Night of Madness

Chapter Forty-three

The sound of a chair’s legs grating on stone broke the silence. “I think I’ll send you home now,” Ithinia said as she rose.

Hanner bowed. “As you please,” he said. “I’ve said what I came to say.”

“And we’ll consider it all carefully,” Ithinia replied as she walked up and took his arm. She stooped and picked up the velvet hood Hanner had dropped. “Put this on,” she said, holding it out.

Reluctantly Hanner obeyed, plunging himself into darkness.

Someone-probably Ithinia, though he had no way to be certain-took hold of his arm, turned him to the left, and led him away. He walked for what seemed a goodly distance, perhaps thirty or forty yards, with the grip on his arm guiding him.

Then his guide stopped.

“Put out your hand,” she said-Ithinia’s voice, as he had expected. He obediently raised one arm and held it out before him.

“Now step forward,” she said, releasing her hold.

He stepped forward-and sensation flooded over him.

Light was seeping up beneath the mask; he was somewhere brighter than that gloomy pillared hall. He could hear the distant buzz of a city. And his warlockry had returned; he could sense his surroundings, feel the structure and patterns of the air and space around him.

He snatched off the hood again. He was standing in a pleasant little room, one he didn’t recognize-definitelynot the bare little chamber the carpet had delivered him to. This room had broad windows on two sides, hung with lace curtains; steeply slanting sunlight was pouring in. The walls were plastered and painted white, brightening the room even more. A wicker divan stood to one side, and half a dozen little tables were scattered about. There were two doors-one in a windowed wall, presumably leading outside, and one in a solid wall, presumably leading to another room.

Hanner stepped over to a window and looked out, and saw a lush garden. Chrysanthemums lined a brick walk that wound between flowerbeds and neatly trimmed hedges.

He didn’t recognize it.

He could be almost anywhere, he thought. This might be in Ethshar, or at some wizard’s country estate, or a castle garden in the Small Kingdoms. He wasn’t sure what was expected of him, or why he had been sent here-hadn’t Ithinia said she was sending him home?

This wasn’t any room he recognized in Uncle Faran’s house, nor did the visible portion of the garden look familiar, but wizardry was capable of infinite surprises. He tried the interior door and found it locked.

He could have opened it-he was a warlock again, after all— but he decided to try the other door first.

The door to the garden opened readily, and he stepped outside, blinking in the bright sun. It was low in the west, just barely clearing walls and rooftops to his right.

He heard a creak and looked up to see a gargoyle looking down at him.

“Who are you?” the gargoyle demanded in a voice like stones grating together-which was probably produced, Hanner realized, by stones grating together.

Hanner glanced along the stone facade of the house from which he had just emerged and saw half a dozen other gargoyles, most of which appeared to be animate.

“I’m Hanner the Warlock,” Hanner said. “Where am I?”

“You’re in the garden of Ithinia of the Isle,” the gargoyle replied. It had trouble pronouncing the name, saying something resembling “Ishinia.”

Suddenly his presence here made sense to Hanner; naturally, Ithinia would have some means of getting home quickly from that mysterious place where he had spoken to her. It was most likely a Transporting Tapestry, he guessed, which would always deliver a person to the exact same location, no matter who it was or where he started. She had directed it to the little room on the back of her house.

“The house on Lower Street, in Ethshar of the Spices?” he asked the gargoyle.

“Yes,” it said.

“Ah! Your mistress said she would send me home, and she almost has-I live quite near here. Could you direct me to the street?” “To your right,” the gargoyle said-it had no hands to point with, just claws and wings unsuited to the task. “There’s a path to the front of the house. Latch the gate behind you.”

“Thank you,” Hanner said. He started to bow, then stopped, feeling foolish; bowing to a chunk of magically animated stone seemed silly. To cover his confusion he turned as directed and hurried away.

A moment later he was on Lower Street. Twenty minutes later he was at the front door of Warlock House, on High Street; Kirsha had been waiting at a window and had provided him with magical protection from the watchers in the street so that he could enter safely.

