Lawrence Watt-Evans - Night of Madness

VIP免费

2024-12-23 0 0 467.33KB 148 页 5.9玖币

侵权投诉

Night of Madness

Lawrence Watt-Evans

TOR®

A Tom Doherty Associates Book

NEW YORK

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed In this novel are either fictitious or are used

fictitiously.

NIGHT OF MADNESS

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

175 Fifth Avenue

New York, NY 10010

www.tor.com

Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Watt-Evans, Lawrence.

Night of madness / Lawrence, Watt-Evans.—1st ed.p. cm.

"A Tom Doherty Associates book." ISBN 0-312-87368-9 (alk. paper) 1. Imaginary places—Fiction. I.

TitlePS3573.A859 N5 2000

813'.54—-dc21 00-031681First Edition: November 2000

Printed in the United States of America

0987654321 T,,'

Dedicated to my daughter,

Kiri Evans, who is an endless source of delight

Night of Madness

Lawrence Watt-Evans

Chapter One

Lord Hanner was panting slightly as he hurried across the plaza toward the red stone bridge that led into the

Palace. He'd had a long, busy day and had been moving at a constant fast walk for over a mile, his bones

carrying more weight than they should, so it was no surprise that his breathing was a bit heavy as he trotted

across the brick pavement.

Perhaps that was why the stench of decay rising from the Grand Canal, which he had scarcely noticed when

he set out that morning, hit him so strongly. That the tide was now out, so that the water level in the sea-fed

canal was a foot or two lower than it had been when he left, might also have contributed.

Whatever the cause, his steps slowed, and he swallowed hard. The reek of dead fish and rotting vegetation

was overpowering- and hardly appropriate for the immediate environs of the seat of the city's government and

the official residence of the overlord of Ethshar of the Spices. The golden marble of the palace walls glowed

beautifully in the light of the setting sun; the dark red brick of the plaza complemented it nicely; the sky

above was a lovely blue streaked with pink and white wisps of cloud-and the whole scene stank like an

ill-kept fishmarket. The city's usual smells of smoke, spices, and people were completely smothered.

The guards on the bridge and the well-dressed strollers in the square did not appear troubled by the smell,

but there were not quite as many strollers as Manner would have expected at this hour on a beautiful summer

day.

This lovely afternoon was the fourth day of Summerheat; so far this year the month had not lived up to its

name, and the weather was mild. Hanner was sweating, his tunic sticking to his back, but from exertion, not

the day's heat.

Hanner waved a hand in front of his nose, trying unsuccessfully to dispel the odor, as he kept walking, more

slowly now, toward the bridge. "Confound it," he muttered to himself. "Someone's not doing his job here."

He tried to remember who was in charge of seeing that the canal was cleaned regularly; wouldn't that be the

responsibility of Clurim, Lord of the Household-and, not incidentally, one of the overlord's younger brothers?

Or was there some other, lesser official whose job description specifically included handling such things as

seeing that the canal was cleaned?

Hanner couldn't remember. He was a resident of the Palace and a hereditary noble, so he was acquainted

with most of the city's officials and functionaries, but right now he could not think who was responsible for the

regular purification of the Grand Canal.

Uncle Faran would know, of course; the simplest thing for Hanner to do would be to mention it to him. In fact,

the chances were good that Lord Faran had already noticed the stench, and that the magicians who would

perform the purification spells were already on their way. After all, Faran's windows, like all the windows in the

Palace, overlooked the canal.

That did assume, of course, that Lord Faran hadn't allowed himself to be so distracted by other matters that

he was ignoring his surroundings and leaving such minor mundane details unattended. Hanner certainly

hoped his uncle wasn't shirking his duties while he once again pursued his obsession-or rather while he

waited for Hanner to pursue it.

Ethshar could ill afford to have Lord Faran, chief advisor to Lord Azrad the Sedentary, neglecting his duties,

since the overlord had long since turned most of the city's day-to-day administration over to his chief advisor.

Hanner picked up his pace again, trotting across the bridge without a glance at the stonework, barely nodding

at the guards on either side.

"Who comes ..." one began, lifting his ceremonial spear; then he recognized Lord Hanner and let the spear

fall back into place.

In the palace entryway Hanner had to stop and wait impatiently while the additional guards there went through

their rigmarole of signs and countersigns before opening the door. The captain watched his men, but

remarked, "A pleasure to see you, Lord Hanner."

Hanner did not deign to reply, though he did wave an acknowledgment. He had spent the entire day roaming

the city and talking to strangers, at his uncle's orders, and he really did not want to talk to anyone else just

now-not that the captain, a man named Vengar, was another stranger; he was the commander of the guard

detachment inside the Palace, and Hanner had known him slightly when Vengar was still a lieutenant, since

before Hanner himself was old enough for breeches.

At last the soldiers inside acknowledged that the person requesting admission wasn't an invader and swung

open the heavy, iron-bound doors. "Thank you," Hanner said as he hurried past them into the central hallway.

