Night of Madness (9 page)

“If your plea for leniency is accepted, you might just be flogged or exiled from the city,” Hanner said. “And I think you can reasonably point to all the others who ran wild tonight as evidence to support your case. I take it you're surrendering to us?”

“I don't have much of a choice.”

Hanner smiled slightly. “No, you don't,” he agreed.

Then he turned to the other man. “What do you have to say for yourself?” he asked.

“I went mad too, I think,” the younger man said. “I thought I was
chosen,
that the dreams meant I had to do something with this power I was given. I thought I would fight my way up, killing the others and taking their power, until I was the most powerful magician in the World, and then I would rule all of Ethshar.”

“What about the overlord?” Rudhira demanded. “
He
rules Ethshar, and he's not a magician at all!”

“I was going to kill him,” the man admitted.

“That's treason,” Yorn said.

“Lord Azrad's a fat old fool!” the warlock shouted, sitting up—Hanner saw Rudhira's startled expression when he was able to do so; she had clearly not intended to let him up.

“He's still the overlord,” Hanner said.

“Not
my
overlord,” the warlock said, struggling against something invisible.

“Stop fighting,” Hanner ordered him.

“May demons gnaw your bones,” the warlock said. He raised a hand—and suddenly his head twisted around to one side, impossibly far, and Hanner heard the snap of breaking bone. The warlock fell back, limp and lifeless.

Rudhira smiled with satisfaction. Hanner stared up at her. “You didn't have to kill him!” he shouted.

“He was a traitor and a murderer and I was defending myself,” Rudhira said flatly.

That was obviously true, but Hanner was still upset by her actions. He started to phrase a further protest when the older warlock said, “I helped her.”

“He did,” Rudhira agreed.

Hanner looked from one to the other. He had the distinct feeling that his control of the situation was not as secure as it should be, and that any further disputes would only erode it further.

“Well, what's done is done,” he said. “Get up, you, and come along—we're heading for the Palace, and if you cooperate we'll put in a good word for you when the time comes.” He reached down a hand to help the warlock up.

The older man rolled over and took Hanner's hand.

A moment later the entire party was once again marching down Fish Street, leaving the surviving inhabitants of the neighborhood, now warily emerging from their ruined homes, to put out the fires and clean up the mess.

Chapter Eight

Kirsha sat in the middle of the street, wrapped in wine-red velvet while a cluster of stolen jewelry orbited slowly above her head, and shivered, despite the warmth of the summer night and the heat from the burning tannery a block to the north. Bolts of cloth lay strewn on the street around her.

It wasn't a dream. She was sure of that now. She had begun to doubt it some time ago, when she realized she could feel the heat of the flames and the hard ground beneath her bare feet when she landed. Her dreams were never so detailed as this.

It was magic, some terrible magic, and she had been caught up in it and done crazy things. She had stolen all this pretty cloth, a dozen silver rounds' worth at the very least, and the jewelry, which was probably worth the same in gold. She had smashed in people's shop windows, and had flung broken window glass at people who annoyed her …

She shuddered at that, and thanked the gods that she hadn't hit anyone.

At least, she didn't
think
she had.

Just then she heard voices and looked up to see a woman flying.

For a moment she almost reconsidered, and decided she was dreaming after all. The woman practically glowed red in the torchlight and moonlight and firelight; her clothing was all red and gold, her very hair was an orange color Kirsha had never seen before, her face was heavily made up so that her cheeks shone red, and she was flying along as casually as a hummingbird.

Then the woman called to her, “Are you all right?” and she knew it wasn't a dream.

“No,” Kirsha said miserably, huddling down under her stolen velvet.

“Lord Hanner!” the woman in red called. “This way!”

Two more flying apparitions appeared around the corner, and a small crowd of people on foot. Kirsha felt something close around her, and suddenly the spinning, flying jewelry fell to the ground.

