it looped back on itself half a mile to the east, making a U around Eastgate Circle.

      To the west Wizard Street ran through the valley between Center City and Highside and down to the shipyards, then wound its way southeast to Wargate.

      A hundred feet to the east and across the street was the entrance to Not Quite Street—so named because it stopped two blocks short of the East Road at this end, and one block short of Cross Avenue at the other.

      Kilisha could see a good two hundred yards in either direction—the street was surprisingly uncrowded for this time of day—and saw nothing out of the ordinary. No endtables or couches were anywhere to be seen, nor any crowds of curious bystanders that animated furniture might have attracted.

      She trotted quickly over and peered down Not Quite Street, and saw nothing down that way.

      She had come home, she remembered, along Wizard Street—Illuré’s little temple was up to the east, toward Eastgate. She hadn’t seen any furniture along that route.

      Walking furniture would attract attention, she thought; why weren’t there crowds around the missing pieces?

      Frowning, she went back toward Ithanalin’s shop, but stopped at the shop next door and rang the bell.

      Nissitha the Seer was not Kilisha’s idea of the perfect neighbor, but she could certainly be worse; she was a fortune-teller, and Ithanalin suspected her of being a fraud. She spent a good bit of her time, when no customers were expected, gossiping in the courtyard out back, but never offered to help out with anyone’s chores. She had refused to mind Pirra a few weeks back, when Yara had been out somewhere with Telleth and Lirrin, and Ithanalin had wanted Kilisha to help with a spell. She kept no chickens or other livestock—just a pampered long-haired black cat. And she made stupid jokes about the supposed similarities between her own talents and Ithanalin’s.

      But she didn’t intrude, didn’t make noise other than her courtyard chatter, and kept her place clean.

      The door opened, and Nissitha looked down her long nose at Kilisha. The Seer’s long black hair hung loose in curls and ringlets.

      “Oh, hello, Kilisha,” she said. “Did you have a question? I’m afraid I don’t work for free for anyone, but I could give you a discount. Is it a boy?”

      “No, it’s nothing like that,” Kilisha said. “I was wondering if you’d seen our furniture.”

      Nissitha blinked at her. “Your furniture?”

      “Yes.” Kilisha hesitated, then explained. “There’s been an accident, and some of our furniture was inadvertantly brought to life, and it got loose. I was wondering whether you saw which way it went.”

      “I’m afraid not,” Nissitha said, staring at the apprentice. “When did this happen?”

      “I’m not sure exactly,” Kilisha said. “Some time today. A tax collector interrupted a spell.”

      “Oh!” Sudden comprehension dawned on Nissitha’s face. “Oh, I’m afraid I was hiding upstairs. I saw the tax collector coming, you see, and I just really didn’t want to be bothered…”

      “You didn’t want to pay,” Kilisha said.

      “I didn’t want to pay,” Nissitha admitted with a smile.

      “He’ll come back until he catches you, you know,” Kilisha said.

      Nissitha sighed. “I suppose so,” she said, “but I’m in no hurry to be caught.”

      Kilisha nodded—then stopped.

      What if the furniture was in no hurry to be caught? She’d been assuming it had wandered off more or less at random, but what if it was deliberately hiding from her?

      That might make the task of restoring Ithanalin to life considerably more difficult than she had anticipated.

      “Listen,” she said, “if you see any animated furniture, let me know, please? It’s very important. I’ll owe you a favor if you help me—I know I’m only an apprentice, but I do know a few spells.”

      Nissitha cocked her head to one side. “Oh?”

      “Yes. It’s not worth anything to anyone else, really—I mean, no more than any animated furniture—but really, it’s very important to me.”

      “I’ll keep that in mind.”

      “Thank you.” Kilisha bobbed in a polite half-bow, then turned away and looked up and down the street.

      The furniture had been scared, the mirror said—or at least startled. And it didn’t remember it had been Ithanalin. Any given piece might not remember anything. It might not realize that Ithanalin’s shop was its home.

      So where would it go?

      A rag rug, a couch, an endtable…