That passage was twenty feet wide and twenty-five feet high, floored with tessellated marble and hung with

rich tapestries, and it led directly to the ornately worked golden doors of the overlord's main audience

chamber. Hanner barely even glanced at that display of grandeur; instead he immediately turned right and

stepped through a small wooden door into one of Lord Clurim's offices. There he merely waved to the clerk at

the desk before proceeding on through, emerging into a narrow corridor and heading for his own family's

quarters.

Had Lord Clurim been present Hanner would have mentioned the smell, but he knew from unhappy

experience that telling the clerk would result not in a prompt cleaning, but in assorted messages wandering

about the building, accomplishing nothing but the annoyance of other clerks.

Hanner wound his way through a maze of passages and antechambers and two flights of stairs before

arriving, finally, at Lord Faran's apartments-the apartments Hanner and his two sisters had shared with their

uncle since their mother's death two years before. He paused at the door to catch his breath, then

straightened his silk-trimmed tunic, opened the door, and stepped into Lord Faran's sitting room.

His uncle was standing there, resplendent in a fine cloak of dark green velvet that hardly seemed appropriate

to the season, while Hanner's sister Lady Alris, wearing a faded blue tunic and dark-patterned skirt, sat in the

window seat, ignoring the beautiful weather beyond the glass as she glowered at Hanner and Faran. Their

other sister, Lady Nerra, was not in sight.

Lord Faran's cloak was clearly for appearance, not warmth. Faran was, as always, elegant and graceful; and

as always, Hanner was reminded of his own shorter stature and heavier build. He was not, he frequently told

himself, actually fat, but he was definitely well rounded-quite unlike his trim, handsome uncle. Hanner had

taken after his long-vanished father's side of the family.

Lord Faran spoke before Hanner could. "Ah, Hanner," he said. "I have a dinner engagement, so I can't spare

more than a moment just now, but I must know if you learned anything important."

"I noticed that the canal stinks," Hanner blurted.

Faran smiled wryly. "I'll see to it before I leave," he said. "Anything else?"

"Not really," Hanner admitted. "I interviewed almost a dozen magicians, and none of them reported any

threats or abuse from the Wizards' Guild."

"You asked Mother Perréa?"

"I spoke to her and her partner," Hanner said. "She insisted that it was her own decision to limit herself to

witchcraft and not accept her father's post as magistrate. The Guild's rules had nothing to do with it."

"Either that or she was sufficiently terrified that even now she won't speak of it," Faran said, frowning.

"She didn't appear at all nervous," Hanner said.

"You'll have to tell me more later," Faran said. "If I'm to chastise Lord Clurim for the state of the canal and still

reach my destination in time, I can't spare another second here."

"What's her name?" Hanner asked, smiling as he stepped aside.

"Isia, I think," Faran replied, his frown vanishing. Then he swirled past Hanner and was gone.

Hanner listened to the footsteps retreating down the hallway for a moment before closing the door. Then he

turned to Alris.

"He's off again," Alris said before Hanner could speak. "As usual. He spends more nights away than he does

here."

Hanner knew that was, at most, only a slight exaggeration. "It's not our business if he does," he said.

"You can say that because he's never dragged you along," Alris said. "He insists I have to meet people."

"He sends me out to meet them on my own, instead," Hanner said. "I don't see that as much better."

"You don't have to stand there looking innocent while the great man seduces some poor woman who's

dazzled by his title." She picked at a loose thread on her skirt and said, "I don't want to meet people."

"Have you ever told Uncle Faran that?"

"Of course I have! But he doesn't pay any attention." She looked up from the thread. "You'll get to meet his

latest conquest."

"I will?"

"He told me this one wants to see the inside of the Palace, so he'll probably be bringing her up here."

"And he'll probably want us to stay out of the way," Hanner said. "She won't be coming to meet us.""Which is

a good thing. She's probably stupid. Most of them are."

Hanner did not want to argue about their uncle's taste in women, so he attempted to change the subject.

"Where's Nerra?" he asked.

Alris gestured toward the passage to their bedchambers. "In there somewhere," she said. "She and Mavi

were talking about clothes again, and I got bored."

"Mavi's here?" Hanner tried not to sound too pleased. While he generally didn't think much of his sisters'

friends, Mavi of Newmarket was an exception. Nerra had met her while shopping for fabrics in the Old

Merchants' Quarter, and the two had quickly become close; Hanner admired Mavi's generosity of spirit and

lively interest in almost everything. And her fine features, charming smile, shapely figure, and long lustrous

hair didn't lower Manner's opinion a bit.

Alris nodded. "She's boring," she said. "Like Nerra."

Hanner grimaced. Alris was thirteen and thought everything was boring.

Or almost everything; like Uncle Faran, she was fascinated with magic. She had tried for months to convince

Faran to apprentice her to a magician, but he had refused, on the grounds that she might well inherit or marry

into an important position in the government of the Hegemony of the Three Ethshars-but that she could not

take such a position if she were a magician.

