“Dithering,” Serem said. “Hardly a surprise. He’s had less than three years as overlord-this is the first real crisis he’s faced since his father died. And Ethshar of the Rocks apparently didn’t suffer anywhere near as badly as the other two cities, so he doesn’t have the same urgency.”
Manrin nodded. “Execution seems a bitdrastic” he said mildly. “After all, not all the warlocks committed any crimes, and they have family and friends...”
“Ithinia mentioned that,” Serem said. “In fact, she says that Lord Faran, Azrad’s chief advisor, brought it to her attention. Apparently he’s gathered a party of warlocks he says haven’t hurt anyone, and is speaking on their behalf. For myself, I still think they’re all involved in the disappearances somehow. Until I see Gita again, I’m not inclined to be merciful.”
Ulpen threw Manrin a look, and Manrin stroked his beard thoughtfully.
He had lived in Ethshar of the Sands for eighty-some years, since he was only a journeyman, but if Lord Ederd was considering exiling or hanging warlocks it might be time to leave, and Serem’s news suggested an obvious destination. Talking to other warlocks, comparing notes, might be very useful, and having Lord Faran’s protection would be welcome. Manrin had not visited Ethshar of the Spices for almost thirty years, so he had never met Lord Faran, but the man’s reputation for energetic leadership was known throughout the Hegemony.
The next question was how to get there, given that his wizardry was unreliable. The journey by ordinary methods would take at least a sixnight, and the delay might be dangerous.
Manrin knew warlocks could fly, at least some of them, but he didn’t know yet whetherhe could fly, especially for a distance as great as the forty leagues to Ethshar of the Spices.
And flying openly might attract unwanted attention-though of course, as a wizard, he could always lie about how he was doing it.
Another method of travel would be a good idea-and as a Guildmaster, he saw an obvious possibility.
It was slightly risky, since he had no idea what his superiors in the Guild thought of warlocks, or whether they had developed any easy methods for recognizing them. Serem apparently hadn’t noticed anything different about Manrin, or seen anything unusual about Ulpen-but Serem was distracted by the loss of his wife, and was not the most perceptive wizard in the World.
Still, Manrin thought, using the Guild’s transportation methods would be fastest and easiest. “You know, I think I’d like to speak to Ithinia,” he said. “In fact, I think I’d like to visit her, in Ethshar of the Spices. Does Perinan still have the tapestry in his attic?”
“Of course,” Serem said.
“In that case,” Manrin said, “I think we had better be going.” He bowed. “Our thanks for your help.” “But you just got here!” Serem protested. “Could I get you a cup of tea before you go? Some grapes?”
Manrin held up a hand. “No, no. Thank you, but we really must go. We were just stopping by to see how you were faring in all this.”
Baffled, Serem turned up a palm. “If you must,” he said.
Five minutes later Manrin and Ulpen were hurrying south on Wizard Street, through sparse and nervous crowds. “We’ll stop at my house,” Manrin said. “I want to fetch a few things. Did you bring anything at all with you?”
“Not much,” Ulpen said. “I’m just an apprentice, after all-”
“You’re something rather different now, I would say,” Manrin interrupted. “And whatever you are, I want you to have everything you brought with you when we use the tapestry. I’m not sure we’ll be coming back.”
“I don’t understand,” Ulpen said, struggling to keep up-Manrin was old, but he still walked fast enough to give Ulpen a challenge. “What tapestry? Come back from where? What’s going on?”
They had reached Manrin’s own front door; there he pulled Ulpen into the tiny portico and said, “Perinan has a Transporting Tapestry-anyone who touches it is instantly transported to a shop in Ethshar of the Spices, in the neighborhood they call the Old City. We are going to use it to get ourselves out of this city. You heard Serem-he thinks warlocks murdered his wife, so he wants us exterminated, and thinks Ederd can be convinced to hang us all. I don’t think it was warlocks who made poor Gita disappear, but he’s probably right about Ederd.”
