And Rudhira was looking back over her shoulder.
Looking north.
“I’ll meet you down there,” Hanner said, turning.
He didn’t even take the time to close the casement before running for the stairs.
Chapter Thirty-four
At the foot of the stairs Hanner pushed his way through the little crowd of warlocks. At the door he looked out and saw that Lord Faran and at least a dozen others were marching eastward on High Street, away from the house, pushing the soldiers before them.
“Where are they going?” he asked.
“The Palace,” someone said. Hanner turned to see little Hinda standing beside him. “Lord Faran said that he was tired of inter... interm...”
“Intermediaries,” Hanner suggested.
“Yes, thank you, my lord. He said he was going to go talk to Lord Azrad face-to-face, to settle this once and for all.”
Hanner looked out the door.
Desset was standing in the street directly in front of the house, facing west, and Hanner realized that she was single-handedly blocking the street so that none of the soldiers on that side could approach.
Off to the left the rest, with Faran, Rudhira, Varrin, Kirsha, and Yorn forming a line at the front, were marching slowly but steadily to the east, toward the Palace.
Hanner estimated that about half the warlocks who had gathered at the house were in that party; the other half were gathered in the hallway and at the parlor windows, watching eagerly.
This was, Hanner thought, monumentally stupid, or at the very least seriously overconfident. Faran and the others had no way of knowing what might be waiting for them there. There could be a trap. The wizards out here had apparently been nothing to worry about, but there might be far better wizards guarding the overlord. There could be witches, with their subtle spells, or sorcerers, with their mysterious talismans, or theurgists who could call the gods to their aid, or demonologists who could, of course, summon demons.
Warlockry might be powerful magic, but it was hardly theonly magic.
“I had better go with them,” Hanner said. “They may need someone else, someone who’s not...”
He didn’t finish the sentence, because he could not honestly say he wasn’t on either side. He was his uncle’s nephew-and he was a warlock, even if no one knew it.
If they were walking into a trap-well, he would try not to walk into it with them.
The sensible, safe thing to do would be to stay where he was, of course-or better still, slip out the back and head to Mavi’s house, where he could wait out the coming confrontation. No one but Sheila knew he was a warlock, so far as he knew; certainly the overlord didn’t. He could just wait it out, and when everything was settled he could move back into the Palace, back where he belonged...
But Uncle Faran wouldn’t be moving back into the family apartment with him. No matter what happened, he couldn’t imagine that. Faran would be dead, or exiled-or if this march turned out the way Hanner thought Faran expected, Faran would be the city’s new ruler, and would presumably be living in the overlord’s apartments. But, Hanner thought, he and Nerra and Alris could stay on at the Palace, surely.They hadn’t done anything.
He wondered what was happening to Nerra, back in the Palace. Did she know what was happening out here? Was she frightened left alone there, her brother, sister, and uncle all locked out?
She was probably fine, he told himself. Alris was fine. They were safely out of the way.
But Uncle Faran was on his way to confront Lord Azrad the Sedentary, and Hanner couldn’t just stand by and watch. He pushed past the other warlocks and out the door.
The air in the vacant stretch of street felt oddly still and lifeless-clearly, the warlocks were not just pushing the soldiers back, but had created barriers blockinganything from approaching Warlock House. Hanner began to sweat as he hurried through the dooryard and out the gate, then turned left and followed his uncle.
Desset glanced at him as he passed, but said nothing and stayed at her post, holding back the soldiers in Coronet Street. Hanner noticed that some of those soldiers were slipping away to the north, presumably planning to return to the Palace by another route.
He was also vaguely aware that a handful of the other warlocks were following him, belatedly joining their comrades, but he didn’t concern himself with them.
Faran’s party of warlocks was marching relentlessly forward, side by side-not fast, but advancing steadily, pushing the soldiers back along High Street, regardless of whether those soldiers were standing or fallen. Most of the guards were retreating in disorder; some were standing their ground until actively dislodged by the advancing wall of magic, or were trying to help fallen comrades to their feet.
Some soldiers were no longer resisting at all, but just lying in the dirt, allowing themselves to be shoved or rolled along.
“Give me room!” someone shouted. The cry was strangely muffled, and Hanner realized it was coming from beyond the magical barrier the warlocks were pushing forward. He tried to see who had spoken.
It was one of the wizards, a man about Hanner’s own age in a gold and white robe; soldiers were pushing and shoving to get out of his way, even more desperately then they were trying to avoid being knocked down by the warlock wall.
And Hanner could see why. The wizard was holding aloft a dagger, and miniature lightning was playing around the blade in crackling blue-white arcs. Hanner ran forward, calling a warning.
His cry was not necessary-Faran was already pointing the wizard out to his companions.
The wizard pointed the dagger at the warlocks, launching a bolt, at the same instant that Rudhira raised a hand in a warding gesture. A blaze of blue-white fire leaped from the knife blade— and spattered harmlessly into a shower of sparks against the invisible barrier.
The knife trembled in the wizard’s hand, but did not fall. Lord Faran looked questioningly at Rudhira.
“It’s enchanted,” she said. “It’s so full of wizardry that I can’t affect it.” “Leave it, then. On to the Palace!”
“The Palace!” Varrin and Kirsha cried-but Hanner, pushing through the group and panting up behind the five leaders, noticed that Yorn did not join in, but merely looked unhappy, while Ru-dhira’s cry trailed off in midword.
She was looking northward-not toward the Palace, but beyond.
“Uncle Faran!” Hanner called.
Faran turned without stopping his steady march. “What are you doing here, boy?” he asked. “It’s not safe.”
“I can see that,” Hanner said angrily. “But you might need another voice when you talk to the overlord.”
Another miniature lightning bolt flared, but this time Faran did not bother pointing it out to anyone; again, it burst harmlessly against the barrier.
“I suppose we might,” Faran agreed. “Azrad may want someone untainted-from what he said when last we spoke, and what Captain Naral has told me, he’s quite convinced warlockry is inherently evil.” He nodded. “Come along, then.”
Hanner stepped up to join the line. Faran was in the center, Varrin on his right, Rudhira on his left, Kirsha beyond Rudhira, and Yorn beyond Varrin; Hanner squeezed in between Rudhira and his uncle. He was worried about Rudhira.
Behind them a score or more of other warlocks trailed along, looking like the undisciplined rabble they were, but this front line presented at least some semblance of order.
At least, it did until Faran suddenly stumbled, his hands falling to clutch at his belly.
Rudhira whirled and saw a wizard chanting. Her hand waved, and the wizard tumbled backward.
Faran straightened, coughed, and said, “Thank you. I do believe that was the Spell of Intestinal Turmoil.” He swallowed, looking slightly pale, then adjusted his cloak and marched on.