Hanner suspected that Uncle Faran might well intend to marry Alris off to some important politician, as much

for his own advancement as hers; as Alris said, she and Nerra were often taken along on Faran's travels,

while Hanner never was.

Any such intention got no support from Alris herself. She had argued that she didn't want a government

position or a prestigious marriage, but as usual their uncle had prevailed, and now that she was six weeks

past her thirteenth birthday she was too old to be properly apprenticed to anyone, magician or otherwise.

So now she spent her time moping around the Palace, being bored and disagreeable.

"You were talking to magicians all day, weren't you?" Alris demanded.

"Most of it, yes," Hanner agreed. "Three witches, a theurgist, two sorcerers, and four different wizards."

"Did any of them show you any magic?"

"Not really," Hanner lied. One sorcerer and two of the wizards had shown him a number of spells and

talismans, and one of the witches had read his mind and offered to heal some of the discomfort in his soul.

Hanner did not have any discomfort he wanted cured, so he had refused the offer. He suspected that whatever

he might have cluttering up his soul was the result of his dissatisfaction with his own actions, and he wanted

that left intact, to give him incentive to do better in the future.

"I'll bet they did," Alris said enviously. "You just aren't admitting it."

Before Hanner could reply he heard footsteps; he turned to see Nerra and Mavi emerging from Nerra's

bedchamber.

Nerra was five years younger than Hanner's twenty-three years, five years older than Alris, and like her

siblings a little shorter than average. While not as stocky as Hanner, she was definitely heavier than Alris.

Mavi, on the other hand, was an inch or so taller than Hanner, and shaped very nicely indeed, in Hanner's

opinion-though of course he would never dare tell her so.

"I thought I heard your voice," Nerra said. "Has Uncle Faran gone?"

"He just left," Hanner replied.

"Does he still think the Wizards' Guild is plotting to take over the World?"

Hanner sighed. "Something like that," he admitted.

"Are they plotting to take over the World?" Mavi asked with a sly smile. "Have you found any evidence of their

dire schemes?"

"They're enforcing their rules, just as they always have," Hanner said wearily. "No mixing different sorts of

magic. No mixing magic and government."

"It's stupid," Alris said from the window. "Why should they care?"

"They don't want anyone getting too powerful," Hanner explained, as he had several times before-but never in

Mavi's hearing, which was why he continued. "After all, some wizards live for centuries-if the overlord were to

live that long, who knows what he might do?"

Mavi and Nerra looked at each other, then burst out laughing. Hanner blushed. "Not our overlord," he said. "I

don't think Lord Azrad the Sedentary would ever get much done no matter how long he lived. But imagine if

the first Lord Azrad were still alive, and had had two hundred years ..."

"What if he had?" Alris demanded. "What business is it of the Guild's? I wouldn't mind if old Azrad the Great

were still running things!"

"Uncle Faran would mind," Nerra said. "He couldn't order everyone around the way he does if Azrad the Great

were the overlord."

"Who cares?" Alris said. "The overlord is sixty-seven. Someday he's going to choke to death on a fishbone or

something, and then Azrad the Younger will be Azrad VII, and he'll probably throw Uncle Faran out anyway.

They don't like each other very much."

"And suppose that the overlord had some sort of magic that would let him live for hundreds of years-what

would Azrad the Younger do?" Hanner asked. "Just wait?""He might just find another job," Mavi suggested.

"Or he might hire a wizard or a demonologist to assassinate his father."

"Lord Azrad wouldn't do that," Nerra protested.

"He can't," Alris said. "The Wizards' Guild would kill any magician who agreed to assassinate a government

official."

"But we're assuming the Guild isn't enforcing their rules anymore," Hanner said.

"It's stupid," Alris said. "It's a stupid assumption, because they are enforcing their stupid rules, and Uncle

Faran can't make them change that."

"And this is a stupid argument," Nerra said. "I'm hungry-is the overlord dining in state tonight?"

"I don't think so," Hanner said.

"Then let's go down to the kitchens and get ourselves some supper. I don't want to eat here, and besides,

Uncle Faran would probably rather we aren't here when he brings his current woman in."

"True enough," Hanner agreed. He looked longingly at the couch by the wall-his feet hurt, and he would have

liked to rest them briefly-but turned and led the way to the door. He was as hungry as Nerra, and he could

rest his feet when they got to the kitchens-three flights down and a hundred yards to the west, beneath the

great hall.

The vast and cavernous kitchens were swarming with servants and courtiers, preparing, transporting, and

consuming a variety of fine foods. One table was roped off, with a guard standing nearby-that was where the

master chef was making the overlord's dinner.

The overlord was traditionally expected to dine in the great audience hall, with his family and courtiers

gathered about him, but Azrad VI had never wanted to put that much effort into his meals; he preferred to eat

in his apartments with a few close advisors-usually his brothers and Lord Faran, if Faran was around. That left

the other occupants of the Palace free to make their own arrangements.