“But he said Lord Azrad wanted to kill us all, too! Isn’t Azrad the overlord of Ethshar of the Spices? Shouldn’t we be going somewhere else? What about that Wulran person?”
“Wulran II is overlord of Ethshar of the Rocks,” Manrin said. “And while his city may be safer now, if the other two triumvirs agree that warlocks should be exterminated throughout the Hegemony of the Three Ethshars, he’ll go along. He’ll have to; that’s how the triumvirate works on issues that affect all three cities, by majority vote.”
“But-” Ulpen began.
“But maybe theywon’t agree,” Manrin said before Ulpen could get another word out, “because Lord Azrad may well change his mind. By all accounts he’s let Lord Faran run Ethshar of the Spices for him for the past ten years, and Lord Faran wants to protect warlocks. We’re going there to find Lord Faran, and join up with him, and do everything we can to help him convince Lord Azrad.” He hesitated, then added, “Besides, if we’re to have any chance of influencing the Guild’s position on all this, we need to talk to Ithinia. She’s the senior Guildmaster in Ethshar of the Spices.”
“Butyou’re a Guildmaster!”
“I amthe junior Guildmaster here,” Manrin said. “That’s why I’m responsible for rural wizards like yourself. Perinan is the senior, and there are four others that I know of, all of whom outrank me.”
“That youknow of?” Ulpen’s voice cracked. “The Guild is a little too fond of secrets for its own good, my boy. There is a great deal going on within it that the ordinary members never hear about, and there are things that not even a Guildmaster necessarily knows.” He knocked on the door. “You know, Serem may be a Guildmaster, or if he is not as yet, he’ll probably become one soon. Now, let’s move along.”
Derneth opened the door, and Manrin stepped in, telling Der-neth, “Pack me a bag-I need to take a trip. I’ll be gone for at least a few days; I’m not sure exactly how long.”
“In the city, Master?”
“In Ethshar of the Spices.”
Derneth nodded. “As you say.”
Twenty minutes later Abdaran had been sent home without his apprentice, and Manrin was waiting impatiently at the door while Ulpen stared about, still trying to comprehend what was happening. Events were moving far too quickly for him. He had his pack on his shoulders; it was far lighter than it had been on the walk from North Herris, since he was no longer carrying any of Abdaran’s belongings.
It was discomfiting to be out of Abdaran’s keeping and in a strange place. He had only met Manrin an hour or two before, yet he had put himself entirely in the Guildmaster’s hands. He wondered whether that was really proper and in keeping with the terms of his apprenticeship and his oaths to the Guild.
At last Derneth appeared with yet another bag. Manrin picked up the two he had already had, and reached for this new bundle, but Ulpen took it from Derneth. “If I might help, Guildmaster?” he said.
“Good,” Manrin said. “Good.” He looked at Derneth. “Take care of the place,” he said. “I really don’t know when I’ll be back. Tell my children not to worry. If Ferris returns, tell one of the neighbors to let me know with the Spell of Invaded Dreams.”
“Yes, Master,” Derneth said.
“And take care of yourself, Derneth,” Manrin said. “I know I’ve treated you rudely much of the time, but you’ve always done a fine job and never complained.”
Ulpen watched as the expression of weary resignation that had been on Derneth’s face every time Ulpen had seen him suddenly cracked into real concern. “It’s that serious, Master?”
“It might be-but you aren’t involved. You’ll be fine. And it might all come to nothing. We’ll see.” With that, he hefted
his two bags up on his shoulders and marched out the door.
Ulpen hurried after him.
He glanced back when they were half a block down Gate Street and saw Derneth still standing in the open doorway, staring after them.
Chapter Twenty-four
“Shouldn’t we have heard something by now?” Hanner asked, looking at the odd black talisman that Uncle Faran said was his link to Guildmaster Ithinia.
They were sitting in the front parlor of the house on High Street, in a pair of chairs by the mantel that Hanner supposed would be cozy in the winter, with the black talisman on a small table between them. Right now, in the heat of summer, with no fire on the hearth, the main virtue of this location was that it was out of the way of the various warlocks moving hither and yon through the house.