A plump, curly-haired young man in a silk-trimmed tunic came trotting up to her. “Are you injured?” he asked.

“She's fine, physically,” the woman in red replied.

“Just upset,” said the other flying woman, who wore green and brown and was fatter and older than the first.

“Who are you?” Kirsha asked.

“I am Lord Hanner,” the plump young man said. “These are warlocks under my command—people affected by this magic.”

“Like me?” Kirsha asked.

“More or less,” Lord Hanner said. He frowned. “It looks to me as if you've been…”

“Stealing,” Kirsha said, lifting up a length of velvet. “I know. I went a little crazy, and thought it was all a dream, or that the whole World had gone mad.”

“We've seen quite a bit of that,” Lord Hanner said. “I think you'll have to come with us—the overlord's magistrates will want to talk to you.” He looked around at the scattered fabric. “First, though—do you know where all this came from? We should take it back to its rightful owners.”

Kirsha nodded. “I think I remember it all.”

“Good,” Hanner said—and the bolts of cloth rose into the air around them, like a tent being lifted into place or banners being raised. Kirsha's eyes widened.

She wasn't doing this.

“Lead the way,” Hanner said, offering a hand to help her up.

*   *   *

Lord Faran straightened his tunic slightly as he stepped into the lesser audience chamber, and tried his best to look completely untroubled by all the madness around him. Lord Azrad looked up at him.

“Well, it's about time you got here!” the overlord said.

“Your pardon, my lord,” Faran said, essaying a small bow. “I was attending to urgent business elsewhere in the Palace.”

Azrad eyed him suspiciously. The overlord was always foul-tempered when his sleep was interrupted, but his expression seemed unusually sour even so.

“In the Palace?” Azrad asked.

“Yes, my lord. Attending to a few personal matters, and then checking to see who had been awakened and who had not, who was where, and so on—seeing to the overlord's business as best I could.”

The personal matters had been discovering that while Nerra and Alris were secure in their own beds, Hanner had never returned from his walk; and that Isia had left the Palace before the overlord had ordered the entrances to be sealed and no one to be permitted in or out.

The girls had been awakened by the noise and were probably still up, chattering, but they were safe at home while Hanner was not, and while Isia might or might not have reached her parents' house safely.

Faran was not pleased at the thought that his nephew and his mistress were somewhere out in the city while magic-wielding lunatics were rampaging through the streets, but there wasn't much he could do about it.

At least, not that he knew of—but of course, he could apparently wield that same magic, and he had no idea what that might make possible.

“Good,” Azrad said. “
Nobody
is to leave, not even you, Faran. And no one's to enter. I don't want to risk this thing, whatever it is, contaminating my home!”

“Of course, my lord,” Faran said. Long years of practice allowed him to keep his expression utterly calm as he realized that Azrad did not know that whatever had happened had already affected people inside the Palace.

So far he knew of two people who had been awakened by a nightmare and found themselves able to do strange magic—himself, and a serving girl in the kitchens by the name of Hinda. Faran had gone down to the kitchens to make sure there was sufficient food available for the extra guards and anyone else summoned from their beds, should they become hungry, and had found three of the cooks making a fuss over the little orphan.

Hinda had demonstrated that she could send a spoon skittering across the table or hopping up and down like a frightened flea. Faran had told her not to worry about it right now, but to get the cooking fires hot and see what was in the stores.

“I don't like this,” Azrad said, shaking his head. “Wild magic running loose, people flying around like wizards—it's not good, not good at all. Someone's up to something, some magician somewhere. I won't have it. The wizards say we can't mix magic and government, so they've been watching the government—but maybe they haven't been watching the right magicians,
hai?
”

“Maybe,” Faran agreed. “Has someone spoken to any of our hired magicians to ask if they know what's going on?”

“My brother's attending to it.”

“Ah … which brother, my lord?”

“Lord Karannin, of course. He's Lord High Magistrate.”