Lord Faran often dined elsewhere, in the mansions of various important figures or the homes of various

women, but Hanner's sisters were only rarely invited, and Hanner himself even less often. Helping themselves

from the stocks of food in the kitchens had become commonplace.

The party of four collected a roasted hen, a bottle of Aldagmor wine, and a plateful of vegetables and sweet

rolls, then found themselves a quiet corner and settled cross-legged on the floor. There they ate, chatted, and

watched the bustle around them. Hanner noticed buckets of offal being dumped out a window into the canal

and remarked, "There's one reason the water stinks."

"It certainly does stink, doesn't it?" Mavi said. "I think the last cleaning spell didn't work properly."

"You can't trust magic," Nerra said. "It's unreliable. At least, Uncle Faran says it is."

Alris snorted derisively.

"Maybe that's another reason the Wizards' Guild wants to keep magic and government separate," Mavi said.

Hanner shook his head. "I don't think that's it," he said. "Wizardry isn't any less reliable than anything else,

really."

"That's wizardry," Nerra said. "What about the other mag-icks? Uncle Faran is obsessed with all of them,

even if it's the wizards who particularly annoy him."

"The Guild doesn't want any magicks combined," Alris said.

"But is wizardry less reliable?" Mavi asked. "I hadn't heard that."

Hanner turned up a palm. "I think it depends what you want to do," he said. "The theurgists certainly don't

claim to be infallible, and plenty of prayers go unanswered, but they always seem to be able to get certain

things done. I never saw anyone die of a fever in a theurgist's care."

A sudden brief silence fell, and Hanner realized what he had just said. Nerra and Alris stared at him in silent

shock, but Mavi asked, "How many people have you seen die of fevers anywhere?"

"Our mother,'" Nerra said angrily, shoving her plate aside. "He saw our mother waste away with a fever. And

the magicians wouldn't help because she was Lady Illira, Lord Faran's sister. They would have used their

spells for a shopkeeper or a sailor or even some stinking beggar from the Hundred-Foot Field, but anyone

with a hereditary title or ties to the overlord, no-the wizards wouldn't allow it." She glanced at Alris, who

looked down at her own supper and picked at a chicken bone.

"That's another reason Uncle Faran's obsessed with magic," Hanner said quietly.

"I'm done eating," Nerra said, getting to her feet. "I'm going."

"I'll come with you," Alris said, putting her own plate on the floor.

"But I'm not finished!" Mavi protested.

Nerra didn't answer; she stomped off, with Alris close behind, leaving Hanner and Mavi seated on the

flagstones.

"I'm sorry," Hanner said. "I wasn't thinking. I should have known better than to remind them about Mother."

"Well, it didn't bother me" Mavi said. "My mother's alive and well. But it was a bit..."

"Tactless?"

"Something like that..."

"Insensitive?"

"Maybe ..."

"Unbelievably stupid?"

"I think that describes it, yes," Mavi said, smiling.

"I'm good at that," Hanner said. "I never know what to say, or when to keep my mouth shut. That's one

reason I'm still my uncle's errand boy, instead of holding a post in my own right."

"You could do worse than be an assistant to the overlord's chief advisor."

Hanner grimaced. "And as that advisor's nearest surviving kin, I ought to be able to do better. Uncle Faran

always knows what to say."

"Your uncle's had twenty years of experience in government."

Hanner had no good reply to that. He picked up his remaining piece of chicken.

The two of them finished their meal in companionable silence. When both had eaten their fill and wiped or

licked away the last of the grease, Hanner frowned.

"I don't know whether Nerra would want to see you again yet," he said.

"I should be getting home in any case," Mavi said.

"I don't think Nerra will want to see me, either, and I'd enjoy a walk," Hanner found himself saying, even

though his feet were still slightly sore from the day's excursions. "May I escort you home?"

"I'd be honored," Mavi said.

Chapter Two

Hanner and Mavi were in no hurry as they made their way out of the Palace, across the plaza, and up Arena

Street into the New City. The torches and lanterns in the gateways and intersections provided plenty of light,

but the daytime crowds had thinned to almost nothing; the dust of the streets had settled and the night

breezes, blowing south from the sea, were salty and pleasantly cool-though the Grand Canal still stank.

Once they had gone a few blocks that smell faded, and they slowed even more.

They paused in front of one of the larger mansions and admired the fountains and statuary visible through the

wrought-iron fence. Hanner found himself holding Mavi's hand and seriously considering kissing her.

But then she pulled away to point out a particular piece of sculpture, the marble figure of a sleeping cat, and

the opportunity had passed.

"Do you think that might have been a real cat once?" she asked.

"Why would anyone petrify a cat?" Hanner asked.

"For practice, maybe?" Mavi suggested. "Or for revenge against the cat's owner? If you're asking that, then

why would anyone carve an image of a cat?"

"To put in his yard, like that," Hanner said, gesturing at the little statue.

"I think some magician did it for practice before setting out to avenge some slight by turning a human to

stone."