Lord Faran turned up an empty palm. “They’re wizards,” he replied. “What did you expect?”
Hanner could hardly argue with that; he knew well that most wizards kept their own schedules, ignoring the convenience of lesser beings-though he had never been able to decide whether this was arrogance or sloppiness. “If they don’t reach a decision soon Lord Azrad may get tired of waiting,” he said. “He’s never struck me as a patient man.”
“He’s not,” Faran agreed. “He gets bored easily and hates waiting for anything. That’s why he let me and his three brothers and his other advisors run everything. But he hates doing his own work even more, usually.” He tapped the talisman, but it remained inert.
He frowned. “Maybe I should see if I have some other way to determine whether she’s trying to contact me.”
“Can’t you just use that?” Hanner said, gesturing at the talisman. It occurred to him for the first time that his uncle might not actually know everything about how the sorcerous device worked; perhaps Faran wasn’t confident that the thing would do what it was supposed to.
“It might interrupt something,” Faran said. “If she’s meeting with other Guildmasters I don’t want to suddenly start talking to her from the talisman. That would be rude.” He grimaced. “I can’t think what I might use, but I can’t remember everything I’ve got up there.” He rose from his chair and picked up the talisman. “You know something about magic-or at least you ought to, after all the time you’ve spent in the Wizards’ Quarter on my behalf. Why don’t you come upstairs with me and see if you have any suggestions?”
“I’d be glad to,” Hanner said, getting to his feet.
That was the simple truth, for several reasons.
First off, he was eager to help out. He doubted he really knew enough about magic to be helpful, but he would be happy to try. Second, he was desperately curious about just what Uncle Faran had stashed away up there. The sorcerous device that let two people speak to one another despite any intervening distance was completely unlike anything Hanner had seen before-most of the sorcerers he knew specialized in healing, or in consulting oracles, or in working with odd little things like fire-starters and lost-object locators. A few offered the use of magical weapons. None had ever mentioned anything like Faran’s talisman. Hanner wanted very much to see what else Faran might have acquired in his years of research.
Third, the mansion’s ground floor was getting almost crowded. Warlocks had been drifting in, one or two at a time, all day; word was circulating through the city that this was a refuge for them, a place they could come when their former homes cast them out or their neighbors made them unwelcome. As news of disappearances and destruction spread, more and more warlocks were being cast out or made unwelcome.
Faran and Hanner-and Bern when he was there; at the moment he had gone out to market to replenish the pantries-had made them all welcome.
Most of Manner’s party from the Night of Madness had returned, along with assorted friends and neighbors and various other warlocks who had somehow heard about the refuge at the corner of High Street and Coronet. Mavi, though not a warlock herself, had brought an afflicted friend, a young woman named Pancha; after seeing Pancha introduced and settled in, Mavi had stayed on to visit with Alris. They were upstairs, in the room Alris shared with Rudhira.
Hanner had hoped that Mavi would also visit withhim, but Uncle Faran had had him running errands at the time, assigning new arrivals to various guest rooms, which had kept him too busy to socialize.
Hinda, the little kitchen girl from the Palace, was now busily cleaning out the kitchens here, eager to earn her keep; Rudhira and half a dozen others were out in the garden, holding some sort of competition in the use of warlockry.
That left a score of others wandering about the parlors, salons, and halls of the ground floor. While Hanner had grown up amid the bustle of the overlord’s palace, he still felt a little strained by this population of strangers.
Fourth, he wanted to get farther away from the front windows and their view of High Street.
The influx of warlocks had not gone unnoticed; Hanner supposed that people had followed Faran from the square when he first arrived. Certainly, ever since shortly after that there had been a varying number of observers, standing in the street and watching the house intently. Individuals came and went, but whenever Hanner looked out someone was there-usually about half a dozen at a time. One old man seemed particularly determined, and was there at the dooryard fence, glowering at the house, every time Hanner looked.
