“That way,” the right-hand guard replied, pointing north with his spear. “We wouldn’t let it too close to the door here-you understand, in case it had some sort of dangerous spell on it, an explosive rune or something. We had to chase it away three or four times before it gave up.”
“Did it have any spriggans on it?” Kilisha asked. If it had still had one or more to dislodge that might help locate it.
The guards exchanged glances. “I didn’t see any,” the left-hand guard replied.
“Excuse me for asking,” the right-hand guard said, “but what’s going on? I expect our captain will want a proper report, what with all this fuss about the usurper in Ethshar of the Sands. Did she send this bench?”
“No,” Kilisha said. “Nobody sent it. An animation spell went wrong, and it ran away from home. It’s harmless, so far as we know.”
“It seemed to want to get into the Fortress.”
Kilisha turned up an empty palm. “I don’t know why,” she said. “It can’t talk, so we don’t know much about its thinking. We don’t know why it ran away in the first place, let alone why it came here.”
“Fun!” the spriggan on her shoulder suddenly piped. Kilisha resisted the temptation to punch it.
“Well, it did seem to want to get in, so maybe it went to try the other door,” the left-hand guard suggested.
“Thank you,” Kilisha said with a curtsy. “We’ll try there.”
“Is that chair... I mean... ” The left-hand guard pointed down the street, along the rope.
“That’s from the same ruined spell,” Kilisha said.
“Should we know who you are?” the right-hand guard asked, looking at Kelder.
“Kelder Goran’s son of Sixth Company, on tax duty,” Kelder replied. “I was the one who interrupted the animation spell, and I can’t collect the wizard’s taxes until it’s fixed.”
Kilisha doubted this was true-Yara could probably pay the taxes-but didn’t say anything to contradict it.
“Which wizard?” the guard asked.
“Ithanalin the Wise,” Kilisha said. “I’m his apprentice.”
“Ah.” The soldier straightened up, raising his spear into position. “Well, good luck, then.”
A sudden thought struck Kilisha. “If the bench did get inside- well, maybe we should look in the Fortress.”
“It didn’t get inside,” the guard said. “Nobody gets inside today without special permission, because of the usurper.”
“Oh,” Kilisha said. “Then we’ll check at the other door. Thank you!” She curtsied again, then turned away.
They made their way back out across the bridge over the moat and turned left onto Fortress Street, toward the north door.
As they walked Kilisha looked first to the left, where massive jagged revetments rose up from the moat guarding the Fortress grounds, then to the right, where the mansions of the older noble families stood. The contrast was not as striking as one might have expected; these old homes were themselves forbidding structures of blackened stone, nothing like the glittering palaces the wealthy merchants and newcomers to the overlord’s court had built themselves over in Highside.
She could see no openings in the mansion facades, no alleyways where the bench might have concealed itself-but on the other side, might it have fallen down into the moat? If it had been turned away at the north door and had still wanted to get into the Fortress, crossing the moat and finding an opening was the only other possible route. She crossed to the left side, paying out more line so that the chair could continue down the center of the street; when she reached the curb she paused to lean over the iron railing and peer down into the ditch.
The bottom of the moat was lined with a thin layer of black mud and debris, and she could sec a few discarded odds and ends- a woman’s hair clip, a wooden doll’s crudely carved arm, a boot with the sole torn away. There was no bench in sight, nor did she think there was anywhere one might hide.
“What are you doing?” Kelder asked, stopping a few feet away while the chair wandered aimlessly about the street, the rope swinging back and forth as it moved.
Kilisha looked up from the moat to answer Kelder’s question, and suddenly there it was, just around the curve of the street, clearly visible through the railing-the bench!
There were no spriggans clinging to it; it had apparently finally managed to dislodge them all. It did not seem to be in any great hurry; instead of the headlong dash she had seen before it was ambling along Fortress Street at no great speed, just inside the railing, heading directly toward them.
“There it is,” she hissed to Kelder.
“I see it,” he hissed back, crouching.
“Bench!” Sprigganalin shrieked.
“Augh!” Kilisha said, her left hand flying up and stopping just short of grabbing the spriggan by the throat. “Shut up!”
The bench had stopped dead at the sound of the spriggan’s voice; it seemed to be wary, but it wasn’t fleeing.
Yet.
“Circle around,” Kilisha whispered to Kelder. “Get behind it.”
“Right,” he said, veering sideways across Fortress Street, while Kilisha stayed close to the railing.
The bench turned, keeping its front toward Kelder. “I think it recognizes him,” Kilisha whispered to the spriggan.
“You bet!” the spriggan said cheerfully-and loudly. The bench abruptly swung back to face Kilisha.
It didn’t like spriggans, Kilisha thought. That was why it had gone charging off, trying to dislodge them. If the spriggan kept talking the bench might run away again, frightened off by the sound of its voice.
For the present, though, its attention was focused on her and the spriggan, and Kelder was circling around it. He was on the far side of the street, creeping along the front of an ancient stone mansion, his eyes fixed on the bench.
“Do you think it sees us?” Kilisha asked the spriggan.
She knew perfectly well that the bench knew where they were-though “see” might be the wrong word, since it had no eyes. Just how animated objects perceived their surroundings was a mystery even to the wizards who created them; when customers asked, the universal reply was simply, “It’s magic.” She was just hoping to keep the furniture confused, unsure whether to flee, by asking foolish questions.
Kelder was now safely north of the bench, moving away from the facade toward the center of the street; if the bench tried to run he should be able to grab it. Kilisha slid her hand along the iron rail and took a step forward, around the curve to where she could look at the bench without the railing between them.
“Why, hello there, bench!” she said. “Do you remember me? You used to stand in the parlor of my master’s house.”
The bench took a step back. Kelder moved across the street behind it, getting ready to lunge. Kilisha slid farther along the railing.
The bench backed away another longer, faster step, then started to run-but Kelder was coming up behind it, so it changed direction quickly, trying to double back south, past Kilisha.
That was exactly what Kilisha had hoped for. She ran northward past the bench, then cut east, across the street.
And the bench ran into the rope strung between Kilisha’s hand and the chair.
The impact was enough to jerk Kilisha’s hand painfully, and the chair toppled over completely and lay thrashing in the dirt.
Kilisha wasted no time in racing around behind the bench, encircling it in the rope, before it could step over the rope or slide under it. The chair was dragged up against the bench, entangling the two pieces so that neither could move freely, and allowing Kilisha to spiral in, wrapping the rope around them both and tying them together.
“There,” she said, satisfied with her performance. She called to Kelder, “Now, sir, could you give me a hand?”
A few minutes later the bench was tied securely to one end of the rope, the chair to the other, and Kilisha
