Night of Madness loe-7

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Hanner blinked and didn’t reply, but that was not because the boy’s words had no effect. On the contrary, Hanner found them startling and distracting.

  Impressive? He had never thought of the Palace as impressive; he had just thought of it as home. He had been born there, after all, and had lived his entire life within those familiar halls and chambers.

  Othisen had presumably grown up on a farm somewhere; visiting the city was probably a special occasion for him, where Hanner had never yet slept outside Ethshar’s walls. Hanner supposed that the entire city would probably be impressive to someone who had never seen it before, and the Palace was, after all, perhaps the largest single building in all Ethshar of the Spices.

  But it was still just home to Hanner; he couldn’t really think of it in any other way.

  Of course, right now, he reminded himself, it wasnot home— he was banned from the Palace, by Azrad’s order, until further notice. He was sure this was just a temporary aberration, though, and that everything would be back to normal in a few days.

  He looked around, trying to judge whether the city looked any different.

  The streets appeared to be much as they were on any other day, though perhaps the crowds were a bit thinner than average and the people a little more nervous, a little more prone to hurry. There were a few looted shops visible down one side street, their smashed display windows hastily boarded up, and one old house on Lower Street in the New City had been burned out, but most of the city seemed untouched by the previous night’s insanity.

  There had been a spasm of violence and wild behavior, clearly, but it was past. Things should return to normal soon enough. Magical mishaps had happened before, though perhaps not on quite so large a scale, and Ethshar had always recovered quickly.

  It was tragic that those hundreds of people had disappeared, of course, but there wasn’t much to be done about it unless some magician could determine where they had gone and bring them back. Surely, Azrad would see that. Hanner peered down the street toward the Palace.

  He could see the parapet atop the facade, but the surrounding structures and the people on the street blocked his view of most of the building.

  He couldhear something, though.

  He frowned at that. He could very definitely hear the sound of the crowds ahead-and it was not a good sound, but an angry buzz.

  “Come on,” he said, picking up the pace and trying not to pant. He glanced over to see whether the others were keeping up with him, and noticed that Rudhira, who had been walking normally up to that point, was now airborne.

  Hanner came to an abrupt halt and turned to her.

  She stopped as well and hovered a foot off the ground, looking down at him slightly.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said, pointing at her dangling feet.

  “I can’t walk that fast,” she replied.

  “Then run.”

  “Running is undignified. Especially if I trip. I don’t want to get these clothes muddy; your uncle’s mistress wouldn’t like it.”

  “I don’t think my uncle’s current mistress ever saw them,” Hanner retorted. “I think they’re leftovers from a few women back.” He pointed toward the Palace. “Do you hear that crowd in the square there? I do, and I don’t think they sound happy. I think they sound dangerous. And angry. And one of the things they’re angry about is warlocks. Flying in there right now, openly announcing that you’re a warlock, is likely to start a riot and get us all killed. I don’t know about you, but I would prefer to get through today alive.”

  Rudhira tossed her head dramatically. “I don’t think theycan kill me!” she said. “Because Iam a warlock, and going by what I’ve seen so far I’m one of the most powerful warlocks in Ethshar!”

  “That’s probably true,” Hanner agreed, “but you’re still one person, and there are hundreds, maybe thousands, of people over there, and while I doubt any of them are warlocks, since I assume most warlocks have more sense than you, some of them might well be wizards. Or witches. Or sorcerers, or demonologists, or other sorts of magicians. I don’t know how warlockry matches up against the ordinary kinds of magic-doyou?”

  Rudhira looked quickly toward the square, then dropped to the ground. “You’ve made your point,” she said as she started walking.

  Othisen had observed this exchange silently; now, as the three of them walked quickly-though not quite as quickly as before— toward the Palace, he asked, “Do you really think it’s dangerous? Will there really be magicians?”

  “Yes, it’s dangerous,” Manner said. “I don’t know whether there will be magicians.”