"If it was just for practice, wouldn't the wizard have broken the spell afterward?" Hanner asked.

"Are petrifaction spells reversible?"

"Some are, some aren't," Hanner admitted. "Wizards usually call the reversible spells 'superior,' and the

irreversible ones 'irreversible,' so I think they prefer the ones that aren't necessarily permanent."

"I suppose," Mavi admitted, her head tilted thoughtfully as she studied the cat. "But maybe this particular

wizard didn't know the superior ones. Or his vengeance failed and his enemy killed him before he could undo

it." She frowned. "Would the magician have to be a wizard?"

"I think so," Hanner said. "A theurgist wouldn't do something like that, and I never heard of witches doing

anything that unnatural. I suppose there might be some way for a sorcerer or demon-ologist to do it, but I

never heard of such a thing."

Mavi turned and looked at him curiously. "Why do you know so much about magic? I thought you said your

family wasn't allowed to study it!"

"We aren't allowed to use it," Hanner corrected her. "The lords of Ethshar are not permitted to learn magic,

nor to use magic for our personal benefit-though of course we're free to hire magicians if it's for the city's

benefit, or else the whole government would fall apart. But we can learn about magic all we please, and that's

what I do, ever since my mother died-I talk to magicians for my uncle. He's obsessed with magic, and

whenever he's not actively working on the overlord's business or chasing women, he's out trying to learn

everything he can about it." He sighed. "And when he is busy with his women or the overlord's business, I go

out and try to learn about magic for him."

"It sounds exciting."

"It isn't, really."

"Oh," Mavi said. "Is it at least interesting, then?"

"Sometimes," Hanner said. He was not entirely comfortable with the subject. He gave the stone cat a final

glance, then stepped away from the fence and said, "Come on."

They moved on down the block and turned left onto East Street, leaving the fine houses and spacious yards

of the New City for the ancient, cramped buildings of the Old. Neither of them was inclined to linger in the Old

City nor to speak openly there, but a mere fifth of a mile brought them to the massive stone levee at the upper

end of the Old Canal, and beyond that they were in Fishertown.

"Now, why doesn't that canal smell as bad as the other?" Hanner asked when they were safely clear of the

forbidding streets of the Old City and surrounded by the ordinary homes and shops of Fishertown.

"Better drainage, perhaps?" Mavi suggested. "And the odor's none too sweet, at that."

"Hmph." It annoyed Hanner that the Old Canal, which divided Fishertown from the Old City, somehow

contrived to not stink anywhere near as strongly as the Grand Canal that surrounded the overlord's palace

and connected it to the sea.

The two ambled on through Fishertown and into Newmarket, where they turned onto Carpenter Street and

found Mavi's home, a narrow three-story stone house wedged tightly between two other similar structures.

Despite the address her father was not a carpenter at all, but a dealer in tools and weapons who, among

other things, provided the city guard with their spears. Mavi's mother worked as bookkeeper in the family

business, and Mavi managed the household. Nerra had explained all this to Hanner when she first realized

her brother's interest in the subject.

Hanner had not been here before, though. He stopped in the middle of the street when Mavi pointed out her

home. He had been holding her hand again; now he released it and said, "Well, there you are," as he looked

up at the house.

The stone was weathered, but had been finely polished once. The broad window lintels were carved with floral

designs that might once have been brightly painted, though it was hard to be sure in the dim light from the

torches at the corner. An oil lamp shone from one front window, but the walls were thick enough, the window

deeply set enough, that little of that light reached the lintels. Brackets that had once held heavy shutters now

supported pairs of copper chimes instead, chimes that occasionally rang a soft note in the gentle sea breeze.

Two broad stone steps led up to the front door, which was painted dark green and trimmed with black iron. A

small niche beside the door had probably held a shrine once, but was now decorated with a pot of flowers.

All in all, Hanner thought it was a fine example of a traditional Ethsharitic home, but one that had changed

with the times rather than being carefully preserved.

"Thank you for walking me home," Mavi said. Then, to Han-ner's pleased surprise, she kissed him before

turning and hurrying to her parents' door.

Hanner stood in the street for a moment after Mavi had vanished into the house, savoring the memory of that

kiss.

He had been kissed before, but not by Mavi. He had not been entirely sure until this moment that she

reciprocated his interest in her.

It wasn't unreasonable, he told himself. After all, Mavi came from a family of tradespeople, comfortable but far

from truly rich; a match with a lord, even one so unimportant as himself, would surely be seen as a step up

the social ladder. And he wasn't actively repulsive, even if he didn't have one-twelfth his uncle's charm.

And maybe she really liked him.

He felt considerably younger than his twenty-three years as he stood there staring at the closed green door of

Mavi's home. He hadn't been seriously shy around women since he was sixteen or seventeen, but somehow

Mavi brought back the uncertainties of adolescence.

Did this mean he was falling in love, perhaps?

That seemed silly, but he had to admit the possibility.

