Night of Madness

Chapter Forty-one

Demonologists usually wore black robes as their formal garb and trimmed them with red. Therefore, to prevent confusion, warlocks would never wear robes-they would wear black tunics, but not full robes-and they would avoid red trim. Gold or white trim would be acceptable, to make their appearance less forbidding. Warlocks would be polite but aloof in public, as befitted respected magicians.

The most powerful warlocks were most susceptible to the Calling. Therefore, they would use their magic as sparingly as possible. For any specific task, the weakest warlock who could handle it safely would be given that duty.

Warlocks would obey the law, so that the overlord would have no valid grounds for exiling or killing them. Any Council warlock who found another warlock breaking the law must stop him immediately, by any means necessary, up to and including stopping his heart. If the criminal was more powerful than the Council member, then aid should be called in at once-Hanner’s group had demonstrated, on the Night of Madness, that warlocks working together could overcome a single warlock more powerful than any of them.

If any of them came across damage done by a warlock, they would offer to help repair it, but they would not force their aid on anyone who did not want it.

Those were the rules Manner set forth. He had gathered the entire group in the dining hall; though Ulpen was posted at a front window, ready to ward off anything thrown at the house, the rest were seated around the table.

Hanner also explained everything he knew about the Calling, including his theory that it was responsible for the disappearances on the Night of Madness.

And when that was done, he said, “Now I need to talk to the wizards. Ulpen, how can I contact the Guild?”

“Uh...” Ulpen had not been expecting the question; he stared stupidly across the dining table at Hanner for a moment before collecting his wits.

“I don’t know,” he said at last.

Hanner frowned. “You don’t have any idea?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Then we’ll have to improvise.” Hanner thought for a minute, then looked around at the others.

Desset was there, looking oddly distracted; she glanced northward. Hanner was not about to ask her to doanything. He wondered if sending her farther south, farther from whatever was calling her, might help. The peninsula that separated the Gulf of the East from the Ocean only extended for a few leagues south of the city, though. Perhaps if she went to the Small Kingdoms...

But it wasn’t urgent yet, and speaking to the wizards before they made their decision was vital.

Ilvin and Yorn weren’t powerful enough to be any use; he wasn’t sure about some of the others. Ulpen was a possibility, but really, the best choice was obvious.

“Kirsha,” he said, “can you fly me up above the city?”

She blinked at him. “I think so,” she said. “Where to? How far?” “I don’t know yet.” He frowned slightly and asked, “Have you had any nightmares since that first night?” She hesitated, then said, “No.” He was not happy about the hesitation, but he was not going to choose someone else now; he didn’t want Kirsha to think he didn’t trust her. She would probably think it was because of her crimes on the Night of Madness.

“Good,” he said. He glanced at a window; the sunlight was slanting from the west, the afternoon well advanced. They had spent most of the day establishing and explaining the Council rules.

He didn’t want to waste any more time. He pushed back his chair and got to his feet.

“Come on,” he said. “The rest of you stay here. You might want to consider how the succession for the chairmanship will work.”

The moment the words left his mouth he knew he had reverted to his old ways and said the wrong thing, reminded them all that he was about to attempt something dangerous, possibly fatal-but it was too late to take the words back, and he had business to attend to.

He hoped that he wouldn’t have any such lapses while speaking to the wizards.

Together, he and Kirsha made their way out through the back of the house into the walled garden. There Hanner pointed upward.

“Fly,” he said. “And take me with you.”

Together they rose upward. When they cleared the rooftop of the mansion Kirsha paused. “Where to?” she asked.

“Up higher,” Hanner said. “Until we can see the entire city.”

She looked uncertain, but turned up a palm. “All right,” she said, and they began rising again.

Hanner looked down and watched the World drop away beneath his feet. The surrounding buildings turned until only the roofs were visible, and then shrank down to the size of floor tiles. The people in the streets dwindled to insects. The sunlight grew brighter, uncomfortably so-Hanner could not look to the southwest.

The air grew cooler, despite the summer sun, and the breeze began to tear at him, flapping his sleeves. He felt a sudden rush of panic.

“Here,” he said. “This is high enough.” He looked north and saw the Gulf; to the west he could see the towers of Westgate and the shipyard light. The city still reached the horizon to the southeast, but this was enough.

