Night of Madness

Chapter Twenty-eight

As Hanner and Mavi stepped out the door into the streets of Ethshar a score of wizards were gathered around a table, discussing the situation, in a place that was not part of Ethshar, nor even of the World.

“We still have no idea what caused it,” a white-haired wizard said. “I have had a dozen of my best people working every divination we can find for the past two days, approaching the question from every angle we can think of, and we haven’t learned a thing about its origins. That magical aura around the Source blocks everything.”

“We have consulted the dead, and with the aid of several theurgists we have consulted the gods,” a cadaverous figure with a shaven skull said. “They know nothing of it.”

“I’ve spoken with Irith the Flyer, and of course with Valder,” a beautiful woman who appeared to be only in her twenties said. “They don’t remember anything that might help. If anyone knows of any other immortals who aren’t wizards, please tell me. And I’ve sent a message to Fendel the Great, but as yet he hasn’t replied.”

“We have some thirty warlocks aiding us in our experiments,” another wizard reported. “Most volunteered; a few are prisoners taken on the Night of Madness who were, at our request, sentenced to serve us. So far, while we are learning a great deal about how warlockry operates, we don’t have any idea what itis, where it came from, or whether it will remain as it is, go away, or change into something else.”

The litany continued-although they had learned a great deal about the events surrounding its appearance, nothing the wizards had tried had revealed anything important about the nature of warlockry itself.

“I’ve gone through the histories and the forbidden lore. Nothing like this is recorded anywhere.”

“We spoke with half a dozen demonologists, and questioned a few demons ourselves, but learned nothing.”

“We have charted the paths of some two hundred of those who were summoned on the Night of Madness, and have found no subtle deviations, no hidden patterns-they all simply headed toward the Source by the most direct routes available to them.”

“We have studied the histories of a randomly chosen sample of known warlocks and have found no links, nothing to indicate why these people were chosen while others were not. We have noticed that there is a slight tendency for a family with a warlock in it to have more than one-that is, a warlock’s cousin or sibling is more likely to be a warlock than the average person is-but what trait in the blood might explain this we cannot determine. We have also found that magicians of every sort were afflicted.”

“Wizards, too?” someone asked.

“Wizards, too,” the speaker replied. “We are currently attempting to divine exactly who in the Guild has become a warlock.”

“None ofus, surely?”

“That remains to be determined.” That created a stir, and for a moment the formal recitation was interrupted. Finally a red-robed figure at the head of the table rose to his feet and spoke.

“While we must continue our investigations,” he said, “I think it would be expedient to also begin to take action in certain cases where it is clearly appropriate.”

“Lord Azrad would certainly like us to do something,” Ithinia of the Isle said, from her seat near the far end of the table. “He expected me to attend him yesterday.”

“Lord Azrad presumes too much,” the red-robed wizard said. “We are not ready to enforce his sentences of exile or join in any campaign of annihilation, nor do we have time to waste in listening to his complaints. However, by our own rules, we are bound to restrain forbidden uses of magic. We have not yet established whether warlockry itself is forbidden by any of our covenants, but there have certainly been uses of it, and instances of its presence, that violate Guild laws. It is time we began to deal with these on a case-by-case basis.” He took a deep breath, then continued, “For one thing, it may be educational to see whether wecan deal with them-it may be that warlocks are more formidable than we think.” He pointed at one of the others. “You, Kaligir-choose a warlock who is unquestionably guilty of serious crimes and send someone to deal with him. Let us see just what happens when wizard and warlock meet in combat.”

“Anywarlock?” Kaligir asked.

“Use your judgment, man.”

“Rather, use a divination,” the white-haired wizard suggested.

“An excellent suggestion,” the red-robed wizard agreed.

“Very well,” Kaligir said, slumping in his chair.

“And, Kaligir,” the man in red said, “I expect a report-remember, a part of your task is to discover just how great a threat to us these warlocks truly are.”

“As you say,” Kaligir replied. He straightened, then stood. “I had best get on with it, then.”

“As had we all,” the red-robed wizard said. “I will remain here to coordinate, but the rest of you, begone, and press onward your researches!”

Robes rustled, chairs creaked, and the wizards arose and scattered.

Shemder Parl’s son watched his intended victim with an unpleasant smile. Kirris was going about her business, hanging her laundry out on the line in the courtyard behind the house she shared with her husband and two young children, blithely unaware of her old suitor’s presence on a nearby rooftop.

Shemder debated just what he would do to her. Perhaps a roofing tile could fall and break her skull. It was a shame, he thought, that he had not had this wonderful magic a month ago, when she bore her second daughter; if he had caught her in childbirth he could have done something really slow and unpleasant without fear of detection.

Perhaps a roofing tile might cause an injury that would not kill her instantly, and he could then find some way to ensure that she never recovered.

But that was risky; her husband might hire a magician to treat her, and the magician might notice some invisible sign that war-lockry was involved. Shemder did not know just what traces war-lockry left, if any; he knew there were none visible to an ordinary person, but magicians could often see things others could not-as he could see things now that ordinary people could not.

A shadow fell across his vision, blocking the light of the setting sun, and he looked up.

As if summoned by his thoughts, a magician was standing in the air beside him, looking down at him-a man in blue robes. Shemder didn’t know much about magic, but he guessed this must be a wizard-demonologists wore black or perhaps red, theurgists wore white or gold, sorcerers didn’t wear robes, and he didn’t think a witch could stand in midair so effortlessly.

“You are Shemder Pad’s son?” the magician asked.