“The Lord of the Household works with magicians as well, my lord.”

“Clurim has enough to do.”

Faran started to ask just what Lord Clurim had to do, then decided not to. If Azrad wanted to tell him, he would—and if he didn't, Lord Faran would find out elsewhere.

“Lord Karannin deals with several magicians, but none of them are of any great note, my lord. Perhaps I should go speak to Guildmaster Ithinia—”

“If you leave the Palace you won't get back in,” Azrad interrupted. “Not even you, my lord.”

“Then I won't go,” Faran said promptly.

He didn't like it, though. If
he
couldn't get back in, then no one could. He wondered where Hanner was—not in the Palace, according to the guards at the entrance, but that left all the rest of the World.

Faran hoped he was safe in Mavi's bed, but somehow he doubted that Hanner had managed that.

“We'll send Ithinia a messenger later,” Azrad said. “For now, though, I want to get back to my bed, and when you've answered one more question I plan to do exactly that.” He shifted in his seat and then continued, “Tell me, then—do you know anything about this magic that's running loose?”

Faran hesitated.

Sooner or later he might want to admit the truth—or he might not; if the magic turned out to be temporary, something that vanished at sunrise, then perhaps it would be best quickly forgotten.

Right now, though, Faran was not about to tell Azrad that he, the overlord's chief advisor, was one of the people touched by the mysterious power. Lord Azrad was clearly in no mood to tolerate such a revelation.

“Not a thing, I'm afraid,” Lord Faran said.

*   *   *

Elken the Beggar smiled to himself as he hurried along Wall Street.

Those other fools back in the Wizards' Quarter had obeyed when that fat little lordling told them to follow him to the Palace, but Elken wasn't stupid enough to do that. He had other plans.

Nobody knew what this new magic was or what it could do, but they were already trying to find ways to control it. Lord Hanner and his party, Mother Perréa and the witches, all the wizards and guardsmen and the rest, they just wanted to put everything back the way it was.

And they would probably succeed. The new magic would be erased or controlled all through the city streets, and everything would once again obey the overlord's laws.

Except that there were places where the overlord's laws had never meant much, and Elken lived in one of them.

Other people with the new magic would want to improve themselves with it. They would probably pretend to be real magicians and would go into the streets looking for ways to use it to earn money. They would obey the law.

They wouldn't stay in the Hundred-Foot Field with the thieves and beggars.

Which meant, Elken thought, that there was an opportunity here. Being one magician among many was nothing special, but being the
only
magician in the Hundred-Foot Field would be another matter.

He smiled again, looked out across the Field, and casually, purely for the enjoyment of the sensation of control, tipped over someone's tent fifty feet away before hurrying on.

*   *   *

The streets were quieter now. Kennan had been grabbing passersby, if they were on foot rather than airborne and didn't look dangerous, and asking them if they knew what was happening; so far he hadn't gotten anything close to a decent answer. The mad ones, the ones flying by or flinging objects in all directions, he had sometimes hidden from, sometimes shouted at, but they had not been any better.

Some sort of magic was loose in the city, clearly—but nobody seemed to know what. People had disappeared—Aken was not the only one—but no one knew who had taken them or why.

The only guardsman Kennan had seen had pulled away, saying he was too busy to worry about one missing man.

Kennan stood in the doorway of his house, looking out at the empty street, with Sanda pressing up behind him, peering over his shoulder. He was thinking.

At last he reached a decision.

“Someone has to know what's going on,” he said, “and someone has to be doing something about it. I'm going to go to the Palace and demand an explanation.”

“I'll come with you,” Sanda said.

Kennan turned and pushed her back inside.

“No, you won't,” he said. “You'll stay here and look after the children.”

“They're all asleep…”

“No, I said!” Kennan glowered at her, his hand still pushing at her shoulder. “What if little Sarai wakes up and wants her mother? What if one of them gets sick? What if the magic tries to take one of
them?
”