Night of Madness (43 page)

“Protections,” he mumbled, pushing the bedclothes aside. “I need protec…”

Then he felt the hands close around his throat—clawed, inhuman hands. Faint light came from the windows and the crack beneath the doors, but he could see nothing at all; his attacker was invisible.

“Fendel's Assassin,” he said. “Good choice. And of course you wouldn't give me time to prepare; that would be stupid. I should have known.”

And then the grip tightened, and he could no longer breathe, let alone speak.

Chapter Thirty-nine

Lord Hanner awoke on the morning of the eighth day of Summerheat in his own familiar bed, in his own familiar room in the Palace, and spent several minutes lying there, simply enjoying the sensation.

Then he remembered how he had come here, and that Uncle Faran was dead, and all his joy in being home evaporated.

It might not even
be
his home much longer. He lived in this apartment because Uncle Faran had been chief advisor to the overlord; now Faran had not merely quit, he had died. Unless Hanner or one of his sisters found a position in the overlord's service, the overlord would probably order them all out eventually.

Uncle Faran had died. Hanner had still not fully absorbed that fact. Faran had been turned to stone and shattered. Petrifaction might be reversible sometimes, depending which spell was used, but nobody could reassemble a broken statue and then restore it to life intact. Faran was gone.

There could be no funeral, no pyre to send Faran's soul heavenward in the rising smoke; Faran was just gone. His marble remains could be collected, but there was no point in it—whatever was going to become of his soul had already happened. His ghost might still be in the Palace somewhere, might even manage to haunt it; half a dozen other ghosts were already said to be harmlessly resident, though Hanner had never encountered any of them. Faran's soul might be trapped forever in the stone or might have freed itself somehow when the stone broke open—those were all possible, and Hanner had no idea which had happened.

He would probably
never
know. Necromancy was expensive and unreliable.

Hanner sat up in bed and sighed. No matter how much he desired it, his life could never again be what it had been before the Night of Madness. Uncle Faran was dead. He could no longer be his uncle's aide; he would need to make a new career.

Uncle Faran was dead.

Abruptly, Hanner broke down in tears.

He couldn't remember a time when Uncle Faran hadn't been there; even when both his parents were alive and present, Faran had always been around. After Hanner's father disappeared, Faran helped his sister, Hanner's mother, with her three children.

And when their mother died, Faran took them all in and looked after them. He had been all they had left.

Hanner had loved and respected his uncle. It wasn't the same sort of love he had felt for his mother or father; Faran hadn't been anywhere near that close, and he had often overridden their desires in pursuit of his own ideas of what was best. But still, he had always been there, had always made sure Hanner and Nerra and Alris were safe. He had been the center of the family, the core they all revolved around.

Now that center was gone, leaving Hanner the eldest of the family.

He sat in his bed crying for several minutes, but at last regained control of himself and wiped his eyes with the bedsheets. When he felt sufficiently recovered he slid out of the bed and got dressed.

Nerra was slumped on the window seat in the sitting room, looking eastward over the Old City, and Hanner was fairly sure she had been crying, too.

“I can't believe he's gone,” she said.

“I know,” Hanner said.

Faran was gone—and that meant Hanner, as the eldest, was the head of the family. That meant, he realized, that he was responsible for the care of his sisters.

Nerra was eighteen, old enough to care for herself, but Alris was not.

Alris was still at the house on High Street. At least, Hanner certainly hoped she was, since she wasn't here. He would have to fetch her back to the Palace. If the overlord was still forbidding people entrance …

Well, if he was, that was foolish. The warlocks had demonstrated beyond question that if they wanted in, Azrad couldn't keep them out. If those orders were still in effect Hanner would just have to sneak Alris in anyway. He thought he could use his own warlockry to do it, if necessary, as he had at the house.

He would need to be very, very careful from now on, though, so as not to let anyone know that he was a warlock. Lord Azrad had sentenced the warlocks to exile, and the Wizards' Guild might well intend to exterminate them; Hanner had no intention of submitting to either fate.

