Tales of Ethshar

“I can’t wear that!” Shanelle said, aghast.

“It’s not your best color,” Deyor said.

Shanelle threw her friend a dirty look, flung the dress aside, and shrieked, “Timsez mekkitwerk!”

This time she drew forth a pair of blue cotton breeches with heavily-stitched seams.

“All right, that’s it,” she said, glaring. “These aren’t even... I mean, they’re breeches! I’m a woman! And they have writing on them, on this little leather patch here — who ever heard of such a thing?”

“They’re ugly, but they look well-made,” Deyor said, looking at the garment critically. “Perhaps your brother could wear them.”

“My brother can get his own clothes! I paid fifteen rounds of gold for my wardrobe, not his.” She slammed the wardrobe door, and snatched the chartreuse gown off the floor. “I’m going to go show that wizard what he sold me, and give him a piece of my mind,” she said. “This is not what I ordered.” She stamped away.

Deyor paused, watching Shanelle go; then she turned thoughtfully back to the wardrobe. She looked down at the dark blue breeches that Shanelle had left lying on the bed, then said quietly, “Timsez mekkitwerk.” Then she cautiously opened the cabinet door.

Another tunic hung on one of the hooks. This one was shiny black, and actually looked quite presentable. Deyor carefully pulled it out and laid it on the bed. She did not recognize the fabric, and the cut was not quite like anything she had seen before, but it was quite striking. She left it on the bed while she closed the wardrobe again and whispered, “Timsez mekkitwerk.”

Something rustled, and she pulled forth a fringed leather skirt that had been dyed a hideous shade of red. She set it on the bed beside the black tunic and blue breeches.

Shanelle, Deyor told herself, had not thought this through. There was no reason to keep throwing rejected garments back into the wardrobe, where they would vanish; the wizard had provided her with an endless supply of new clothes, and it seemed dreadfully wasteful to keep discarding them. True, most of them had been ghastly, but every so often it produced a winner, like that black tunic, and even with the ugly ones, they were free clothes. They could be sold, or dyed, or taken apart for their fabric, or simply used as rags. A person could make her living off a wardrobe like this.

Of course, Shanelle was above such petty concerns as earning a living; she had her father’s money to play with. Guchi the Merchant owned almost half the ships sailing out of Ethshar of the Rocks. Deyor’s family, though, was not so fortunate — their pedigree went back to the Great War, when her seven-times-great grandfather had served as General Gor’s quartermaster, but their wealth had dwindled over the centuries.

This piece of magical furniture might change all that, though.

“Timsez mekkitwerk,” Deyor murmured. “Timsez mekkitwerk, Timsez mekkitwerk, Timsez mekkitwerk.”

She had built a fair-sized pile on the bed when she was startled by Shanelle’s voice calling, “Deyor! Aren’t you coming?”

Deyor started. “Just a moment!” she answered. She looked around, but saw no alternative; she gathered up her various acquisitions and stuffed them back into the wardrobe, then turned and hurried down the stairs.

A moment later the two young women were trotting down the hill, crossing the East Road from Highside into Center City and making their way to Manolo the Blank’s shop on Wizard Street.

Shanelle babbled as they walked, waving the hideous gown around, telling Deyor again how unacceptable the spell was, and how much she wanted to impress the still-unmarried Lord Wulran, because after all, the overlord wasn’t actually required to marry a princess or another overlord’s daughter, and wasn’t Shanelle’s own family suitably noble? Deyor said very little; she was trying to think how she might convince her wealthy friend to let her have the defective magical wardrobe. She certainly couldn’t afford to pay fifteen gold rounds, but if Shanelle could somehow be made to discard it...

Then they were at Manolo’s door, and Shanelle was ringing the bell, and Deyor had not thought of any way to get her hands on the wardrobe.

Manolo’s apprentice Armani opened the door. “Yes?” she asked.

“We want to see the wizard,” Shanelle told her.

“The wizard? But nobody can see the wizard just now.”

“I have to see him!” Shanelle insisted.

“My orders are, nobody can see the great Manolo, not nobody, not no how.”

“Why not?”

Armani’s shoulders sank. “He didn’t tell me that.”

“Where is he? In his workshop?”

“No, he’s... I don’t think I should tell you.”

“He’s out in the garden, isn’t he?” Shanelle said. “Trying to animate that statue?”

“He... he might be,” Armani admitted.

“Does he really think it’s a woman someone petrified?”

“He says he does,” Armani said, somewhat defensively.

“That statue is stark naked,” Shanelle said. “Who would petrify someone when she was naked?”

Armani blinked. “I... I never thought about that. Maybe whoever petrified her did it from a distance and didn’t know she was naked?”

“I think that statue was carved by someone from ordinary stone. Someone with a dirty mind.”

“Or maybe smooth skin is easier to carve than clothing,” Deyor suggested.

“Maybe,” Shanelle said, clearly unconvinced. “He went into plenty of detail, though.”

“My master thinks it’s a real woman who got petrified,” Armani said. “Turning her back would be a great kindness!”

“You think he’s doing it out of kindness?” Shanelle asked.

“Yes, of course!” Armani replied.

“Does he have any clothes ready for her, if he succeeds?”

“Uh...”

“Just show us to the garden,” Shanelle said. “We won’t interrupt his spell.”

“He told me — ”

“We aren’t leaving until I see him,” Shanelle interrupted.

Armani gave in. “This way,” she said. She swung the door wide to let the two visitors into the wizard’s home, and led them through the passage from the front parlor to the back gate.

They emerged into the sunny garden behind the house, where a tall iron fence separated the property from the neighbors’ courtyard, and a line of statuary stood in front of the fence. There were two life-sized marble statues of handsome young men and one of a bearded patriarch dressed in the styles of a century earlier; one of a full-grown dragon was nowhere near life-sized, or it wouldn’t have fit in the rather small yard. A rather overpowering wooden carving appeared to represent the goddess Piskor somewhat larger than life — or perhaps, for all Shanelle and Deyor knew, she really was nine feet tall.

At the far end of the row, beyond these and a handful of others, the wizard Manolo knelt before the next- to-last statue, a beautiful white marble female nude posed with one hand raised to her breast, fingers spread. The statue’s expression was one of mild startlement, and the figure was, excluding its granite pedestal, an inch or two shorter than Shanelle.

The very last statue was of some mythological beast Shanelle and Deyor could not identify; it was vaguely catlike, but with exaggeratedly-muscular chest and forelegs, and narrow, underdeveloped hips. It had a mane of almost human-appearing hair around its face, intricately carved.

Manolo had set up a brazier between the beast and the woman, and a small cauldron hung above it, spewing forth a thick cloud of steam. Cones of incense were burning at the nude statue’s feet, and an assortment of herbs and astonishingly-large feathers were elaborately arranged there, as well. The wizard’s entire attention was focused on these items as he chanted something incomprehensible and waved a silver dagger through the air in