Night of Madness

Chapter Nine

The walk to the Palace took Hanner’s company more than two hours-they made detour after detour as they encountered one incident after another. Hanner took the time along the way to ask a few questions and learned that his other two flyers were Varrin the Weaver and Desset of Eastwark. He learned the names of about half the others, as well, including the four warlocks they had taken prisoner: the girl who had stolen jewelry was Kirsha the Younger; Saldan of Southgate had dueled with the warlock Rudhira killed; Roggit Rayel’s son had been looting cash from shops and taverns, and Gror of the Crooked Teeth had been smashing windows more or less at random.

Three other warlocks had fled and not been deemed worth pursuing; half a dozen had been calmed down and sent home. Had Hanner realized how many he would encounter, he thought, he might not have chosen to take Kirsha and Gror as prisoners, since they had not harmed anyone and seemed to have regretted their crimes-but having already made the decision, he was not inclined to reverse it.

The journey seemed interminable, but at last Hanner, at the head of his party, emerged from Arena Street into the torchlit plaza-and found himself facing a wall of guardsmen, lined up six deep, armed with spears.

Spears were either for show or for serious fighting and putting down riots or insurrections; swords and truncheons were standard for the far more usual patrol and police work.

“What’s going on?” Hanner demanded as the rest of his group, including the prisoners, emerged from the dark street and gathered behind him. Rudhira was still flying and swept up to hover above him.

The rows of guards promptly aimed their spears in her general direction.

“Put those down!” Hanner bellowed as best he could-he was exhausted, and at its best his voice had never been the commanding roar his uncle could produce, so the result was not very impressive. “She’s with me.”

“That’s Rudhira,” one of the soldiers said. “I know her.”

“Who ishe?” someone else asked.

“I am Lord Hanner,” Hanner shouted. “Nephew and heir to Lord Faran, the overlord’s chief advisor. Now, what’s going on here? Who’s in charge?”

The lines of spearmen shuffled for a moment, then parted, and a captain, gold-trimmed breastplate over his yellow tunic, stepped forward. He bore no spear, but his hand was on the hilt of his sheathed sword.

The face was familiar; Hanner, tired as he was, needed a few seconds before he could attach a name.

“Lord Hanner,” the captain said, before the name came to Hanner’s lips.

“Captain Naral,” Hanner said. “May I ask what is going on here, and why all these men are on parade in the middle of the night?”

“It’s no parade, my lord. Surely you’re aware of the mad magicians running riot through the city-you appear to have brought at least one of them with you.” He nodded toward Rudhira.

“Of course I’m aware!” Hanner said. “And I’ve brought some of them here for the overlord to deal with.” He gestured at his party. “We’ve taken four criminal warlocks prisoner and brought them for trial.”

“Warlocks?”

“That’s what the witches call them. Nobody else seems to have a name for them.”

“You’ve spoken to a witch about them, then?”

Manner nodded. “When I saw what was happening I went to the Wizards’ Quarter for advice. The magicians there are as puzzled as the rest of us, but Mother Perréa said this new magic resembles a technique used by witches in the Great War, and she called it war-locking.”

Naral frowned. “No one knew what caused this outbreak?”

“No one I spoke with,” Hanner confirmed.

“That’s bad.” The captain frowned again, then turned up an empty hand. “Well, perhaps by morning someone will have divined more.”

“And in the meantime, Captain, I have gathered several warlocks of goodwill, and with their aid taken four criminals prisoner, and I would like to bring them all into the Palace and get some sleep.”

Naral hesitated. “I’m afraid I can’t allow that,” he said at last.

Hanner had expected and dreaded this answer. “Why not?” he asked.

“We have been ordered to allow no one to enter the Palace, and most particularly not to allow any of these mad magicians— these warlocks, as you call them-near it.” “I’m sure my uncle didn’t mean that to includeme...”

“It wasn’t Lord Faran who gave the order, my lord,” Naral interrupted. “It was Lord Azrad himself. The overlord.”

Hanner blinked. “Oh,” he said.

That explained the apparent overreaction of lining up several hundred guards in the square. Lord Faran would probably have been more conservative of manpower; Lord Azrad, though, had never demonstrated any sense of proportion, nor shown any inclination to conserve anything but his own energy.

Right now Hanner was very much in the mood to conserve what little energy he had left himself-preferably while comfortably tucked into his own bed. He glanced up over his shoulder at Rudhira, and wondered how much she could carry.

“You realize that a warlock could probably just fly over your heads to reach the Palace?” he asked.

“She would have to fly through a storm of spears,” Naral said, his tone almost apologetic.

Hanner was not at all certain that would bother Rudhira, but decided against asking her. Instead he said, “Could someone please petition the overlord on my behalf? I’d very much like to get some sleep.”

“The overlord has retired for the night,” Naral said. “He gavevery strict orders that he was not to be disturbed except in the event of dire emergency.”

Hanner sighed deeply. “Then could someone send a message to my uncle, please? Lord Faran?”