Their ascent stopped abruptly, and Kirsha shivered. “What are we doing up here?” she said.

“Calling the Wizards’ Guild,” Hanner said. He cleared his throat and reached out with his magic to feel the air around him. Then he shouted, “Hear me!”

He could feel the sound moving outward through the air, and he stretched out his warlock’s power to strengthen it. “Should I help?” Kirsha asked.

“You just keep us up here,” Hanner said, speaking normally. Then he called out again, putting his magic behind it more strongly.

“Hear me, wizards of Ethshar! I must speak to your leaders at once!”

The city below showed no sign that anyone had heard him.

“Take us that way,” he said, pointing southeast, toward the Wizards’ Quarter. “And down a little.”

“Yes, sir,” Kirsha said.

They descended gently, moving across the city; sunlight blazed from the surfaces below. As they moved, Hanner took a deep breath and shouted again, “Hear me, wizards of Ethshar! I must speak with you!”

They drifted on; at Hanner’s direction Kirsha leveled off, still at least a hundred feet up. He repeated his call.

The sun made its way down the western sky; an hour passed, and still they drifted, Hanner calling occasionally.

“You aren’t getting tired, are you?” he asked Kirsha at one point.

“No,” she said. “If anything, I feel stronger than ever.”

“That could be bad,” Hanner said.

“Should I go back, then?”

“No. We need to give them time to arrange matters. You should be all right.”

They passed over the Arena, and Hanner called again.

And then Kirsha called, “Look!” She pointed to the south.

Something was rising toward them, something brightly colored and larger than a man.

“Stop here,” Hanner said, and Kirsha halted their southward drift.

The rising shape became clear, and Hanner realized it was a man sitting cross-legged on a carpet-a flying carpet, perhaps eight feet by twelve. The man wore red and gold robes, and the carpet was dark blue patterned in gold.

The carpet was coming toward them, swooping gracefully through an upward spiral. Hanner waited.

A moment later the carpet reached their own level and stopped a dozen feet away. The seated man-the wizard, certainly-was no one Hanner had ever seen before; he was short, stocky, and going gray. Hanner sensed an odd wrongness about him, but could not say what it was. He frowned. He hoped that this really was a wizard and not some sort of illusion. “Hai!” the seated man said. “What do you want with us, warlock?”

Hanner ignored the feeling of wrongness and replied, “I need to speak to whomever it is that’s going to decide what the Wizards’ Guild does about warlocks.”

“If the Guild wishes to hear from you, they’ll summon you,” the red-robed man said.

“My uncle Faran waited to be summoned,” Hanner said. “That didn’t work out well. The Guild would summon me if they knew what was best for us all, themselves included. They don’t know that yet, because they haven’t heard what I have to say. Surely, you don’t maintain that even the Guild knows everything. Ithinia never thought it necessary to speak to Lord Faran, and see howthat turned out.”

“Don’t threaten me, warlock,” the wizard said warningly. “I think you’ll find me harder to kill than Lord Faran’s executioner.”

“I was not making threats,” Hanner said. “I merely speak the truth.”

The mention of Faran’s executioner, however, gave him the clue he needed to recognize the nature of the wrongness he had felt.

The wizard had no heartbeat. In fact, he had no heart in his chest. Hanner could feel only a magical darkness where a heart should be. Stopping his heart, as Hanner had done to Faran’s slayer, would not be possible.

Hanner had heard of wizards doing this, hiding their hearts before undertaking some particularly perilous task; they could still be hurt, but the heart would keep beating, wherever it was stored, and the wizard would not die of injuries that would ordinarily be instantly fatal. Hewould be harder to kill, Hanner thought-but probably not impossible.

If the wizard had taken such a precaution before coming to speak to him-well, it would seem that the Wizards’ Guild did accept that warlocks could pose a real threat.

That was promising, in a way.

And that they had prepared this messenger to speak to him, rather than sending some magical assassin after him, was even more promising.

While Hanner considered this, the wizard had considered Han-ner’s words. Now he responded.

“Very well,” he said. “I’ll bring you to them.”

Hanner turned to Kirsha. “Put me down on the carpet,” he said.

