People were flying, dozens of them. Kirsha smiled happily at the thought of sharing her newfound talent. She swung open the casement, planning to fly out into the street.
Then she realized she was still naked.
It probably didn’t matter in a dream, but still, she hated dreams where she went outside naked and could feel people staring at her. She flew quickly across the room to a chest of drawers and found a tunic and skirt. A moment later she was soaring above the streets, watching people running below and flying above. She didn’t see anyone she knew, and did not want to talk to strangers, even in a dream-at least, not yet-so she did not rise up to join the other flyers.
They were all going the same direction, anyway, and she didn’t want to go that way. She wanted to look at the shops on Dyer Street and see what pretty colors the cloth there had in this wonderful dream. They were lovely in real life, as she had seen when she and her mother went over there just two days ago, but her mother had refused to buy her any of the best fabrics for a new tunic.
And there was that jeweler around the corner, where her parents had refused to even set foot inside the door.
Her parents weren’t even in this dream, though, as far as Kirsha could tell, so she could do anything she pleased.
She would smash out the shop windows and take the things she liked best, she decided, and then fly away, like a big brightly colored bird. She would fly to the lesser moon and see why it was pink, and she would find a handsome prince from the Small Kingdoms or a Sardironese baron there, and...
She was getting ahead of herself, she decided. First she should see whether Dyer Street was even there in this dreamworld.
People below her were screaming, but she paid no attention. She swooped around the corner, laughing.
Someone was bellowing, and Kennan of the Crooked Smile woke up, annoyed at the interruption of his sleep.
The noise faded away quickly-whoever was bellowing was moving away very fast. Something about it bothered him though, so Kennan did not immediately go back to sleep.
And then he heard running footsteps in the corridor, and then his son’s wife Sanda shouting, and he climbed out of bed and grabbed a robe.
“What is it?” he demanded as he stumbled out into the dark hallway. “What’s happening?”
No one answered; he hurried to the door of his son’s bedroom and found it standing open. He stepped inside warily-he didn’t want to intrude. Aken and Sanda were sensitive about their privacy.
Aken was nowhere to be seen; instead, Sanda was standing at the open casement, leaning out and calling, “Come back! Bring him back!”
“What’s happening?” Kennan asked again.
Sanda turned, and even in the dim light from the open window Kennan could see the tears gleaming on her cheeks. “He’s gone,” she said. “They took him!”
“Who’sgone?” Kennan asked, confused.
“Aken,” Sanda said. “I was downstairs, closing the shutters, and I heard him shouting, so I ran up to see what was wrong, and I got here and the window was open-look at the latch!”
Kennan looked. The iron latch had been twisted into an unrecognizable lump.
Kennan still didn’t understand. He didn’t understand where Aken was or what had happened to the latch. It looked as if someone very, very strong had crushed it in his fist.
Aken was a strong young man, but he wasn’tthat strong.
“Where is he?” Kennan asked.
“Gone!” Sanda shrieked, pointing out the window. “I saw him flying away! Theytook him!”
“Whotook him?” Kennan was beginning to comprehend, though he didn’t want to. “What do you mean, flying?”
“Flying!Through the air! By magic! The magicians took him!”
“Sanda, that’s crazy-why would magicians take Aken? What magicians?”
“Those magicians, out in the street,” she said, pointing. “They’re flying around smashing things. And they took your son, I saw it.”
Kennan, not really wanting to look, tiptoed across the room and looked past Sanda, out the window.
It was as she had said-there were people flying through the streets and up above the rooftops, most of them heading north, toward the docks, and there were things flying with some of them-clothes and jewels and furniture. It was all madness.
And there was no sign of Aken.
Like so many others, Zarek the Homeless awoke from a nightmare, screaming-and was astonished to hear perhaps a dozen other scattered voices screaming as well. He sat up, still wrapped in his moth-eaten blanket, and looked out at his surroundings.
