Night of Madness

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  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. It wanted 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's your job to protect us!" someone roared.

  "And we are 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's magic" 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 than you 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 probably started it!"

  "It's the demonologists!"

  "Northern sorcery!"

  "What does Lord Faran say?"

  That question 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't all 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. You know 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 simply disappear 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 blame you 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 even heard 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 say then 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 ha
nging 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 not our 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 make my beer taste any worse."

  "Of course not."

  "So, Lord Faran, would that 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 Hegemony were to use 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.

  Saying that 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 merely think 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 ..."

  "That subject is closed, 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, assuming they aren't warlocks."

  "But not before?"

  "Not before."

  "In that case, my lord, I think I had best set about finding others I can send on certain errands."

  Perhaps the throat, rather than the heart. Perhaps if Azrad were to choke slightly, but recover ...

  No. That wouldn't change anything, except to make the overlord suspicious.

  "Be about it, then," Azrad said with a wave of dismissal.

  "Yes, my lord." Faran rose, bowed slightly, and turned to go.

  As he crossed the room his fingers were clenching and unclenching. He could feel the power in his mind, like rising dough, pressing outward, eager to be used. It took an effort to reach for the door handle with his hand, rather than with magic .. .

  And then the door swung open before he reached it, almost slamming into his nose, and his mind lashed out, shoving it closed again. He stepped back, startled.

  The door opened again, more slowly this time, and Captain Vengar stepped in, peering around the panel at Faran.

  "I'm sorry, my lord," he said, "I didn't know you were there. Lord Azrad signaled for me."

  "You still should have knocked!" Lord Faran said angrily.

  "Captain," the overlord called sharply, in a tone Lord Faran had never heard before in all his years in the Palace. Startled, Faran turned to see the overlord sitting bolt upright on the throne.

  "Yes, my lord?" Vengar said.

  "Captain, this man is a warlock," Azrad said, speaking slowly and clearly and louder than his wont-and not entirely steadily. "When he closed that door on you just now he did not touch it. Remove him from the Palace at once and see that he is not readmitted without my specific permission."

  "What?" Faran burst out. "Azrad, that's absurd!"

  "I saw what I saw, my lord. Your hands were at your sides when that door slammed shut. Why you did not see fit to tell me of your altered circumstances I do not know, but it's quite obvious I can't trust you anymore. Go peacefully-and I might suggest that you consider leaving the city, as well as the Palace, for your own safety."

  The overlord's eyes were unnaturally wide and staring, Faran saw-and wet, as if he were on the verge of tears.

  "But it's ... you couldn't, from across the room ..."

  "Captain."

  Vengar reached for Faran's arm. "If you would come with me, my lord," he said nervously.

  Faran looked at the soldier's familiar worried face, then back at Azrad, sitting up straight, eyes wide, for the first time in years. He looked at the tapestried walls, the tessellated stone floor, that symbolized the wealth and power of the triumvirate that ruled the Hegemony of the Three Ethshars.

  It was too soon to fight openly. He was the only warlock in the Palace, and there were at least a hundred guards on hand, not counting the company out in the square and leaving the building's other inhabitants out of consideration. He did not know just ho
w strong his magic actually was-he had been telling himself there were no limits, but he had not had a chance to test the truth of that. Since the overlord's immediate decree, the moment he heard of the troubles the night before, that no warlocks were to be permitted in the Palace, Faran had had to hide his abilities, and what with the crisis demanding his attention he had had no opportunities to experiment in private.

  "Lord Azrad," he said, making one more try, "I am no threat..."

  "Out!" Azrad bellowed, rising to his feet and pointing. "Get out of my home, traitor!"

  Stung, Faran glared silently for a moment longer, then whirled back to the door.

  "Lead the way, Captain," he said. "I will leave it to others to try to talk sense to the overlord." He stalked out.

  A moment later he paused in the central hallway and asked, "Captain, may I send for my belongings later? I'll provide a list of what I need, and my niece Nerra will attend to locating it all."

  "I'll have to check with the overlord, Lord Faran," Vengar said. "I'm sure you understand."

  "Of course," Faran replied. "Of course. I'll send a messenger to inquire when I've settled into my new quarters."

  Vengar hesitated. "My lord," he said, "are you really a warlock?"

  Faran gazed at the soldier, then smiled a crooked little smile.

  "Yes, I am," he said. It was a relief to admit it openly and put an end to pretense.

  It was with an oddly light heart that he marched out the door onto the bridge, into the slanting sunlight of the afternoon.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Hanner had spotted a familiar face in the crowd, and after much shoving-with both hands and magic-he had finally reached her side.

  "What are you doing here?" he asked.

  Mavi turned, startled. "Lord Hanner!" she said. "I didn't expect to see you out here! I thought you'd be inside with the others."

  Hanner grimaced. "I could say that was your fault," he said. "I didn't make it back in time last night, after I saw you home, and I've been locked out by the overlord's edict. Alris is locked out, too."

  "That applies to you} But you live there!"