For one thing, he was head of the family. If he were exiled, how could he look after Alris? There was no reason
she
should be exiled.

He would definitely need to fetch her home, right after breakfast.

“Have you eaten?” he asked.

Nerra turned up a hand. “I'm not hungry.”

“Nerra, I know you're grieving—so am I—but today may turn out to be extremely busy. It's not impossible that Lord Azrad will have us thrown out of these apartments. I really think you should eat something.”

Nerra did not say anything in reply, but she got up from the window seat and trudged toward the door. Hanner followed.

In the kitchens Hanner watched to make sure Nerra actually was eating her portion of bread and salt pork, and wondered whether Uncle Faran had any bloodstones in those drawers on the third floor, and whether Manrin might be willing to enchant them. That would keep Nerra's strength up while she worked through her grief. In many ways, while Hanner had been the one who worked as Faran's assistant, it was Nerra who had been closest of the three of them to Uncle Faran.

Of course, any dealings with Manrin, a warlock, might be dangerous, Hanner thought; maybe they should go to the Wizards' Quarter to buy the Spell of Sustenance.

It would be far more efficient to have it done when collecting Alris, though. Besides, High Street was so much closer.

And if the overlord did decide to throw them out of the Palace they would probably be living in the house on High Street for a while anyway.

For now, though, they would eat like anyone else. Hanner looked down at his hand and realized he had not yet eaten his own breakfast. He took a bite of pork and chewed dutifully.

People wandered in and out of the kitchens as they ate, all going about their business in so familiar a fashion that Hanner's heart ached to see it. Faran's death had not disrupted anything here, nor had the warlocks, nor the destruction in the great audience chamber. The only visible change was Hinda's absence—a sixnight ago she would have been all over the kitchens, running errands for the cooks.

No one spoke to Hanner and Nerra, though; they finished their meal in silence, brushed crumbs from their clothes, and made their way through the familiar stairways and corridors back to their apartments …

Where they found Bern, Alris, and two burly guardsmen waiting for them in the corridor.

“What's going on?” Hanner asked as he ambled along the passage toward them.

Alris glanced up at one of the guards who said, “Lady Alris brought this person into the Palace with her, and we didn't want to leave them unattended.”

“He might be a warlock who put a spell on her,” the other guard offered.

“Bern? Bern's not a warlock,” Hanner said. “He's my uncle's housekeeper.”

“I
told
them that!” Alris said angrily.

“Yes, you did, my lady, but we had to be careful, with all this trouble we've had the past few days.”

The other guard started to speak, then hesitated. “What is it?” Hanner asked him.

“My lord,” the soldier said awkwardly, “is it true your uncle is dead? That's what we heard, but you know how rumors are.”

“I do know how it is,” Hanner agreed, “but this one is true. Lord Faran is dead.”

“The wizards killed him?”

“Yes.”

“I'm very sorry, my lord.” He sounded quite sincere.

Hanner could feel his throat tightening as he replied, “Thank you.” He blinked, just to make sure no tears would escape, and said, “Might I ask you a question in return?”

“Of course, my lord.”

“Just what is the situation here? A couple of days ago the overlord wasn't allowing
anyone
into the Palace, for fear warlocks would get in, but here you've let Al … Lady Alris and Bern in. Has the order been rescinded?”

“Yes, it has,” the guard said. “Last night. After all, those warlocks made it pretty clear yesterday that if they wanted to get in we couldn't stop them, and if we're going to have workmen in to repair the damage, and magicians in to make sure it doesn't happen again, well, we can't keep
everyone
out. So we're back to the old rules—anyone with business in the Palace, or who knows the password, is allowed in.”

Hanner nodded. “That makes sense,” he said. He resisted the temptation to add that that made it all the more surprising Lord Azrad had agreed to it. “If you heard about my uncle's death, did you hear anything about who is to replace him as the overlord's chief advisor?”