“Sir, are you sure-”

“I’m sure,” Hanner said, cutting her off. “I’ve dealt with wizards for years. Put me on the carpet, then go back to the house and wait for me. And don’t use any more magic until tomorrow. If you have nightmares tonight, don’tever use any more.”

“As you say.” Hanner felt himself pushed forward, and a moment later his feet touched the thick pile of the carpet. He stepped forward cautiously. It was like walking across a featherbed; he sat down quickly, and the wizard moved aside to make room.

Hanner turned to see Kirsha still hanging unsupported in midair, staring at him.

“Go on,” he said, waving to her. “I’ll be fine. We all will.”

She waved back, then turned and flew away.

Then Hanner turned to the wizard. “I am Hanner the Warlock, Chairman of the Council of Warlocks,” he said.

The wizard looked at him silently for a moment, then said, “I’m a wizard. You don’t need my name.”

Names had power, Hanner remembered-some spells required the name of the person the spell would affect. The wizard was not simply being rude.

“Please yourself,” Hanner started to say, but the final syllable stretched out and vanished as the carpet abruptly turned and swooped downward. Wind rushed past him, yanking his words away. He closed his eyes against the drying wind, and when he opened them again the carpet was sailing into a great dark opening in an upper floor of a building he did not recognize.

Once inside, the carpet settled to the floor, and abruptly became as flat and lifeless as any ordinary rug.

Hanner looked around at a large rough chamber where most of one wall was open to the outside. There were no furnishings, no windows other than the open wall; overhead were the bare rafters of a peaked roof.

The wizard got to his feet, then turned and watched, not offering his hand, as Hanner rose. “This way,” he said, pointing to a small, perfectly ordinary wooden door.

Hanner followed the wizard through the door into a small, bare, wooden room, where assorted cloaks and hoods hung on a row of pegs on one wall. The wizard selected a blue velvet hood, one with no eyeholes, and handed it to Hanner.

“Face that door,” he said, pointing at another ordinary wooden door. “Then put this on.”

Hanner obeyed and found himself blinded-but he was a warlock; he could sense his surroundings with his magic, even through the opaque hood. The wizard stepped forward and opened the door, then stepped aside.

“Walk forward,” the wizard said.

Hanner started forward, then hesitated a step from the open door. He could sense nothing beyond it-not empty space, but nothing at all. Something there blocked his warlock sight completely.

Some sort of wizardry, presumably-warlockry and wizardry did not work well together, he remembered.

“Go on,” the wizard urged him. “Straight ahead, another step or two.” The Wizards’ Guild would hardly have gone to this much trouble to kill him, but Manner still hesitated-something deep inside him did notlike that blank emptiness. He reached out to touch it...

And suddenly he was genuinely, completely blind; his warlock sight had vanished as completely as the light from a snuffed candle. Panicked, he reached up and snatched off the hood.

He wasn’t in the little wooden room anymore. There was no open door before him, no wall, no sunlight spilling in through the open side of the room behind him where the carpet had landed. Instead he stood on rough slate pavement in a vast, torchlit hall. Ahead of him stretched two parallel rows of gray stone pillars, each pillar as big around as a century-old oak, with twenty feet between the rows and each pillar eight or nine feet from the next. For the nearest part of each row, each pillar bore a pair of torches set in black iron brackets slightly above the level of a tall man’s head.

He could not see the end of the hall; the torches stopped some dozen pillars, perhaps thirty yards, before him, but the pillars continued on into the darkness beyond. He could not see the side walls clearly, but they were perhaps twenty feet beyond the pillars on either side.

In the torchlit stretch before him stood a great dark wooden table, strewn with papers and objects. He could see cups and bowls and staves and jewels and books and a hundred other things, mixed together seemingly at random.

And around this table stood a score of wizards, male and female, all apparent ages, in robes that ranged from unadorned gray to the most elaborate embroidered polychrome fancywork he had ever seen.

“Hanner, Chairman of the Council of Warlocks,” a woman said, and Hanner recognized her as Ithinia of the Isle, senior Guild-master of Ethshar of the Spices. “No longer Lord Hanner of Eth-shar. You wished to speak to the masters of the Wizards’ Guild.” She waved an arm at her companions.

“Speak,” she said.