Night of Madness loe-7

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “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 curbston
e 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.

  Chapter Ten

  Kennan stood in the corner of the plaza, staring in frustration at the ranked soldiers.

  They wouldn’t let himnear the Palace. When he had told them he had to speak with the Lord High Magistrate about his stolen son, they had told him that a hundred other people were in line ahead of him, and the overlord wasn’t lettinganyone see Lord Karannin.

  And then when those people had come flying up Arena Street the soldiers hadn’t taken them prisoner or tried to kill them— instead they had just sent someone totalk to them. Kennan stood up on his toes, trying to see clearly, as the officer talked to the chubby young man in the fancy tunic.

  As he watched, the officer turned and beckoned to another soldier. They spoke quietly for a moment, and then the second soldier began pushing his way toward the Palace.

  Kennan watched, fuming-was that guardsman going to be permitted in, where he, an honest citizen with a legitimate grievance, was not?

  But then the guardsman was stopped on the bridge, and his message, whatever it was, was relayed from there.

  So even messengers weren’t being permitted inside.

  Then he couldn’t hope to get inside the Palace tonight. He looked at the motley bunch of people gathered at the mouth of Arena Street —the young man in the fancy tunic, the flying whore, the worried-looking guardsman, and the rest.

  If the guards could talk to them, Kennan decided, so could he. They might know what was going on, and where Aken had been taken. He began making his way around the side of the square.

  By the time he reached Arena Street the others had retreated slightly, and it took a moment before he could locate them again. There were people scattered about, some standing, some sitting against walls, but he couldn’t tell which were magicians; no one was hanging in the air anymore.

  At last he spotted the redheaded whore perched atop the wall surrounding a mansion on Aristocrat Circle. He walked up to her and called up,“Hai! I’d like to talk to you.”

  She turned and looked down at him.

  “Go away,” she said. “I’m not available.”

  Kennan felt his ears redden. “I’m not a customer,” he snapped. “I need to ask you something, about my son.”

  The redhead looked bored. “What name was he using?” she asked.

  “He wasn’t a customer, either,” Kennan said, exasperated. “It’s not aboutyou.”

  “If it’s not aboutme, then why are youasking me?” she demanded.

  “I saw you flying,” Kennan said. “I thought you might know something.”

  The whore sighed. “Then ask. But I probably don’t.”

  “His name is Aken of the Strong Arm. He was taken from his bed earlier tonight, snatched out the window by magic.”

  The woman turned up an empty palm. “I never heard of him,” she said. “Don’t know anything about anyone being snatched out a bedroom window. Sorry.” “Is there someone I could ask? Some magician?”

  The woman turned up her palm again.

  “Gods, woman, don’t you have any compassion?” Kennan shouted. “My son is missing, and I want to know who’s responsible!”

  “None of usknow who’s responsible, old man!” the redhead shouted back. “We don’t know you and we don’t know your son, and in case you haven’t noticed, half the city has gone raving mad tonight, prancing about smashing shop windows and setting things on fire, and some of us have had this magic thrust upon us, and we don’t know any more about it thanyou do!”

  Kennan stared up at her in silent anger, fists clenching and unclenching.

  “Go away,” she said, and Kennan found himself forced back, against his will, toward the plaza.

  He fought at first, but it did no good, so at last he turned and walked away under his own power. When he had rounded the corner, out of sight of the woman in red, he stopped, took a deep breath, and collected himself.

  He didn’t know who those people were, but theyowed him an explanation.

  Just then he heard a commotion behind him, and he turned to see a girl in her early teens step out of the lines of soldiers and call, “Hanner?”

  Kennan turned and watched as the man in the silk-trimmed tunic appeared out of the shadows and spoke to the girl-who, Kennan realized, must have come from the Palace.

  There was something going on here, definitely. All of these people were working together, he was sure of it. He watched them closely, trying to hear as much as he could of their conversation.

  �
�Woone may enter!” the girl said. Kennan couldn’t make out her next sentence, but that was clear. He listened and heard her conclude, “No exceptions at all.”

  Kennan didn’t hear the next exchange, but then the girl said, “It’ll be an adventure!” She reached into her purse and showed the man something Kennan couldn’t see.

  More words Kennan couldn’t catch, and then the man raised his voice and called, “Yorn! Rudhira! Varrin! All of you! Follow me!”

  The girl made a protest Kennan couldn’t hear, and for a moment the two argued, but the man clearly won. The girl turned and began walking away from the square, into the darkness of Aristocrat Circle.

  Several of the people who had been standing or sitting around arose and followed-including the redheaded whore, and two others who flew rather than walked.

  Kennan hesitated only briefly, then followed. “You’ll do what I tell you!” Elken the Beggar bellowed, hovering above the Hundred-Foot Field, pointing down at the thirty or so people he had gathered.

  “Elken, this is stupid,” Tanna the Thief said. “If you’re such a powerful magician now, why are you stayinghere}” She pointed at Wall Street. “Why don’t you go into the city and make a placethere}”

  “Shut up!” Elken said. “I know better than that. Iwent into the city, and I came back. There are hundreds of magicians in the city, and lords ordering them around. Buthere, there’s just me— me, and the bunch of you, and you’re all going to be my slaves now.”

  “All right, fine,” an old woman said. “What do you want us to do?”

  “That’s better,” Elken said, mollified. “I want you to put together the tents and make a place worthy of me! And I want all the food you’ve got stashed away. And if anyone has anyoushka, I want that, too.”

  The others looked at one another. A few whispered comments were exchanged, empty palms turned up.

  Twenty minutes later Elken lay on a pile of mismatched bedding-abig pile, collected from at least a dozen of the residents of the Hundred-Foot Field-beneath a canopy made out of Old Man Kelder’s tent stretched across the poles from Anaran the Thief’s hut. He had a strip of dried salt beef in one hand, a half-full bottle ofoushka in the other.