The Spriggan Mirror: A Legend of Ethshar
Every wizard in Ethshar knew that if you needed something special, something difficult to find, that Gresh the Supplier was the man to see. He was expensive, but always delivered. So when the Wizards' Guild finally got fed up with the little green nuisances that called themselves "spriggans," the Guild hired Gresh to fetch them the magic mirror that created the troublesome imps. The wizards thought finding it looked impossible. Gresh thought his methods would do the job. But no one had asked the spriggans what they thought!
see.” Gresh considered her for a moment. He had assumed she wasn’t a wizard, from her attitude toward him, toward his shop, and toward her own belt-knife; she did not wear her knife quite the way wizards wore their magic daggers, though Gresh could not have explained the difference coherently. Besides, he knew most of the wizards in Ethshar of the Rocks by sight, if not always by name, and he was sure he had never seen her before. It hadn’t occurred to him that she might be some other sort of
want to find the mirror. Can you help? And rest assured, I won’t just hand it over to my employer with no questions asked.” “I can’t see how I can find the mirror directly,” she replied. “It doesn’t give off light or sound or odor, so far as you know?” “No.” “And it was an ordinary mirror before it was enchanted, not made of anything unusual?” “Just a mirror—polished metal, or glass and silver, I suppose.” “Then I can’t think of anything that would find the mirror itself.” She hauled her
can make it.” “How prompt is that?” “I can’t possibly know. I know it’s in a cave on the eastern slope of a mountain somewhere between Calimor and Vlagmor, within sight of a ruin, but that leaves a great deal of territory to search. I might find it the first day, or not for months.” Kaligir blinked, and then it was his turn to stare silently. The silence was interrupted by Twilfa passing through the room with a tray of mugs and a pitcher of beer. The wizard watched her slip out the front door,
in the afternoon sun. They must be past the peninsula that held the Pirate Towns. Tobas’s alleged home must have been near the eastern boundary. That meant it was only another fifteen leagues or so to Ethshar of the Sands, perhaps even less. Gresh had been to both the other Ethshars before, in the course of his business, but by ship, rather than flying carpet. Carpet was definitely faster, but all in all, he thought he preferred to take a few days to go by ship. And the journey to Ethshar of
but this one was definitely an ugly shade of drab green. It came no more than halfway up his shin; if it stood straight and stretched its bony arms, those long-fingered little hands could probably reach his knee. This one apparently had no fingernails; some of them did, though. He remembered hearing that some could use their fingernails to pick locks. Why did some have nails, and some not? Was there any significance to the different colors? There were plenty of unanswered questions about