The two soldiers glanced at each other. “There's talk that Lord Ildirin will be promoted,” one said.

“Or Lord Karannin,” the other added.

“Or even Lord Azrad the Younger,” said the first.

“So he intends to keep it in the family, then?”

“I don't think he trusts anyone else anymore.”

“Except us, of course, but we aren't courtiers.”

Hanner grimaced. “Of course,” he agreed. “And do you know what Lord Azrad intends to do about the warlocks?”

The soldiers looked at each other again.

“I don't think we can talk about that,” one said. “After all, you were with those warlocks, and they might be listening in with their magic.”

Hanner smiled. “Warlocks can't do that,” he said. “Their magic doesn't work that way.”

The guardsman turned up a palm. “I wouldn't know, my lord. I'm not sure
anyone
really knows what a warlock can and can't do, when they're so new.”

“Better to be safe,” the other added.

“Has anyone said anything about me?”

“Not that I've heard, my lord.”

The other didn't answer with words, but raised an empty hand.

“Well, thank you,” Hanner said. He could see Alris looking angrily impatient, and Bern looking worried. He pointed at Bern. “I can attest that this man is Lord Faran's housekeeper, and at least as of yesterday he wasn't a warlock. Unless someone turned him into one overnight, I assume he still isn't.”

“Thank you, my lord.” The guard glanced at his companion. “I suppose we'll be going, then.”

“Good enough,” Hanner said. “Thank you for escorting them here.”

The two soldiers both essayed quick little bows, then turned and marched off while Hanner unlocked the door to the family's rooms.

“You heard about Uncle Faran?” Nerra asked.

“Yes,” Alris said. “It sounds
horrible!
Poor Uncle Faran!”

“It was quick,” Hanner said as he swung the door open and stood aside to let the others in.

When they were all inside, and the door closed, Hanner said, “I assume you're here, Alris, simply because you wanted to come home—but, Bern, why are
you
here? Are the warlocks throwing out everyone who isn't one of them?”

Alris and Bern exchanged glances. “No, my lord,” Bern said. “I'm afraid we're here with bad news, and … well, we need your advice.”

Hanner's stomach began to hurt. “More bad news?” he said. “It isn't enough that Uncle Faran and Rudhira and Varrin are all gone?”

“It's about the wizard,” Alris said as she settled onto a chair.

“Ithinia?”

“No, no,” Bern said quickly. “Manrin the Mage.”

“What about him?”

“We found him dead in his bed this morning,” Bern said. “That apprentice wizard, Ulpen, says that he was killed by wizardry for refusing an order from the masters of the Wizards' Guild.”

Hanner considered this for a moment, then asked, “And how does Ulpen know this?”

“The Guild sent him a dream,” Alris said. “With the same order. Only he obeyed.”

That more or less made sense; Hanner had heard the Spell of Invaded Dreams described, though he had never experienced it directly. “What was the order?”

“He won't say,” Bern replied.

“But he says he's not a wizard anymore,” Alris added. “Not even an apprentice. He's just a warlock.”

Hanner's eyes widened. “I didn't know that was possible.”

Alris turned up a palm. “That's what he
said.
”

Hanner nodded. It made sense. The Wizards' Guild was enforcing its rules, as they had with Uncle Faran—no hereditary nobles could use magic, and no one could use more than one kind of magic.

Manrin and Ulpen hadn't
asked
for a second kind of magic, so the Guild had offered a choice—give up one, or die. And there was no way to give up warlockry.

Apparently there was a way to give up wizardry. That was interesting, if not particularly useful information.

And while news of Manrin's death was also interesting, and somewhat distressing, Hanner had hardly known the old man and did not quite see what it had to do with
him.
He was about to say so when there was a knock on the door.

“I'll get it,” Alris said, bouncing up from her chair.

She opened the door, and Hanner heard a familiar voice say, “Alris? You're home?”

“Mavi!” Nerra said, rising from the window seat. “Come in!”