“No!” Shemder said. “My name’s Kelder. Why? Who’s this Shemder you’re looking for?”

The magician hesitated. Shemder did not; he reached out with his own magic and found the man’s heart, beating steadily in his chest.

It was harder than usual; something was in the way, some other sort of magic. Shemder did not let that stop him.

A simple squeeze, and the magician gasped, eyes widening, arms flung wide; he toppled backward, tumbled down the sloping tile roof, and flopped over the eaves.

A second later Shemder heard the dull crunch of the body landing in the alleyway below.

He hesitated only a moment, wondering who the magician had been and who had sent him-had some friend or relative of one of the half-dozen people he had already killed hired a magical avenger?

If so, whoever it was had chosen the wrong hired hero.

Perhaps Kirris or her husband had made a contract for magical protection? They couldn’t have known about Shemder’s plans, but young parents sometimes did foolishly extravagant things out of worry about their infant children.

Either way, this rooftop was no longer somewhere Shemder wanted to stay. Kirris was safe for now-though once he knew what was going on, and how to deal with it, Shemder intended to come back for her..

Staying nearby after killing a wizard, though-Shemder wasn’t fool enough to dothat! He slid down the roof, on the far side from where the magician had fallen, and lowered himself over the edge. Then he caught himself in the air and settled slowly and gently to the ground, landing in the deserted street-though he knew he couldn’t count on it staying deserted. Someone might happen along at any minute, hurrying home to supper, and Shemder did not want to be in the area when someone glanced in that alley and found a dead wizard. He turned, took a step toward the corner...

And felt himself shrinking, twisting, his skin crawling as fur grew, a tail thrusting out behind him, his clothes vanishing and the warm air against his skin. The houses reared up hugely around him, towering over him.

He squeaked in terror and scampered for shelter, running on all fours. He scurried into the shadowy corner beside someone’s front steps, then paused, once he was out of sight of most of the street, to try to see what had happened to him.

It was hard to think, but he struggled to hold on to himself to see what had become of him, to think of a way he might survive and undo whatever it was.

He knew he had somehow been transformed-that wizard must have had a spell of some kind that did this. He looked down at his paws, curled his tail around...

His tail was long and thin and bare, ending in a point. His paws had long, thin claws. He could see whiskers when he wiggled his nose. He measured his height against the steps, and concluded that he was now a rat. A large brown one.

That was bad, that was very bad, but it could be worse. He was still alive. He remembered who he was. And... was he still a warlock?

He found a pebble, and concentrated on it with all his might, trying to see it in that special way that let warlocks move things— and nothing happened. The pebble lay where it was.

He heard voices, human voices, and ducked back into the corner, baring his teeth.

The voices passed, but he waited several minutes, just to be sure.

He could hear rustlings and thumpings and the other sounds of the city, of the neighborhood going about its ordinary business, but he had trouble, in his transformed condition, identifying them and locating them. He was also distracted by smells-rats, he discovered, had a far better sense of smell than humans did.

At last, though, he decided the time had come to venture out. He was hungry and frightened, and wanted to get somewhere safer than a corner in the street. He could see no openings in the foundation of the house he crouched beside, nowhere he could take shelter.

His own room was only a few blocks away. If he could get inside there, he would be safe. He couldn’t unlock the door in his present condition, especially since the purse containing the key had vanished along with his clothes, but perhaps he could find a rat-sized entrance.

And the spell might wear off.

He crept out of the corner, then dashed forward, intending to make a run for the next street-and found himself confronted by a pair of suede slippers.

He looked up and found a robed man staring down at him.

“Shemder Parl’s son,” the man said. “This is very interesting— it seems the structure in your brain that makes you a warlock is still there in your new form, though greatly reduced in size, but it’s completely inert.”

Shemder squeaked furiously and bared his teeth. A rat’s vocabulary was, he found, rather limited.

“Now,” the wizard said, “what would happen if you were restored to human form? Would it remain inert?”

Shemder squeaked again.

“We’ll have to try the experiment on someone, but I’m afraid that it won’t be you,” the wizard said. “You’re too dangerous. I would never have thought you could kill a respectable wizard so quickly, despite a handful of protections and wards! I’m going to have a ghastly time explaining his death to his family, and to the Guild!”

As he spoke he drew a dagger, and Shemder began backing away.

He was just turning to flee when the wizard spoke aword, and flung the dagger.

The blade impaled the rat that had been the man called Shemder Parl’s son, pinning him to the earth; the rat twisted, trying to escape the blade, trying to see some way to remove it, but succeeding only in injuring himself further. He squirmed in agony, and in his extremity forgot who he was, forgot that he had ever been anything more than a rat. He writhed, and the world around him dimmed, and he knew it was not because the sun was down.

And then the rat was dead, and Kaligir of the New Quarter stood looking down at it.

It remained a rat; sometimes, when Asherel’s Transformation was done quickly from a distance like this, death broke the spell. Kaligir had thought that the rat might turn back into Shemder.

That it hadn’t simplified matters; disposing of a dead rat was much easier than disposing of a dead person.

Of course, Shemder had apparently had the morals of a rat all along. Kaligir had chosen him because Fendel’s Divination had named him as the warlock who had killed more innocents than any other in the World. His death was no loss.

The death of poor Lopin, on the other hand, was a tragedy. Kaligir frowned.

There was no longer any question-the warlocks were dangerous. Shemder had reached through Lopin’s protective spells as if they were hardly there.

This was not reassuring news that he would be bringing back to the rest of the Guild.

Kaligir kicked the dead rat into the gutter, then turned to go.