“What happened?” she said as he stepped inside. “What did the wizards say?”

“That’s a little hard to explain,” Hanner said as half a dozen of the others appeared to hear what he had to report. “They haven’t made a final decision yet, but I’m optimistic that they’ll see our point of view and decide to let us remain.”

“Is there anything we should do to help?” Yorn asked from the parlor doorway.

“Yes,” Hanner said. “I said that the Council of Warlocks would take responsibility forall the warlocks in Ethshar. That means we need to find them all and convince them to accept our authority. I want all of you who feel able to go out and find warlocks. We know who some of them are, since they were here before, but there must be others. Find them and tell them that the Council of Warlocks requires them to agree to abide by our rules.”

“Could it wait until after supper?” Bern asked from the door of the dining room.

Hanner suddenly realized he was indeed hungry.

“I think so,” he said.

In fact, it waited until morning. The evening was spent reviewing just what Hanner had committed his Council to and planning out who would go where. Hanner had hoped that word would come quickly of the Guild’s decision, but that didn’t happen.

However, there was a sudden disturbance upstairs midway through the evening; Hanner hurried to see what was responsible for the thumping and rushing he heard.

The sound came from the master bedroom; Hanner flung the door wide.

The windows overlooking the garden were open, and a warm wind was rustling the bed curtains. Manrin’s body, along with the bedclothes that had been wrapped around it, was gone.

That was one less thing to worry about-and it meant that the Guild was acting on one part of Hanner’s requests, at any rate. Hanner closed the windows carefully, then went back downstairs to continue the planning session.

Hanner did not sleep in Faran’s bed that night; the memory of Manrin’s corpse was too fresh. Instead he slept in one of the other rooms, where his sleep was interrupted twice by Desset’s nightmares.

After the second, as they stood in the hallway outside her room, he told her sternly, “No more magic! Not even little things. You’re very close to being Called.” “I know,” Desset said, and even as she did she idly sent a candlestick drifting through the air. Hanner snatched it away from her.

“Maybe you should go farther south,” he said. “The Calling should be weaker if you’re farther from Aldagmor.”

“But we’re allhere” Desset protested.

A thought struck Hanner. “You know,” he said, “there’s a place where warlockry wouldn’t reach you at all, and the Calling would never bother you. But I don’t think you’d want to live there.”

“Where?” Desset asked, astonished.

Hanner realized he couldn’t answer that. “You can’t get there anyway,” he said. “Only wizards go there.” But he thought that the possibility of a wizardly refuge from the Calling was one that might be worth pursuing further.

After that incident they returned to their beds, and the remainder of the night passed without further disturbance.

In the morning half of the dozen warlocks ventured out into the city, seeking out more of their kind. Amost immediately they met with modest success, which they reported back to Hanner before heading out again. A warlock’s special perceptions, as Sheila taught them, could be used to spot other warlocks.

When they found these others their official presentation was simple enough. “We represent the Council of Warlocks. We’ve been negotiating terms with the Wizards’ Guild, and we need the support of every warlock we can find.” Beyond that they answered whatever questions they could and generally exhorted the other warlocks on the virtues of solidarity.

Every warlock they spoke to had encountered hostility. The ones who had previously stayed at Warlock House but had gone home after Lord Faran’s death, or Manrin’s, had not found themselves made welcome in those homes. Several had left again and gone into hiding in various places; one group had gathered in the Hundred-Foot Field, where Zarek found them.

All of them listened to the news of the Council’s formation with interest. Some agreed to join; others preferred to wait and see what developed.

Only a handful actually wanted to return to Warlock House, but that suited Hanner well enough; he didn’t see any reason to give Lord Azrad any more convenient a target than necessary, should the overlord decide to continue his attempts to exile the warlocks.

He didn’t really think Azrad would bother, though.

It was slightly after midday when he discovered he was wrong.