He lay in the middle of the Hundred-Foot Field, not far from where Sway Street met Wall Street, in the Westwark district of Ethshar of the Spices. Around him were the blankets, tents, and crude huts of scores of the city’s other destitute-and several of them were screaming, though the number of voices seemed to be declining rapidly. A lantern flared up nearby, and voices chattered excitedly inside little Pelirrin’s tent.
“Shut up and let me sleep!” someone called as the last two or three voices continued to scream.
One voice dropped to a low moan; another fell silent. Finally only one woman’s voice still screamed, a thin, breathy wailing that sounded almost like a night wind-but the air was still.
“Blasted magicians,” someone said.
“Is that what it was?” another voice asked.
“What else could it be? People waking up screaming all at once-if that’s not magic, I’m Azrad the Great.”
Zarek could hardly argue with that; he wondered idly whatkind of magic it was, and why it had affected him. It clearly hadn’t struck everyone, or there would have beenhundreds screaming, rather than a dozen or so, but it had struckhim, all right. His throat was sore from screaming-though his throat was often sore anyway, from bad water and worse food or the various contagions found in the Field.
He tried to rememberwhy he had been screaming, and could only remember a feeling of suffocation and entrapment.
He mused about the significance of this. It might be important, he supposed.
In the morning he would go make a few inquiries-talk to the guards at Westgate, maybe, or see if anyone in the Wizards’ Quarter would answer a few questions. Perhaps there was some way he could capitalize on being included in this misdirected magic-he thought he might get a decent meal out of it, anyway. Maybe some curious wizard would pay him for a report on what had happened.
In fact, he thought, maybe he shouldn’t wait until morning. That woman was still screaming, and he wasn’t going to get back to sleep right away, and if he waited someone else might collect whatever payment the magicians might be willing to make. He kicked aside his blanket and got to his feet.
A moment later the woman finally stopped screaming, but Zarek had already headed eastward into the city streets.
Throughout the city, dozens of others tried to figure out what had happened, or rolled over and went back to sleep, or panicked and ran or flew out into the streets. Hundreds walked or ran or flew northward.
And in Ethshar of the Sands, forty leagues to the west, the same scenes were repeated, on the same scale.
In Ethshar of the Rocks, far to the northwest, again the same events played out, though fewer people were affected there than in the more southerly cities.
In farms and villages beyond the walls of the cities, throughout the Hegemony of the Three Ethshars, people awoke choking or screaming, and a few of those who had been awake all along felt the touch of a strange new power. In the Baronies of Sardiron, in the war-tornlandof Tintallion, in the many tiny nations of the Small Kingdoms, magic flashed across the World and drove unsuspecting people from their beds.
Everywhere, those touched by the magic and those who saw them wondered what had happened, what this unfamiliar magic was, what would happen next.
And nowhere were there immediate answers to any of these questions.
Chapter Five
Lord Hanner ducked down in the doorway of
a potter’s shop, hands over his head, as a nightgowned woman flew past shrieking at the top of her lungs, surrounded by a cloud of kitchen knives, broken glass, and miscellaneous debris. When she had passed he straightened up and looked after her.
Despite her screams, he could see no sign that she was injured or in pain; presumably she had simply panicked when... when whatever it was that happened had happened. She appeared unhurt and seemed to be controlling her magically propelled movements and the movements of her accompanying objects.
Anyone who wasn’t quick enough getting out of her way was likely to be hurt, though.
As the wind of her passage died away Hanner wondered what he should do. He was a lord, one of the overlord’s servants, responsible for keeping order in Ethshar, and whatever wild magic had broken loose moments earlier, it was definitely not orderly. That flying woman hadn’t been the first manifestation of out-of-control magic he had encountered in the quarter hour since the screaming and other commotion started-nor the second, nor the fifth. Something magical was definitely loose in the city, and definitely causing trouble.
