Tales of Ethshar

quickly to the fireplace, and vanished up the chimney.

She stared at the spot where he had stood, and wondered, in her half-asleep state, how he did that. Then she stood up and took down her stocking.

Candy, a few unfamiliar coins, an orange — nothing of any real value, but still, she found herself smiling. She thought about eleven more days of little treasures — but then she decided not to be greedy.

Besides, in three days Santa Claus would be going home to his own world.

She wondered whether anyone else had thought to put up a stocking.

On the afternoon of the seventh of Midwinter it was snowing, and Alir was wondering whether that would keep Santa away, when there was a knock at the shop door, and Darrend opened it to let Santa in. He had his bag slung over his shoulder, and was laughing heartily. “Merry Christmas!” he called.

“Merry Christmas, Santa!” Alir replied.

They chatted for a few minutes; Santa wanted to know how business had been, how her three brothers were, and so on, and she wanted to know where he had been all year.

“Srigmor,” he said. “And Kerroa, and Aala, and both Sardirons.” Before she could ask for more details, though, he said, “Isn’t there somewhere we should be going?”

“Yes, of course!”

Twenty minutes later they were in Tazar’s shop, where he cautiously unveiled the tapestry.

“My goodness!” Santa exclaimed at the sight of it. “That’s very realistic, isn’t it?” He reached out.

“Don’t touch!..” Alir began, but it was too late; the fat man in red had vanished.

For a moment the three magicians stared silently at the tapestry and the empty patch of floor where Santa had stood.

“Well, it apparently works,” Tazar said at last. “You understand, we couldn’t test it — there’s no way back.”

“Then how do you know he wound up in the right place?” Darrend demanded.

Tazar turned up an empty palm. “We don’t,” he said. “But if that picture was accurate, that’s where he is.”

“I hope it is,” Alir said, staring at the image of that weird workshop.

“Well, now that he’s gone, what do you want to do with the tapestry?” Tazar asked.

Alir started. “What?”

“You paid for it,” Tazar explained. “It’s yours. What do you want to do with it?”

“Put it away somewhere safe,” she said.

“You said there’s no way back?” Darrend asked.

“Somewhere very safe,” Alir said.

Tazar nodded. “We can do that,” he said.

Alir stared at the tapestry a moment longer.

She was almost tempted to reach out and touch it herself, to fling herself into that alien world that had produced Santa Claus, the world where there was an annual holiday dedicated to peace, generosity, and good will.

But it was a world without theurgists; she would be out of a job there. She turned away.

“Somewhere very safe,” she repeated. She hesitated, glanced at the tapestry once more, then asked, “But could I have the original painting?”

About “The Unwanted Wardrobe”

This is the only story in the book that is not an official Ethshar story. It is, instead, an April Fool’s joke. I had written a novel called The Unwilling Warlord, and after a long delay I had serialized a sequel to it (and to others) that wound up with the similar title The Unwelcome Warlock, so for April 1, 2011, I claimed I intended to follow it up with The Unwanted Wardrobe. I posted alleged details describing outrageous payment terms, saying I intended to write over a hundred chapters, etc., and provided the following as the supposed first chapter. It came out well enough that I decided to include it here.

The magic described here is all acceptable by Ethsharitic rules, as is much of the background, but some of the names aren’t, and if I were to ever seriously write a story with this premise (which I might, someday) I would not jam in the Oz and Narnia references, and I’m not sure about the “Project Runway” allusion.

I’m appending some notes at the end, for those who miss the in-jokes.

The Unwanted Wardrobe

Chapter One

The tunic was bright purple, with red bands at the oversized cuffs and midnight-blue embroidery around the ruffled green collar. Lady Shanelle stared at it in dismay. “That totally won’t work,” she said. “I mean, ick. I don’t want Lord Wulran to think I have no taste at all.”

Her friend Deyor grimaced. “Maybe you should have been more specific in what you told the wizard,” she said.

“He needed to be told that the clothes shouldn’t be hideous?” Shanelle replied. “I mean, look at that thing! No one would wear that in public.”

“Maybe one of those clowns performing in the Arena would,” Deyor suggested.

Shanelle glared at her. “You aren’t helping.”

Deyor turned up a palm. “All right, what did you tell the wizard? Maybe we can figure out what went wrong and find a way to fix it.”

“I told him that I wanted an endless supply of beautiful clothes!”

“In exactly those words?”

Shanelle hesitated. “Well, no,” she said. “Let me think.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “I said... I said I wanted something that would provide me with new clothes every day, and that they should all be flawlessly made, and should all fit me perfectly, and should be designs that no one in Ethshar had ever seen before, so that I would stand out.”

Deyor looked at the tunic. “Well, I think it’s safe to say no one ever saw that design before!”

Shanelle shuddered. “I should hope not.” She snatched up the tunic, wadded it into a large silken ball, and flung it into the open wardrobe. “I hope I never see it again!” She slammed the wardrobe door.

“You still need something to wear to the Fortress,” Deyor said.

“I know. I’ll try again.” Shanelle took a deep breath, then spoke the words that would trigger the spell anew. “Timsez mekkitwerk!”

A sound came from somewhere inside the wardrobe. Hesitantly, Shanelle opened the door and reached in to pull out a gown.

It was a vivid chartreuse, an ankle-length sleeveless gown with a swooping low neckline and a single shoulder strap. The skirt was slit to mid-thigh on one side, and the slit was edged with silvery lace.