Captain Naral considered that for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll send someone. What’s the message?”

“Simply that I’m out here, with several friends and four prisoners, and we would like to enter the Palace-at the very least,I would like to enter, to go to bed.”

“I’ll tell him, but I doubt he’ll defy the overlord’s edict. Lord Azrad was quite emphatic.”

“Just send the message, please, Captain.”

Naral bowed. “As you wish, my lord.” He turned away, beckoned to a guardsman apparently at random, and explained the errand.

While he did, Hanner turned to his own party.

“It appears we’ll have a wait, at the very least,” he said. “I’d suggest sitting down and getting a little rest.” He pointed at the curbstones surrounding a shrine set in the corner of the wall at Arena Street and Aristocrat Circle. “I’ll be right here if anyone needs me.”

With that, he settled himself on the nearest curbstone and leaned back, his head just touching the underside of the shrine’s offering shelf.

Just getting his weight off his aching feet for a moment felt wonderful. Yorn settled beside him, but had to duck slightly and lean forward to avoid banging his head on the shelf. He looked out at the neat lines of guardsmen and remarked, “I don’t see anyone from my company.”

“Well, that’s good,” Manner said. “Then you probably aren’t disobeying any orders by being here with me.”

Another of the warlocks, a weather-beaten fellow in gray homespun, settled on Manner’s other side, not on the curbstones but squatting with his back against the wall.

“We could all go out to the Hundred-Foot Field,” he said. “No one there would bother us once they realized we’re magicians.”

Manner looked at him. “I don’t think I heard your name,” he said.

“Zarek,” the other replied. “Zarek the Homeless, for the past few years.”

“Then you’ve slept in the Hundred-Foot Field before,” Manner said.

“Every night,” Zarek replied. “That’s where I was tonight when the screaming started, over in Westwark. I went to the Wizards’ Quarter thinking I might be able to trade the news of mysterious screaming for a free meal, but then I found out the whole city had been affected and everyone already knew. Andthen I found out that I could do this new magic, and while I was trying to think of some way to use it you made your announcement, and I came along with you in hopes it might mean a roof over my head for the night.”

Hanner stared at him.

Like everyone in Ethshar of the Spices, Hanner knew about the Hundred-Foot Field. More than two hundred years ago Azrad the Great had decreed that no permanent structure could be built in the hundred feet between Wall Street and the city wall-the area was to be kept clear so that troops could move freely along the defenses in time of war.

Of course, the Hegemony of the Three Ethshars hadn’t been in a real war for two centuries, not since the Great War finally ended, and empty space inside the city walls was too precious to be left empty. The law said no permanent structures could be built there, but it made no mention oftemporary ones, and Ethshar was crowded; accordingly, within days of the edict the city’s poor and homeless had begun to set up crude huts and flimsy tents in that hundred-foot gap.

The entire length of the Hundred-Foot Field, estimated at nine or ten miles, was a refuge for the outcasts of the Hegemony. Beggars, thieves, cripples, madmen-and those honest people who, for one reason or another, couldn’t afford to rent a room and had no wealthier friends or relatives who would take them in.

Hanner had seen the Hundred-Foot Field on those few occasions when his business had taken him to any of the city’s gates or within a block or so of Wall Street, but he had never gotten any closer than he had to. He had no intention of sleeping in the Hundred-Foot Field or even of setting foot in it. Zarek might be safe enough there, but Zarek wasn’t one of the city’s lords. Walking into the Field wearing silk embroidery and bay-leaf insignia was asking to be robbed; wearing worn homespun would attract far less interest.

On the other hand, Zarek wasn’t as filthy and miserable as Hanner would have expected a dweller in the Field to be. His hair and beard were desperately in need of washing and trimming, but they weren’t tangled or matted, and his hands and face were fairly clean, his skin clear of any lesions. He certainly looked far better than that rag-clad fellow Hanner had seen back in Witch Alley-that person Hanner would expect to sleep in the Hundred-Foot Field.

Legend had it that at one time the Field was green with grass and wildflowers, but now it was all bare dirt-hard-packed and dusty in dry summer heat, a sodden mass of sticky mud in the spring rains, icy in winter-trodden by hundreds, or more likely thousands, of feet. Despite that Zarek, while hardly dapper, was reasonably clean and presentable, and his account of his actions was direct and clear. He had plainly kept himself mentally and physically intact, despite the hardships of his life.

Perhaps, Hanner thought, Zarek knew secrets for living relatively well in the Hundred-Foot Field-or perhaps he had somehow managed to clean himself up tonight before venturing into the Wizards’ Quarter.

Asking him directly how he had achieved this seemed rude, and Hanner was too tired to really take that much of an interest. Instead he said, “I think we can find somewhere better to stay than the Field.”

Zarek turned up a hand. “I can’t afford to pay anything.”

“Ican,” Hanner said. “But I hope we won’t have to.” He looked toward the Palace, hoping to see his uncle or a messenger approaching.