So far he had been unable to make sense of it; the people he had encountered who were caught up in the magic, whatever it was, had shown no interest in talking to him. They didn’t seem to want any help, either, not even the ones who were still screaming. Instead they tended to fly about wildly, and some of them seemed willing to smash anything that got in their way.
“Is she gone?” a voice behind him asked. Hanner started.
“I think so,” he said, turning to find that a plain woman of uncertain age had opened the door of the shop. She peered about cautiously, then stepped out beside Hanner.
“Why was she screaming?”
“I don’t know,” Hanner said.
“Is she a wizard? She was flying, wasn’t she?” “She was flying,” Hanner agreed, “but I don’t think she’s a wizard. There’s some kind of magic causing trouble. She might be hurt-maybe we should follow her, see if we can help...”
The woman snorted.“I’m not going after anyone who can fly! If you want to deal with magic, find a magician. I’m just a potter.” She looked back and forth along Newmarket Street. “Are there any more?”
“There were other people screaming earlier, but I don’t-”
Hanner’s sentence was interrupted by the sound of breaking glass.
“I think there are more,” he concluded.
“Then I’m staying inside,” the potter said. “Andyou should go somewhere else.” She pushed Hanner out of the doorway into the street, then stepped back inside her shop and slammed the door shut.
Hanner looked around.
“Go somewhere else,” the potter had told him-but where? He could just go home-while it was his responsibility in general to keep order, no one could fault him for not getting involved with some mysterious magical mess that was none of his doing.
Buthe would fault himself. He and his uncle were the closest thing the overlord had to experts on magic, and it was his duty to find out what was going on.
“If you want to deal with magic, find a magician.” That was obvious advice-and obviouslygood advice. And the best place to find a magician in Ethshar of the Spices was the Wizards’ Quarter.
Presumably the wizards and the rest would already know what was happening, but it wouldn’t hurt to make sure and see whether he could be helpful. If he went on down Newmarket to East Street, then turned left on Fishertown Street...
He began jogging, despite his tired feet.
The route wasn’t quite as simple as he had hoped, as Fisher-town did not go through to Arena Street, but twenty minutes later he was crossing Games Street into the Wizards’ Quarter.
Along the way he saw at least a dozen more instances of the strange magic running amok-looted shops, people or objects flying, doors and windows shattered, and a distressing number of buildings aflame. Although the streets were largely deserted, even more so than usual at this hour, the few people Hanner did see either seemed to be using the magical power, fleeing it, or caught in it. Several people ran and hid at Hanner’s approach.
For his own part Hanner refused to be cowed-he was a public servant, a city official, and was determined to act like one, within reason. He marched on, facing the out-of-control magicians he encountered.
In one case a woman was walking along with a man held screaming in the air over her head-eight or nine feet over her head. Hanner hesitated, considered intervening-but then she took off as well, flying away with the man in tow. Whatever had happened had clearly not been limited to Newmarket and Fishertown; Hanner saw people and things flying about in the Old City, the New City, Allston, and the Arena district. He wondered just how widespread the mysterious effect really was-did it extend outside the city walls of Ethshar of the Spices? Were the other two great cities of the Hegemony affected? Or the Small Kingdoms, or the lands to the north and west of Ethshar?
But that was absurd. Who would unleash a spell powerful enough to cover so great an area as that?
Of course, the broader the affected area, the less likely the effects would be permanent-perhaps the spell, whatever it was and whoever was responsible, would fade away soon, and his trip halfway across the city in the middle of the night would have been for nothing.
He was here now, though-and he was not the only one. He could hear voices ahead, angry voices.
He hoped the madness had not affected any wizards or other magicians-that could bereally dangerous. He forced himself to trot faster.
At the corner of Wizard Street he turned and found himself facing a crowd.
It was perhaps less than an hour beforemidnight, but unlike anywhere else he had been, the street was full of people. Torches and lanterns, ordinarily extinguished by this hour of the night, were brightly ablaze; doors and windows stood open, and dozens, perhaps hundreds, of people were milling about, talking excitedly. Some wore ordinary tunics, skirts, and breeches; others wore the formal robes of magicians; and some had clearly come directly from their beds and were dressed in nightshirts or hastily donned household robes. Most of them looked scared or at least nervous.