  Othisen smiled at this and trotted forward enthusiastically.

  A moment later the three of them reached not the square, but the rear of the crowd, a good fifty feet outside the square itself.

  “What’s going on?” Manner asked the first man he reached who appeared to be part of the crowd itself.

  The man threw him a glance. “I don’t know,” he said. “I can’t see. Someone’s talking, but I can’t hear.”

  That reply was singularly lacking in useful information; Manner bit back a sarcastic retort. “Excuse me,” he said, pushing forward. The crowd was large, but not very tightly packed; Manner was able to force his way through without too much difficulty. Once or twice he caught himself pushing people aside without touching them, and each time he felt a chill of fear as he clenched his teeth and stopped the magic.

  Now that he knew he could do it, it was hard to resist using warlockry. It was no surprise Rudhira liked to fly; this strange magic was oddly addictive. Itwanted to be used. When he hadn’t known it was there Manner had felt no urge to try it, but now he kept thinking how easy it would be to reach out with it, to pick up this or move that...

  He wondered whether other magic had the same appeal. None of the magicians he had interviewed on his uncle’s behalf had ever mentioned anything of the sort, but that didn’t mean much either way.

  He glanced back and discovered that he had left Othisen and Rudhira back on Merchant Street.

  Othisen was a country boy; he had probably never seen so many people in one place in his life. Rudhira was fairly small, and while she could undoubtedly have used her warlockry to protect her from any random jostling, Manner had just talked her out of doing that.

  Well, they were not children; Rudhira was probably a year or two older than he was. They could look after themselves for the moment. He pressed on.

  Last night the square had been full of soldiers. Today the guards were lined up along the north side of the square, shielding the canal, the bridge, and the Palace, and leaving the rest of the square open to the horde of unhappy citizens.

  Someone was indeed addressing the crowd over there, right at the mouth of the bridge. Hanner strained to catch the words.

  “... questions! You can hire magicians-maybe they’ll be able to tell you!”

  Someone in the crowd shouted an angry and unintelligible response to that, which was followed by a rumble of agreement.

  “Oh, death,” Hanner muttered as he pushed onward. He didn’t know who was speaking, but whoever it was didn’t seem to be very good at it.

  “It’syour job to protect us!” someone roared.

  “And weare protecting you!” the man on the bridge replied. “Do you see any warlocks here?”

  “How can we tell?” a woman shouted back.

  A chorus of agreement rolled over the crowd like a wave, echoing from the facade of the Palace.

  “Look, it’smagic” the man on the bridge said, clearly exasperated. Hanner could see now that he wore a captain’s uniform. “We don’t know any more about it thanyou do until the magicians tell us! Lord Azrad has sent a message to the Wizards’ Guild, demanding an explanation, and we’re waiting for their reply!”

  “They probablystarted it!” “It’s the demonologists!”

  “Northern sorcery!”

  “What does Lord Faran say?”

  Thatquestion
was one Hanner wished someone would answer. What would his uncle say if he ever found out that Hanner was one of these troublesome new magicians?

  For that matter, what would the Wizards’ Guild say?

  Not that Hanner had any intention of telling anyone.

  He wished he knew just where Faran was, and what he was doing.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Lord Faran’s voice was almost pleading-which was utterly unheard of. He sat in his usual seat in the lesser audience chamber, but leaned forward toward the overlord’s throne rather than sprawling comfortably as he usually did.

  “Lord Azrad,” he said, “they aren’tall criminals!”

  “They’re all dangerous,” the overlord replied. He remained slumped on his throne in his customary slouch, but he was glaring at his chief advisor with unusual intensity. The two of them were alone in the room and able to speak freely. “I am struck by your concern, my lord Faran-it’s hardly your usual style. Is your latest mistress one of them, then? Or perhaps that useless nephew of yours?”

  “No, Lord Azrad,” Faran replied. “Or at least, I think not, but since you have not seen fit to allow Lord Hanner to reenter the Palace, I can’t say with any real certainty that he is not.”