He also had to admit that his feet were hurting badly. It was time to limp home to bed. The sun had set hours

ago, the streets were almost deserted, and Uncle Faran had undoubtedly had his way with Isia, or whatever

her name was, by now.

He looked up at the sky. Wisps of cloud obscured most of the stars and turned the black of night to a dull

dark gray, making it impossible to judge the exact time. The lesser moon was low in the east, but Manner

could not remember when it was due to rise and set.

A shooting star burned its way across the heavens, from southwest to northeast, as he watched-an

extraordinarily big, bright one, he thought. He wondered whether it was natural or the result of some fiery

spell; perhaps it was no star at all, but a wizard flying somewhere.

Whatever it was, it was not his concern. He sighed, turned, and began trudging back toward the Palace.

He had just reached the corner where he turned from Carpenter Street onto Newmarket Street when he

stumbled and gasped. He did not know why he had stumbled; he felt as if something had struck him, but

nothing had. He had a momentary sensation of heat and smothering, but it passed-and he had no time to

think about it, really, before the screaming began.

He straightened up, his eyes wide. Several voices were screaming somewhere in the distance-at least four or

five, perhaps more. They had all begun simultaneously, at the exact instant he had gasped.

Something crashed somewhere far off; he heard glass breaking and heavy things falling.

Mostly, though, he heard the screaming.

Then, as he tried to determine which direction the screams were coming from, they stopped, one by one-and

as they did he realized they had come from several different directions.

Half a dozen voices scattered all over Fishertown and Newmarket had begun screaming simultaneously. No

single natural shock could have caused that.

"Magic," Hanner said. He remembered the shooting star he had seen moments before and wondered whether

there was a connection. He frowned. He hoped that this wasn't the beginning of trouble.

He couldn't think of any particular spells that would have caused it, but magic-especially wizardry and

demonology-could be unpredictable.

He looked up at the sky, but there were no more shooting stars. He did see several dark shapes moving in

the distance-large night birds, perhaps, or wizards flying on some errand. He couldn't judge their size well in

the darkness.

And it was then he heard the shattering of glass, much closer at hand than before, and renewed screaming,

from somewhere ahead and to the right. He broke into a trot, despite his sore feet, and steered toward the

sound.

Someone might need his help.

Chapter Three

Lord Faran sat bolt upright in his bed, gasping for air, eyes wide and staring into the dark; he fought down an

urge to scream, and instead found himself coughing uncontrollably.

The woman beside him rolled over and raised herself up on her elbows. "Fari?" she asked. "Are you all right?"

He tried to wave her away, but he was coughing too hard to complete the gesture; nonetheless she rolled

away again, and in fact tumbled out of bed onto the floor.

The braided rug provided little cushioning, and the bedroom floor was stone. "Ow!" she exclaimed.

Faran had no time to worry about the woman's clumsiness- he barely remembered her name. (Isia, a part of

his mind reminded him, and she hadn't been at all clumsy an hour or two ago.) He stared at the window,

where the glow of the city, the stars, and the lesser moon filtered dimly through the lace curtains, and tried to

calm himself.

The coughing tapered off.

The dream that had awakened him had been important-he knew that, he had felt it, unmistakably. It had been

not merely important, but urgent, as no natural dream could be. It must have been magic.

Faran had experienced magical dreams before, when wizards had used one version or another of the Spell of

Invaded Dreams to send him messages, and he had always remembered the gist of them after awakening-it

was, he had assumed, part of the spell, since they wouldn't be much use as a means of communication

otherwise. This time, though, his memory was vague and confused, as it might be after an ordinary

nightmare.

He remembered that he had been falling, and something had been burning him, there had been fire and

rushing air, and then all motion had stopped and he had been trapped somehow, and throughout there had

been pain and terror ... but it was all a jumble. The images he could recall were all distorted. He could not

bring back any faces, nor even any totems-all he could remember seeing were flames and clouds and stone.

He knew that whoever had sent the dream wanted him, Lord Faran, to do something, to go somewhere and

do something as soon as possible-but he had no idea where, or what he should do, or who had sent it.

If this was the Spell of Invaded Dreams, it had gone wrong somewhere.

He wondered whether perhaps this was some other sort of magic entirely, one of the less reliable

sorts-witchcraft or sorcery, perhaps, or even herbalism or one of the really minor schools like science or

spiritism or ritual dance. He couldn't see how it could be theurgy-if a god sent him a dream, he was fairly

certain he would know it. The gods might be whimsical and subtle, but this didn't seem to be their style.

Demonology, perhaps-could demons send dreams? If they could, they might well produce a tangled,

ambiguous mess like this.

"That wasn't very nice," Isia said, climbing back into the bed.

"What wasn't?" Faran asked, startled from his thoughts.

"Shoving me out of bed like that," Isia replied. "You could have just waved me away, and I wouldn't have

bothered you."

"Shoving you?" Faran looked at her, astonished but not allowing it to show on his face. "Did I shove you?"

