Night of Madness (25 page)

These failures and movements were worrisome. Anytime magic misbehaved there was good cause for concern; the forces involved could be catastrophically powerful.

Was age starting to catch up with him again? It had been a long time since his youth spell; he might well be due for another. He could scarcely expect to perform anything that difficult for himself under the circumstances, though, and hiring another wizard to do it would be troublesome and expensive. He almost wished he had gone for
eternal
youth the first time, rather than mere rejuvenation.

Or it might not have anything to do with age. Could there be any connection between his own problems and the mysterious magical power that had so disrupted the city's life?

Well, he was a wizard; when he had a question, no matter what it was, he could get an answer—if the spell worked. And if it didn't, he wasn't really much of a wizard.

He had gathered the necessary ingredients—salt, cock's blood, his athame, and a cake of the appropriate incense—and was working out the exact phrasing of the question he intended to address with Fendel's Divination, assuming he could indeed get the Divination to work, when someone knocked on his workshop door.

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 Zarréa?”

“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 a
Guildmaster!
”

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 Summerheat, and into the morning of the fifth.”

Abdaran looked at him expectantly, and Manrin continued, “Somewhere after sunset, but still a little before midnight on that night,
something
happened. We still don't know what; attempts at divination have been unsuccessful, apparently blocked by some
very
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 was
very
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 the northern 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 be
that
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 we
thought
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 I
am
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 didn'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 a
bang,
and there should have been more colors,” Manrin said unhappily. “So the boy is a wizard, but there is something not
right
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. “But
that's
not right!” he said. “That wasn't any better at all. It must be
your
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 boy
alone!
”

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

“Out!”

“But he's
my
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 that
both
our athames are somehow depleted. I was so
sure
that wizards would be immune that I missed the obvious!”

“The obvious
what,
Guildmaster?”

“That
I'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 be
sure
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.