  “And your woman?”

  “Oh, I can attest to Isia’s utter lack of any magic beyond the usual charms natural to young women.”

  He had not, in fact, tested that, but certainly there had been no sign that she, too, had acquired this strange new magic that the witches called warlockry. And if she had, he was not particularly concerned about it; she was pleasant enough company, but so were any number of women, and she had not uniquely endeared herself to Faran any more than had her dozens of predecessors.

  “Then why are you so determined to let these mad magicians live?”

  “Because, my lord, they have done no wrong, and when the crowd’s madness has passed the people of Ethshar will remember that. While none of them are my own family, nonetheless they do have families and friends, and in time those families and friends would begin to wonder why old Uncle Kelder or little Sarai from down the street was put to death for the crime of being a magician. Why warlocks, and not demonologists? After all, they dabble with the darkest of forces. Why not sorcerers, who were the favored of the Northern Empire and who may yet bear the Northern taint? Why not wizards, who meddle with truly incomprehensible forces and whose Guild dares to dictate terms to all the World’s governments? Oh, the warlocks broke into a few shops, burned a few homes, raped a few women-but Uncle Kelder did none of that, and an ordinary thief gets off with a flogging, a rapist with enslavement. Why are warlocks so dire that they must be exterminated?”

  “Faran, you’re being deliberately dense. Youknow why-because we don’t know what they can do! Because they’re completely uncontrolled. Because they seem to have made at least four hundred people simplydisappear overnight, which even the wizards have never done. There are reports that a warlock can stop a man’s heart with a look-what if one of them decides that he doesn’t like the way we run the city? A glance, an apparent heart attack, and that useless son of mine is on this throne instead of me!”

  “Oh, I agree they’re dangerous, my lord, but so are ordinary people, and when they’ve had time to reflect I believe that those ordinary people will regret hanging all the warlocks, and they’ll blameyou for doing it.”

  Azrad frowned deeply.

  “I agree that it’s a bad situation either way,” Faran said quickly. “But really, what threat does a warlock pose that a wizard or demonologist does not? A glance that kills-is that really any more lethal than the Rune of the Implacable Stalker, or a demon like Spesforis the Hunter?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Azrad growled. “Unlike you,I never evenheard of that rune, or this Spessris you mention.”

  “Spesforis,” Faran corrected.

  “Whatever. Faran, I sometimes think your researches have gone too far-you’re entirely too fond of magicians, even these warlocks.”

  “Knowledge is a tool, my lord,” Faran protested. “I like to have a full toolbox ready.”

  “Hmph.”

  “In this case, my lord, if I may extend the metaphor, my toolbox has nothing in it but rust and wood shavings. We don’t know anything about this warlockry. It may all vanish tomorrow-and what will people saythen if we’ve hanged a hundred innocent people? For that matter, warlocks can fly-what if they can’t be hanged?”

  “Then cut off their heads. That’s easy enough. A rope’s traditional, but it’s hardly the only means at our disposal.”

  “True, but really not my point. I would...”

  Azrad held up a hand, and Faran stopped in midsentence.

  “You may be right,” the overlord said. “I don’t want the blame for hanging everyone’s Uncle Kelder. So we need to put the blame somewhere else. If the Wizards’ Guild wants the warlocks wiped out, then it’s notour fault.”

  Faran fingered his beard in silence for a moment as he considered this.

  “I see your point,” he said at last. “You think, I take it, that it would be very convenient if the Wizards’ Guild declared warlockry a menace to be destroyed. You would reluctantly yield to their authority, since magic is their area of expertise.”

  “And we would be blameless. And if people are unhappy with the Wizards’ Guild, it won’t makemy beer taste any worse.”

  “Of course not.”

  “So, Lord Faran, wouldthat suit you? Or do you still argue that the warlocks must live?”

  “It would seem my stated objections have been countered,” Faran admitted.