Hanner was not at all sure what these people thought they were accomplishing by this unrelenting scrutiny, but apparently they had something in mind-and he was fairly sure, from the looks they gave anyone entering or leaving the house, that their intentions were hostile. Warlocks who were capable of flight had mostly been arriving by way of the garden, rather than passing this group; earthbound warlocks had been approaching cautiously, then making a dash through the gate to the front door.
Nobody in the house liked the presence of these stubborn sentinels, but there really wasn’t much that could be done about it. A person had the right to stand in the public street, after all. So long as they stayed outside the iron fence, Faran could not order them to leave.
And there they stood, making Hanner uncomfortable. Going up to the third or fourth floor would get him away from the watchers, and away from the crowd of warlocks.
“Come on, then,” Faran said as he started toward the stairs.
But just then the hum of street noise suddenly rose in volume, and Faran and Hanner both paused. They looked at each other as the conversation among the warlocks around them faded away.
Everyone had heard the change. The people out front of the house were yelling now, though no one inside could make out words. The motley collection of warlocks looked about nervously. Several went to the front windows and peered around the drapes.
“Blood and death,” Faran said. “What are they doing now?” He redirected his steps to the front door.
Hanner followed.
Faran swung the door wide and stood in the doorway, looking out-and leaving Hanner no good way to see past his uncle.
“What is it?” Hanner asked.
“It would appear we have company coming,” Faran replied. “Company in wizards’ robes.”
“Ithinia?”
“No,” Faran said. “It’s someone I never saw before, an old man with an apprentice.”
“How would they know where we are?” someone Hanner didn’t know asked from the parlor.
Hanner could see Faran struggling to stay polite.
“They’re wizards,” he said. “You’re no wizard, andyou found it. And those people out front certainly aren’t making much of an effort to keep it secret.”
“... teach those warlocks about magic!” someone shouted from the street.
“One wizard and an apprentice coming here can’t be much of a threat,” Othisen said, coming up beside Hanner.
Hanner snorted. “If the Guild had decided to kill us they wouldn’t need to come here in person at all,” he said. “I’d guess they’re bringing a message.” He glanced at Faran. “Maybe that talisman isn’t work
ing properly.”
“I’d think Ithinia would have come herself or sent...” Faran stopped in midsentence as the strangers turned and stepped through the open gate into the little dooryard under the intense scrutiny of various observers. “Greetings,” he said. “I am Lord Faran, formerly chief advisor to Lord Azrad.”
“I am Manrin the Mage,” replied one of the strangers-a stocky old man of medium height wearing a white and gold wizard’s robe. “This young man is Ulpen of North Herris. I understand you’ve been gathering warlocks here.”
Faran cocked his head. “If you’ll excuse me for asking, Master Wizard, if I have, how does this concern you? Are you here to speak on behalf of the Wizards’ Guild?”
“I am here on my own behalf, not the Guild’s,” Manrin said. “If we could enter and perhaps speak privately, I will be glad to explain myself.” He glanced over his shoulder at the old man staring through the fence at them.
Faran followed Manrin’s gaze, then bowed and stepped aside. “Enter, then, and be welcome.”
The wizards were plainly startled by what they found inside, though Hanner was not sure whether they were most surprised by the opulent furnishings, the number of warlocks milling about, or the bizarre assortment of attire on display, ranging from Faran’s fine court silk to Zarek’s rags. Manrin quickly hid his reaction, but Ulpen stared about openly.
“You wanted to speak privately?” Faran said.
“If we could,” Manrin said.
“If you’ll come upstairs to my study, then?” Faran gestured toward the stairs and took a step in that direction.
“Of course.” Manrin beckoned to Ulpen to accompany him as he followed Faran.
Faran, seeing this, beckoned to Hanner. “Lord Hanner will accompany us,” he said.
Othisen threw Hanner an envious glance, then stepped aside and let the foursome ascend.
Hanner was not sure at first just what study his uncle was referring to-there was a study on the ground floor, he knew, but not one on the second so far as he had observed. That question was answered, however, when Faran unlocked the door to the second staircase, the one leading to the third story.
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