Night of Madness loe-7

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Manrin sighed and put down his athame. “Yes?” he called.

  The door opened and his servant Derneth peered in. “Master? You have visitors.” “Lord Kalthon? Or Lady ZarrГ©a?”

  “No, Master. A wizard by the name of Abdaran the White, and his apprentice, Ulpen of North Herris.”

  Manrin frowned. “Abdaran? Oh, yes. I know him. He has an apprentice?”

  “Apparently, Master.”

  “Send them in.”

  Derneth hesitated-ordinarily, Manrin met visitors in one of the parlors. Still, the order was clear enough. “Yes, Master,” he said, closing the door.

  Manrin looked at his question again, debating whether “explain” or “describe” would be the better verb-or whether either of them would transform the question to a request, which the Divination would not handle properly. Perhaps “What is the nature of...”

  The door opened again and two wizards stepped in-a man who appeared to be perhaps half a century in age, with snow-white hair, and a black-haired lad of sixteen or so, both in formal robes. Abdaran wore deep red, while the boy-presumably Ulpen-wore apprentice gray.

  “Guildmaster,” the older man said with a bow.

  “Abdaran,” Manrin said, pushing aside the paper. “What brings you to Ethshar?”

  Abdaran smiled wryly. “My feet, actually,” he said. “I had no transportation spells on hand, and the matter seemed urgent. May we sit down?”

  “If you can find somewhere to sit, by all means,” Manrin said, gesturing broadly. “What was it that seemed urgent?”

  Abdaran looked significantly at a chair, and Ulpen hurriedly cleared several books and a neatly tied bundle of small bones off it, so that his master could sit. When Abdaran had settled comfortably, he said, “My apprentice, Ulpen, has developed some curious new abilities.”

  Ulpen was busily clearing jars from another chair-there were only three chairs, in addition to Manrin’s own stool, and a great many things were stacked on them-and didn’t see Manrin look questioningly at him.

  “What sort of abilities?” Manrin asked.

  “Primarily, the ability to move physical objects by the power of thought alone,” Abdaran replied.

  “Warlockry,” Manrin said. He looked at Ulpen. “But surely, he has his athame?”

  “Of course he does, Guildmaster,” Abdaran said. “Right there on his belt. I’m afraid I don’t see the relevance, however, nor do I recognize the word ’warlockry.’ We heard it mentioned by the guards in Grandgate, but we don’t know the term.”

  Ulpen finally got the chair cleared and sat down, turning to face his elders expectantly. Manrin stared at the two in surprise. “Gods!” he said. “Where have you two been?”

  “North Herris,” Abdaran said sharply. “A village some eight leagues northeast of here, as you certainly ought to know.”

  “Master,” Ulpen whispered loudly, “he’s aGuildmaster!”

  Manrin sighed. “No, he’s right, boy,” he said. “I’m sorry, it’s been so much in evidence here that... well, obviously you somehow missed it.”

  “Missed what?” Abdaran said, keeping his tone more civil this time.

  “The Night of Madness,” Manrin said. “That’s what people are calling it. The night before last-late on the fourth day of Sum-merheat, and into the morning of the fifth.”

  Abdaran looked at him expectantly, and Manrin continued, “Somewhere after sunset, but still a little beforemidnight on that night,something happened. We still don’t know what; attempts at divination have been unsuccessful, apparently blocked by somevery powerful, and completely unfamiliar, magic. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of people who were sleeping were awakened by intense nightmares; some people who were awake report an odd sensation, as if hit by something invisible. Many of both groups began screaming, though they often couldn’t explain why, and many of them panicked. Almost everyone who screamed, and some who did not, discovered that like your apprentice here they could now move objects about without touching them. And those who panicked went rampaging through their homes and the streets, using their new power to smash anything in their way and snatch whatever caught their fancy. Some who hadn’t panicked did the same, simply because the opportunity was there and they could see others running wild in this fashion. Dozens of people were killed, shops and houses were smashed or burned-it wasvery bad, and you’re lucky to have missed it.”

  Ulpen’s face had gone pale, and Abdaran frowned deeply.

