“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.
“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.