  He did not sound pleased about this; in fact, he realized that he still sounded unconvinced, and that Azrad knew him well enough to recognize that.

  He had been working closely with the overlord for more than twenty years-Azrad had come to power upon his father’s death twenty-eight years ago, and Faran had spent his entire adult life in the Palace, working his way up in Azrad’s esteem. Lying successfully to the overlord would take a little more effort than his usual casual facade.

  “You have unstated objections, then?”

  Faran certainly did-foremost among them that he was himself a warlock, but of course he couldn’t admit that. He knew Azrad too well to think that knowing his chief advisor was a warlock would change the overlord’s opinion of warlocks; it would instead, he was sure, change his opinion of Faran. Azrad always chose the more negative option in such cases.

  Especially when he was scared, which he clearly was.

  “Nothing I can put into words,” Faran said. “It just seems wasteful.”

  “Better wasteful than dangerous,” Azrad replied.

  “What if the Wizards’ Guild decides the warlocks pose no great threat?”

  “You deal with the Guild more than I,” Azrad said. “Do you think it likely?” He shifted heavily on the throne. “And if it’s likely, can you change that?” “I don’t know,” Faran admitted.

  “Then find out,” Azrad snapped. “I have sent several messages to the Guild, asking their representatives to wait upon me at their earliest possible convenience, and I expect them to oblige me no later than tomorrow.”

  “Lord Azrad, you’ve cut off many of my best sources of information by forbidding all entry to the Palace. Might you relent, perhaps, in the case of my nephew Hanner and my niece Alris?”

  Azrad considered that, chewing his lip and staring at Faran.

  Faran gazed serenely back, but internally he was seething. The fat old fool didn’t see the possibilities in warlockry! He didn’t realize how hard it would be to detect warlocks, didn’t see that he had one right here beside him-he would never be able to exterminate them all, but would instead drive them into hiding.

  Warlocks would make perfect spies, ideal assassins. They could fly over walls, break locks with their magic-Faran wasn’t sure yet whether they could open locks without breaking them-and could kill anyone from a distance, leaving no mark.

  If the Hegem
ony were touse those abilities they could rule the World, retake the Small Kingdoms and the Pirate Towns and the northern lands. If they tried to stamp warlockry out those abilities would be turned against them instead.

  Sayingthat would be unwise, though-Azrad clearly had his mind made up, and would almost certainly prefer a handful of openly hostile warlocks in hiding to hundreds of undecided ones living openly in the city.

  Faran, on the other hand, saw the possibilities clearly. All the other varieties of magic had drawbacks, weaknesses, limitations— wizardry required exotic materials and intricate rituals; witchcraft strong enough to be any use left the user exhausted and weak; theurgy was limited to coaxing whimsical and rule-bound gods to cooperate, and so on, while a warlock need merelythink of what he wanted, think hard and it would happen. With this magic at his disposal, an ambitious man could accomplish almost anything.

  If Faran were to reach out with his mind now, and grip Lord Azrad’s overworked heart...

  But it was too soon to move so openly. Besides, Azrad the Younger, Azrad’s son and heir, who would someday be Azrad VII if all went as expected, was a vigorous man of thirty-five, far less familiar and far less easily manipulated than the present bloated and slothful overlord.

  “I don’t think so,” Azrad said at last. “From what I’ve heard, both of them have been associating with several warlocks. I don’t think we can trust them until those warlocks have been disposed of.”

  “But they can probably tell us a great deal about the warlocks! We could learn just how big a danger they actually are...”

  “Thatsubject isclosed, Lord Faran,” Azrad said. “They’ve shown themselves to be dangerous enough that they must be removed.”

  Faran had never before been so irked with his master; the temptation to squeeze that heart was growing.

  “Of course, my lord,” he said. “When this is all over, Lord Manner and Lady Alris will be permitted into the Palace again-that is, assumingthey aren’t warlocks.”

  “But not before?”