No one seemed to be in charge; instead the crowd was gathered into small groups, a few voices in each arguing loudly, while people around the periphery would drift from one bunch to the next. Hanner guessed that these were people at least as confused and frightened by the night’s events as he was, come, as he had, to seek the help of the city’s magicians.
And judging by the snatches of conversation and debate he overheard, no one was getting very satisfactory answers.
He hurried down the block, listening, but heard nothing that hinted at an understanding of what was happening.
These were apparently all wizards here, though, and Hanner thought other kinds of magicians might know more. He turned left at the end of the block, then right, and trotted into Witch Alley.
This area was quieter-witchcraft was generally a quieter sort of magic than wizardry, and its practitioners and purchasers followed suit. Still, there were two or three dozen people clustered in the street and in doorways, talking. Here, too, they wore the same assorted clothing; he even saw one man in the yellow tunic and red kilt of the city guard.
Hanner spotted a familiar face, one he had hoped to see, and called, “Mother Perréa!”
The old woman at the center of one of the smaller groups turned. “Lord Hanner,” she said. She beckoned to him, and ignoring the aching of his feet he ran up to join the handful of people gathered about her. He paused there, struggling to catch his breath, and the witch asked him, “Did the overlord send you, my lord, or your uncle?”
Hanner shook his head. “Neither,” he said. “I came on my own.”
“And have you come to ask questions or answer them?”
“Ask them, I’m afraid,” he said. “Though I’ll answer any I can.”
“Then let me answer the most obvious and say that we do not know who or what is responsible for this outbreak of magical m
adness.”
Hanner’s face fell. He had told himself, after seeing the situation on Wizard Street, that this was the most likely answer, but he had still hoped. “Do you knowanything about it, then? Is it a wizard’s spell gone wrong, perhaps, like the legendary Tower of Flame?”
Perréa turned up an empty palm. “We don’t know what it is— but we know a few things it isn’t.”
“That would be better than nothing,” Hanner said.
“It isn’t wizardry at all,” she told him. “I don’t know whether the wizards themselves have determined that yet, but I can assure you, it’s not wizardry. The feel of it is entirely different.”
That astonished Hanner; he had not thought anything but wizardry could be so powerfully chaotic. “Is it witchcraft, then?”
“It’s more like witchcraft than wizardry, but no, it’s not witchcraft. A witch could not have the strength to do some of what we’ve seen. Nor is it sorcery, nor theurgy-the priests have consulted Unniel and Aibem, and there is no question.”
“Demonology?” Hanner couldn’t think of any other possibilities that remained. It was unimaginable that any of the lesser magicks he was familiar with, such as herbalism, could be responsible for something like this.
“We have not yet ruled that out, but neither have we found any evidence to support it,” Perréa said. She pointed at a black-robed man a few yards away. “That’s Abden the Black, an excellent demonologist, and as trustworthy as any I have dealt with-”
“Which is not a strong endorsement, is it?” Manner interrupted.
Perréa smiled. “No, I’m afraid it’s not-but he assures me that this is no sort of demonology he knows, and he seems quite sincere. My craft can read truth and falsehood in most people, and although it’s not completely reliable on demonologists, I believe him.”
Before Hanner could ask another question, one of the others in the group interrupted.
“You came from the overlord’s Palace?” she asked him.
Hanner had given the others present very little attention, but now he looked at the questioner and felt himself flush. She was a slender woman of slightly below average height,’ heavily made up. She wore a bright red tunic embroidered in red and gold, cut very low, and a darker red skirt that was slit up one side almost to her hip. Her long, full hair was fiery red as well-an extremely unusual color, though Hanner had heard it was more common in distant places like Tintallion and Meroa.
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