"Oh, no, why, of course not! I just dove out of bed onto hard stone and bruised my shoulder on a whim." She

glared at him, then whirled and reached for the shift she had left draped on a nearby chair.

"My dear, my dear, I am sorry," he said-not that he was actually sorry, but a man in his position should not

make enemies, no matter how trivial, unnecessarily. "I was caught up in the dream that awakened me."

"A dream? What kind of dream?" She paused, the shift in her hand, eyeing him suspiciously, her mouth

drawn into a tight line.

He allowed himself a puzzled smile. "Do you know, I can't remember!" he said. "A nightmare, I think-I believe

it was trying to scream that started me coughing. And I really didn't mean to shove you, Isia-I hadn't even

realized I had done it." In fact, he was quite sure he had not touched her-yet she was clearly convinced he

had pushed her out of the bed. He watched for any sign of a softening in her anger, and when he saw her

thinned lips relax slightly he leaned over and kissed her lightly on her bare shoulder-he couldn't reach her

cheek without stretching, and that would not have the properly casual air.

She accepted the kiss with a small sigh, and put down her shift, draping it on the side of the bed. Still sitting

up naked in the bed, she turned and smiled at him. "I should go," she said.

"Well, not to please me, certainly," he said. "But is there some other reason?"

"My parents," she said. "I shouldn't stay the night; they'll think we're betrothed."

"I wish we were," Faran said, "but as I told you before, there are family considerations." That was a lie-one he

told all his women. His position was mostly his own achievement, and his bloodline, while technically noble,

was not particularly notable; his surviving family, comprised of two nieces and a nephew, didn't care who, if,

or when he married.

"I know," Isia said with another sigh. "You've been very sweet, Fari-except for pushing me out of bed just

now."

"And I'm very sorry about that. Blame whatever ghost or demon sent me that nightmare, and forgive me,

please."

She bent over and kissed him on the forehead. "Of course," she said. Then she reached for her shift, and this

time pulled it over her head.

Faran took a moment to light a bedside lamp-he kept a sorcerous sparker handy, far easier than an ordinary

tinderbox and quicker than calling a servant. The wick caught quickly, and he turned it up, filling the room

with the yellow glow of burning oil. Then he turned back to Isia. He watched her dress, pretending his

attention was entirely on her beauty and his affection for her.

Now, why did she think he had shoved her? He hadn't touched her; he was quite sure of it. He had been

leaning on one elbow, and his other hand at his throat, trying to control his coughing; he could not possibly

have shoved her.

A kick would have been physically possible, but a look at the bedclothes convinced him that he had not

unconsciously kicked her; his feet were still tucked neatly under the snug coverlet.

Isia was not clumsy, though-at least, he had never seen her do anything else clumsy in the four days he had

known her, nor had she seemed inclined to fancies or delusions. On general principles he avoided bedding

women whose grasp on reality seemed less than solid, and Isia had shown none of the warning signs he had

learned to recognize.

So perhaps something had shoved her out of bed. He had already concluded his rapidly fading nightmare had

been magical in origin; might there have been other magic at work? A ghost, a demon, a sprite of some kind?

There had been no other manifestation, though.

Once Isia had her shift in place she crossed the room to the bench where she had draped her skirt.

Faran tried to remember exactly what had been happening when Isia found herself propelled from her place.

She had been lying on her belly, propped up on her elbows; he had been on his back, on one elbow, his right

hand at his throat. He had tried to wave her away with his left hand, as he had not wanted her touching him ...

He remembered his desire to keep her away, and the helplessness of the coughing fit, and the strange

images of the dream, and then he remembered something else.

He had done something, drawn something from the dream. He could recall the sensation, though he could

not find words to describe it.

He looked at Isia as she tugged her skirt into place, and he tried to recapture that sensation while somehow

reaching out for the hem of her skirt. He felt the space between them, perceiving it in a way he never had

before, saw the nature of the skirt's shape, and tried to alter it...

The silk suddenly hitched up over her left knee, exposing a shapely calf. She brushed it back down

apparently without noticing anything out of the ordinary.

Faran tried again, this time lifting the back of the skirt slowly- from across the room, a good ten feet away. He

let it drop before she noticed.

Was it something about Isia, then? He concentrated his attention on one of his own shoes, cast aside in a

corner.

It slid out into the room, then rose into the air. He lifted it to a height of four feet or so, then slowly lowered it

back to the floor.

Isia, struggling into her satin tunic, didn't see a thing.

A moment later Isia blew him a kiss and slipped out of the room, closing the door gently behind her.

Lord Faran lay in the bed, but did not put out the lamp or go back to sleep. Instead he mostly stared at the

ceiling thinking, his thoughts interrupted only by brief experiments with his newfound ability.

He could lift or slide anything he could see, he discovered, though only up to roughly the size and weight of a

grown man- the wardrobe against the far wall did not budge. He could see the shape of the space between

himself and the wardrobe, but could not force it to change as he could with smaller objects. He could also, he

found, control the size, brightness, and temperature of the lamp's flame.