  “I see,” he said. “And you think this thing has affected my apprentice?”

  “Yes, I do,” Manrin said. “Assuming that he can, in fact, move things in this fashion. If so, then yes, he’s a warlock.”

  “Show him,” Abdaran said, turning to Ulpen.

  Ulpen swallowed, looked around, and pointed at the bundle of bones he had moved from Abdaran’s chair. “Will that do?”

  “Certainly,” Manrin said-and before the word had entirely left his lips the bundle was floating in midair, a foot or so off the floor. It moved tentatively back and forth, then lowered itself back to the planking.

  “And have you had bad dreams these past two nights?” Manrin asked. “Dreams of falling, or burning, or being buried alive?”

  “Not last night,” Ulpen said. “The night before, yes.”

  Manrin turned back to Abdaran. “He’s definitely a warlock,” he said. “This word ’warlock,’ ” Abdaran asked, “where is it from?”

  “The witches in Ethshar of the Spices reportedly say that this magic resembles a secret they used during the Great War, centuries ago. The name has caught on, though it appears the resemblance is only superficial.”

  “Are there many people affected this way?”

  “Lord Ederd’s people estimate there could be hundreds, perhaps as many as a thousand, just in Ethshar of the Sands, and reports from Ethshar of the Spices indicate they have a similar number. Ethshar of the Rocks has fewer-perhaps a few hundred at most. We have no word as yet from the Small Kingdoms or thenorthern territories.” He hesitated, then added, “I haven’t told you the worst of it. When this first happened, hundreds of people simply disappeared. Some were seen walking or running or even flying, using their new abilities, to the north-north by northeast, to be precise. Others were just gone when their families awoke the next day. None of them have returned; we have no idea what became of them. Most people assume the warlocks are responsible, and Ederd is considering ordering them all into exile-or perhaps killing the lot of them, though I doubt anyone would want to bethat drastic. Apparently the other two members of the triumvirate favor this solution, as well.”

  “Can’t you find out what caused all this?” Abdaran asked.

  Manrin turned up an empty palm. “We’re trying,” he said. “So far we’ve established that it wasn’t the work of a god, that despite the similarities it’s not witchcraft, that it isn’t any recognizable form of wizardry that’s responsible.” He looked at Ulpen again. “And wethought that it didn’t affect wizards. You do have a proper athame, don’t you, lad?”

  Ulpen nodded and patted the sheathed dagger on his belt.

  “Well, then we have a puzzle,” Manrin said. “A part of your soul is in that knife, and we thought that meant that wizards can’t do any other kind of magic. That’s why we forbid anyone to learn more than one kind of magic-because we thought we couldn’t do it, and we didn’t want anyone else to have an advantage over us. We know we can’t summon gods or demons, or learn witchcraft, because of our divided souls-but it would appear we can still be warlocks. Interesting!”

  Ulpen swallowed hard, then said, “Guildmaster?”

  “Yes? Speak freely, my boy.”

  “I’m not sure Iam a wizard anymore.”

  Manrin eyed the boy thoughtfully.

  “Explain that, if you please,” he said.

  Ulpen glanced at his master, took a deep breath, and said, “I haven’t worked a real spell since the night before last-since this thing happened. And I’ve tried four times. When it d
idn’t work I used the new magic instead.”

  Manrin and Abdaran both stared at him for a moment. Then Manrin said, “Abdaran, would you be so kind as to test the boy’s athame?” Abdaran turned, puzzled. “Test it? How?”

  Manrin sighed. How in the World had Abdaran ever qualified as a master wizard without learning these simple tricks? “Touch the tip of his athame with the tip of yours. We should see a clear reaction.”

  Abdaran frowned, but drew his dagger. Ulpen drew his own and held it out, remembering at the last moment to offer it point first, instead of the standard polite hilt first.

  Abdaran touched the knives together.

  A sudden loud crackle sounded, and a burst of green and blue sparks appeared from the point of contact, spraying in all directions and then vanishing. Abdaran was so startled he dropped his own athame, but he caught it before it hit the floor.

  Manrin frowned. “That’s odd,” he said. “You never tried that before?”

  “No, Guildmaster,” Abdaran said, his tone more respectful than it had been a moment ago.

  “It should have been more of abang, and there should have been more colors,” Manrin said unhappily. “So the boy is a wizard, but there is something notright about his athame. Was he a good student before this?”

  “Competent enough,” Abdaran admitted. “Not brilliant, but he could work a dozen spells reliably.”

  “Well, there’s definitely something wrong.” He picked up his own athame from the workbench. “Here, I’ll show you.” He held out the knife.

  Abdaran rose from his chair and approached cautiously until at last the knife points touched. The air crackled again, and a shower of blue and purple sparks exploded from nowhere and vanished into nothingness.

  Manrin stared. “Butthat’s not right!” he said. “That wasn’t any better at all. It must beyour athame that’s damaged! Here, boy, come try yours.”

  Ulpen obeyed-but when his athame touched Manrin’s there was only a fizzing hiss, and a handful of indigo sparks trickled.

  “Oh, no,” Manrin said, staring at the daggers.“Oh, please, no!”

  The pieces had fallen into place.

  “Guildmaster?” Abdaran said, puzzled.

  “Get out!” Manrin bellowed, waving his free hand wildly. “Get out of here, right now! I must talk to the boyalone!”

  Baffled and clearly upset, Abdaran retreated to the door. “I don’t...” he began.

  “Out!”

  “But he’smy apprentice...” Manrin brandished his athame. “Get out now, or I’ll turn you into a toad, I swear by all the gods!”

  Abdaran got. Manrin closed the door behind him and locked it securely.

  Then he turned to Ulpen.

  “Now,” he said, “I want you to tell me how you move things, how you do your warlockry.”

  “I don’t understand,” Ulpen said. His face was ashen with terror. “What’s going on?”

  “What’s going on, boy, is that you and I have something in common, though I didn’t realize it until I saw thatboth our atha-mes are somehow depleted. I was sosure that wizards would be immune that I missed the obvious!”

  “The obviouswhat, Guildmaster?”

  “ThatI’m a warlock, too! And that’s why I haven’t been able to work any high-order magic for the past two days!” He gestured with the athame. “We’re still wizards, you and I-we know the spells, and we have our athames-but this new magic is suppressing our skills.”

  “It is? How can you be sure?”

  Manrin had been on the verge of dancing around the room, but now he stopped and stared at Ulpen.

  “I can besure with a simple divination,” he said. He looked at the Book of Spells, and the waiting salt, incense, and blood. “But we may need to have someone else perform the spell.”

  “Should I call Abdaran back?”

  Manrin held up a palm. “No,” he said. “I don’t think we want Abdaran involved; he’s just a country wizard. This is a Guild matter.” He thought for a moment, then said, “Serem should do.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Serem the Wise kept no servants; instead he had animated objects of various sorts that he considered sufficient for his needs. Manrin disagreed. Self-pouring teapots and perpetually moving fan trees were all very well, but the door did not answer itself. When Serem was training an apprentice that was no problem, but Kalinna was a journeyman now, and Serem had not yet taken on anyone new. That left Serem himself and his wife Gita as the only occupants of the big house at the corner of Grand and Wizard Streets.

  And neither of them was rushing to answer the door.

  Ulpen stood beside Manrin, staring up at the house’s many gables, as Manrin waited impatiently. After a moment he rapped on the black enamel of the door, since the bellpull had gotten no response.

  If he had still been able to use magic properly he would have done something to verify that Serem was home, but that option was no longer reliable. He looked at the miniature shrines carved into the stone of the door frame, with their magically generated fire and water; when the house would be empty for an extended period Serem usually extinguished the flames and turned off the fountains, but right now both flames still burned behind the tiny altars, and water still flowed around the bases.

  Idly, he used his mysterious new abilities to twist the left-hand flame into a spiral. Now that heknew he was a warlock he could consciously control the power, and such a trick was easy and, he had to admit, fun. Becoming a warlock was by no means entirely bad.

  Ulpen’s gaze had worked its way down the painted corner-posts to the stone arch, and now he noticed what Manrin was doing.

  “We could open the door ourselves, Guildmaster,” he said.

  Startled, Manrin looked at him. The thought had not occurred to him, but of course Ulpen was right-unless there were magical protections Manrin didn’t know about, either of them could use warlockry to release the lock and open the door. He could sense the shape of the lock’s mechanism, and moving it without a key would be simple.

  He didn’t do it, though.

  “Yes, we could,” he said, “but that would be trespassing. In a wizard’s house.”

  “Oh...” Ulpen began-but just then the door opened, and Serem looked out at his two guests.

  “Oh, it’s you, Manrin,” he said. “Do you have any word of Gita?”

  Manrin was caught completely off guard by the question. “What?” he asked.

  “My wife,” Serem said. “Gita. She’s missing.”

  “Oh,” Manrin said. He swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. “Since the night before last?”

  “That’s right.” Serem sighed. “Then that’s not why you’re here?”

  “Not exactly, no.” He added, “My daughter Ferris is missing as well. I hope they’re safe.”

  “So do I,” Serem said. He stood aside. “Come in, and tell me why youare here.”

  Manrin and Ulpen were ushered into the parlor, where Ulpen stared at the potted palm that endlessly fanned the big wicker chair.

  Manrin had seen it countless times before and ignored it as he said, “Weare here about the results of the Night of Madness,” he said, “though not about poor Gita. I hadn’t realized she was one of those who vanished.”

  “She was,” Serem said. “Stolen by those damned warlocks, probably.”

  Ulpen threw Manrin a worried glance at that. Manrin, whose confidence and enthusiasm had already taken blows from both the necessity of walking the three long blocks from Gate Street to knock at Serem’s front door like an ordinary customer and the discovery that Gita was among the hundreds who had disappeared, decided that a direct request that Serem perform a divination to ascertain that Manrin and Ulpen were indeed warlocks and that that was the cause of their difficulties in performing wizardry was out of the question, at least for the moment.

  They couldn’t just turn around and leave, though. And the subject of the disappearances was of considerable importance.

  “I hadn’t thought
it was the warlocks who took Ferris-” Manrin began.

  “Who else could it be?” Serem interrupted angrily. “The warlocks appeared, hundreds of innocent people disappeared-I think there’s clearly a connection.”

  “Oh, I suppose there’s a connection, but I don’t see that the warlocks are necessarily at fault. We really don’tknow what happened.”

  “Idon’t, certainly, but someone probably does,” Serem said. “I’d hoped it was you, and you’d come to tell me about it.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Then you just came to compare notes?” Serem asked. “I’ve been doing that-I talked to Kendrik and Perinan and Ithinia, and one of Zerrea’s servants.” He glanced at Ulpen as if suddenly realizing that he didn’t recognize the youth, and asked, “Who is this?”

  “This is Ulpen of North Herris,” Manrin said. “He came to Ethshar to discuss the situation in his home village-they hadn’t realized that the Night of Madness had been so widespread.”

  “It seems to have beeneverywhere” Serem said. “Though it was worse some places than others. Apparently the Baronies of Sardiron were hit harder than we were, and in Aldagmor entire villages were reportedly depopulated. The survivors have been seeking shelter elsewhere, bringing the news.”

  “How are they dealing with it?” Manrin asked.

  “The Council of Barons is meeting in Sardiron of the Waters in a sixnight to discuss the matter, and meanwhile some of them are putting to death every warlock they catch-which strikes me as a good idea.”

  Ulpen went pale, but Serem was looking at Manrin, not at the apprentice, and didn’t notice. The Guildmaster hid his own reaction.

  Serem continued, “Ithinia says Lord Azrad wants the warlocks exterminated, and Ederd is debating exile-but exiling them is just pushing the problem on someone else, so he may well come around to hanging the lot of them, too.”

  That meant, Manrin thought, that he and Ulpen would not be welcome in two of the three cities in the Hegemony. “What about Lord Wulran?” he asked.