Instead he saw the ranks of spear-carrying guardsmen, standing ready to face the strange magic that threatened the city’s peace.

Hanner wondered just how effective those spears would be against warlocks. Oh, some warlocks were undoubtedly too weak or unskilled to fend off a solid thrust or well-aimed throw, but he had no doubt that Rudhira, for one, could have easily turned aside any single attack.

At that thought he looked around for Rudhira and spotted her perched, catlike, atop a garden wall, looking not out at the waiting soldiers, but inward, into the darkened garden of one of the mansions facing upon the square.

Hanner wondered what she saw there-hedges and fountains and flowers, presumably. Hanner took a moment to orient himself and realized that the garden belonged to Adagan, Lord of the Shipyard. Hanner knew Adagan, of course, but had never seen his gardens. They had no special reputation for excellence.

Rudhira, though, was a Camptown streetwalker-or had been until tonight, at any rate. She might well have never seen a real garden before.

A streetwalker. And Zarek was a homeless beggar. Hanner frowned. What was he doing among these people? He was a lord, an assistant to the overlord’s chief advisor, specializing in the relationship between government and magic; what business did he have with these beggars and whores?

But of course, they were magicians now. Whoever was responsible for this new magic had certainly shaken up the natural order of things.

Hanner did not appreciate that. Apparently Lord Azrad didn’t much like it, either. Hanner wondered how long this warlockry business would last-hours? Days? Years? Forever?

Short of divination there was no way to know, and Hanner had no intention of waking up a wizard or theurgist at this hour to buy a divination that might not even work, as predictive magic about magic was notoriously unreliable. Tomorrow he might go back to the Wizards’ Quarter and inquire, but now he just wanted to sleep.

He wasn’t quite as exhausted as he might ordinarily have expected after staying up so late and walking all over the city, but he supposed that was just the excitement.

He stood up and stretched, and was about to settle back on the curbstone when the line of soldiers parted, and his sister, Lady Alris, appeared.

“Hanner?” she called uncertainly, eyeing the warlocks scattered around the intersection. Hanner realized that he was standing in the shadow of the little shrine, where the soldiers’ torchlight didn’t really reach; he stepped forward and called, “Here I am!”

“Oh!” Alris hesitated, then ran to him, stopping a few feet away.

“Uncle Far an sent you?”

Alris nodded. “He can’t leave the Palace.”

That wasn’t really a surprise; Hanner supposed his uncle was closeted with the overlord somewhere, discussing the situation— though Naral had said the overlord had retired.

Well, perhaps Faran was talking to underlings, preparing them for whatever was to be done in the morning.

“May we enter, then?” Hanner asked.

“No, of course not,” Alris said, startled.“No one may enter! That’s why Uncle Faran can’t leave-the overlord isn’t lettinganyone in, not even him! Not the guards, not messengers-they have to call their messages through the door without stepping inside. No exceptionsat all.”

“Oh,” Hanner said, startled. “But then how willyou get back in?”

“I won’t,” Alris said. “I’ll be staying with you.” She smiled, the brightest smile Hanner had seen from her in months. “It’ll be an adventure!”

“Staying where?” Hanner asked.

“Oh, well, that’s why Uncle Faran sent me,” Alris said. She reached into the purse on her belt and produced an ornate black key. “He didn’t trust anyone but us with this, and Nerra refused to come, so I volunteered.”

Hanner had never seen the key before, but he knew immediately what it must be for. Lord Faran’s official residence was in the Palace, where he was easily available when Lord Azrad wanted him, but he was not, in fact, always available. He was only home in the Palace perhaps four nights in ten. Hanner and his sisters had long suspected thathe— maintained an unofficial residence as well, where he could indulge himself in interests that might not please the overlord and might not be welcome in the Palace.

None of them knew where this other residence was, though— or at least, none of them had until now. “He told you where it is?” Hanner asked.

Alris nodded. “It’s at the corner of High Street and Coronet Street. The northeast corner.”

That was about half a dozen blocks to the southwest of where they now stood, in the New City.

“Lead the way,” Scanner said. Then he raised his voice and called, “Yorn! Rudhira! Varrin! All of you! Follow me!”

Alris started and looked about nervously as the warlocks rose — some of them Veil into the air — and assembled. “Uncle Faran said we could stay there, Hanner,” she said. “You and me, not all these people.”

“They need to stay somewhere” Hanner replied. “I ordered them to follow me, back in the Wizards’ Quarter; that makes me responsible for them. They can sleep on the floor; I’m sure we can squeeze them all in.”

Hanner knew enough of his uncle’s tastes to be sure of that; Faran was not the sort: to settle for a mere furnished room for his trysts. Hanner expected a fair-sized apartment.

“I don’t-” Alris began.

“Alris,” Hanner said, cutting her off, “we’reall going. It’s my decision, not yours; if Uncle Faran doesn’t like it we can deal with that later. Now, lead the way.”

Reluctantly, Alris obeyed, and the entire party trudged out of the torchlit square into0the shadowy streets.