This was magic, beyond question.

But what kind of magic? And how had he acquired it?

It wasn't anything he immediately recognized, and he had been studying magic for years. It bore a

resemblance to witchcraft, in that witches could also move small objects without touching them, but it

somehow didn't feel like the witchcraft he had observed in the past.

The Wizards' Guild forbade any use of wizardry by any nobleman and frowned upon the idea of any sort of

magic in the hands of nobles-or for that matter, any part of the city government of Ethshar of the Spices or

any other government. No ruler or administrator or magistrate, hereditary or otherwise, was permitted to learn

magic, and no one who had served an apprenticeship in magic was permitted to hold any governmental

position of authority. Magicians hired as magicians were allowed, such as the wizards who purified the canals

or the theurgists who made certain that witnesses told the truth in criminal proceedings, but not magicians

who made decisions about the city's workings. The Wizards' Guild was quite unreasonably insistent on these

rules. People who defied the edicts of the Wizards' Guild had a tendency to die suddenly and horribly. Even if

they acquiesced quickly, they suffered lesser, though still unpleasant, fates.

But what about this magic? Azrad VI, overlord of Ethshar of the Spices and triumvir of the Hegemony of

Ethshar, had named Lord Faran as his senior counselor, and as such Faran was forbidden to work any magic

himself, and instead hired magicians as he might need them in the course of his duties-but now Faran

seemed to have come into possession of a mysterious magical power through no act of his own. How would

the Wizards' Guild react to that"? Surely, they could not blame him for this accident!

It was so very appropriate that he had received this, after all the years of studying magic he was forbidden to

use. He had looked for loopholes in the Guild's rules, and now a loophole had found him. The Guild couldn't

blame him for that!

Then he frowned. No, they wouldn't blame him. They would acknowledge he hadn't done anything to cause it.

But they might well kill him anyway.

The Wizards' Guild had never shown any great interest in fairness, after all-they wanted their edicts obeyed,

and they really weren't especially interested in equity or justice or motivation, just obedience. Faran knew

that well. He had his own theories about what the Wizards' Guild did want, but he was quite certain it wasn't

justice.

He would keep his abilities secret, then. That would make it more difficult to learn exactly what they were or

where they came from...

Faran had gotten that far in his thoughts when the noises from beyond his window finally penetrated his

consciousness-shouting, screaming, thumpings, and hangings.

It was the middle of the night, he thought; what was going on out there beyond the canal? Curious, he rose

and crossed to the window, opened the curtains, and looked out.

"Gods and demons," he muttered as he took in the scene.

His room was on the third floor of the overlord's Palace, at the east end, with a view across the East Branch

of the Grand Canal into the tangled streets of the Old City. Since most of the structures in that ancient

warren were only one or two stories, and some were half-sunken into the mud, he could look out across the

entire Old City into Fishertown.

Now, as he looked out at that panorama, he could see a dozen buildings ablaze, scattered across the city.

He could see figures in the streets, standing, running-and flying, and the airborne figures were not wearing

wizards' robes, nor carrying any visible magical apparatus, not even the traditional wizard's dagger.

Most of the flying shapes seemed to be moving northward, high and very fast, out across the Gulf of the East,

but others were down near street level and were going in various directions about the city.

He could see other things floating or flying as well-wagons, silver plate, gold coins. Broken glass was strewn

all over the streets of the Old City.

And he was fairly certain he saw at least one corpse lying in the street amid the glass.

This was unquestionably serious trouble. He would be needed soon in his official capacity; reports would be

reaching the Palace. The city guards would want instructions; the overlord would probably be awakened and

want an explanation. He had to get downstairs at once.

And why, he asked himself as he hurried to his dressing room, had he ever thought only he had received this

mysterious magical power?

Chapter Four

At the same instant that Lord Hanner stumbled on the streets of Newmarket, and the same instant that Lord

Faran sat up in bed and began coughing, Varrin the Weaver awoke suddenly in his third-floor bedchamber

atop his workshop-home in the Seacorner district of Ethshar of the Spices. He awoke gasping for air. He had

dreamed he was wrapped in his own cloth, buried in thick, heavy wool, trapped under tons of material after

文档加载中……请稍候！
如果长时间未打开，您也可以点击刷新试试。

下载文档到电脑，查找使用更方便

5.9 玖币 0人已下载

立即下载 VIP免费下载

摘要：

NightofMadnessLawrenceWatt-EvansTOR®ATomDohertyAssociatesBookNEWYORKThisisaworkoffiction.AllthecharactersandeventsportrayedInthisnovelareeitherfictitiousorareusedfictitiously.NIGHTOFMADNESSCopyright©2000byLawrenceWatt-EvansAllrightsreserved,includingtherighttoreproducethisbook,orportionsthereof,inan...

展开>> 收起<<

Lawrence Watt-Evans - Night of Madness.pdf

共148页,预览30页

还剩页未读，继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

Lawrence Watt-Evans - Night of Madness

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: