Night of Madness (31 page)

“That's what they tell us,” Yorn confirmed.

“It's supposed to be
ten
thousand,” Lord Faran said, “but Lord Azrad has never bothered to put in the money to get the guard to full strength.”

“There's no reason he should,” Yorn said. “There are plenty of us as it is.”

“I didn't know there were ten thousand people in the
World,
” Othisen said.

“Oh, there are
hundreds
of thousands in Ethshar,” Yorn said. “Nobody knows the exact number.”

“The wizards might,” Rudhira suggested.

“My master says that if it weren't for the wizards, there couldn't be a city this big,” Shella said. “It's wizardry that keeps the water clean and keeps the food good through the winter and empties the privies where the sewers don't go.”

“The theurgists do some of it,” an elderly woman Hanner didn't recognize protested mildly.

“This is all very interesting,” Lord Faran said, “but if we could get back to business, there are thirty-four of us here, of varying abilities. All of us can move small objects by sheer force of will, but some of us can do more than that, and I think it would be wise to find out just who can do what, and how well. Now, who here can fly?”

A dozen voices spoke up, and hands were raised; Lord Faran shouted over the babble, “If you can fly, please go to
that
end of the room!” He pointed at the windows. “If you
cannot
fly, go to
that
end!” He pointed at the ballroom. “If you don't know, please stand near the table!”

“I can lift myself off the ground,” said the woman who had mentioned theurgists, “but I can't really
fly
so much as
float.
”

Faran looked at her, then said, “What's your name?”

“Alladia of Shiphaven.”

“Alladia. Thank you. For now, just stand near the table.”

She obeyed.

Shella also went to stand by the table, and Hanner accompanied her. He found himself standing next to Alladia.

“I'm Lord Hanner,” he said. “I'm pleased to meet you.”

“I could wish it were under other circumstances,” Alladia said, looking around as the others sorted themselves out.

“You'd rather not be a warlock?” Hanner asked.

“That's right,” Alladia said.

This was interesting; Hanner wondered whether he could gain any insight into Alris or the others. “Is it just because of the overlord's threats?” he asked. “Suppose no one knew—wouldn't you like it then?”

Alladia turned to look him in the eye. “No, I wouldn't,” she said.

“Why not? After all, you have magic now, without even serving an apprenticeship.”

“I had magic
before,
” Alladia replied angrily. “I was a priestess!”

“A theurgist?” Understanding dawned. Warlockry interfered with witchcraft and wizardry; presumably it interfered with theurgy, as well.

“That's right. And a good one, if I do say so myself. But ever since this
thing
got inside my head, the gods won't listen to me. The simplest invocation goes unanswered. I tried to consult Unniel to find out what was wrong, and even
she
ignores my prayers!”

“Unniel?” The name was vaguely familiar.

“Unniel the Discerning. She's one of the easiest of all the gods to contact; any halfway competent apprentice can speak to Unniel. But since the night before last,
I
can't! In the past I've successfully summoned Asham and Govet, and now I can't even call Unniel!”

“And you think it's because you're a warlock?”

“Of course. What else could it be? Something's put this curse on us, and it's cut me off from the gods. Before I could open gateways to another world, heal the sick, reveal any secret; now I can send plates flying about the room. Do
you
consider that a good exchange?”

“No,” Hanner admitted.

Before he could say any more, Faran called for attention.

“I count ten who can't fly, thirteen who can, eleven who don't know,” he announced. “Let's see if we can sort out those eleven. Hanner, if you would step aside?”

Hanner glanced at Shella and Alladia, but then stepped away from the table.

“In fact, Hanner,” Faran said, “if you don't mind, would you wait in the parlor with Alris and Mavi? And if Manrin and Ulpen come back down, send them in.”

“You only want warlocks in here,” Hanner said.

“That's right. No need to crowd things any more than necessary.”

Hanner hesitated. This was a moment when he could admit that he was a warlock after all—and he really
should
admit it, shouldn't he? Sooner or later the truth would come out.

But if it did, he would be either exiled or put to death, or would find himself caught in Uncle Faran's schemes permanently, and he would never get back to his own bed, his own rooms, in the Palace.

He bowed, patted Shella reassuringly on the shoulder, and left the room, closing the door behind him.

In the parlor, Alris asked, “What are they doing in there?”

“Sorting warlocks,” Hanner replied. “Seeing who can do what.”

Mavi shuddered. Hanner looked at her, startled.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” she said. “I know they're just people, that they didn't
ask
for this spell or power or whatever it is, but they make me nervous. Even your uncle, and poor Pancha. It's just so…” She turned up her palms, unable to find the right word.

And here was another reason not to admit he was a warlock, Hanner thought. He did not want to make Mavi nervous, nor did he want her to find him repulsive.

He hadn't realized she felt this way.

“The theurgist said Pancha wasn't even human anymore,” Mavi said.

“Alladia said that?”

Mavi blinked at him. “No—who's Alladia?”

“The theurgist turned warlock in there,” Hanner said, pointing at the dining-hall door. “Who did
you
mean?”

“The theurgist who tried to cure Pancha this morning,” Mavi explained. “He said the goddess he summoned didn't even think Pancha was still human!”

That, Hanner thought, would indeed be a reason to find warlocks unpleasant to be around. He wondered why the goddess had thought so, and whether that was why Alladia couldn't summon Unniel. The pact made at the end of the Great War said only humans could invoke the gods.

“And the dreams,” Mavi continued. “
Why
do they have those dreams? Do they mean something?”

“They don't
all
have the dreams,” Hanner said.

“But
most
of them did. And they sound so terrible—falling
and
burning
and
being buried alive. It's just … I don't know, excessive.”

“I suppose it is,” Hanner agreed, glancing at the closed door.

There was a sudden loud thump from the other room; Mavi started. Hanner glanced at the closed door of the dining hall, but otherwise didn't move.

What he
wanted
to do was reach out with his will and open the door, to see what was happening—but he refused to use his magic.

If it was his at all. No one knew what had caused the Night of Madness; all this warlockry might just be something some mad wizard had done.

“Do you think it's permanent?” Mavi asked.

Startled, Hanner turned back to her. “Do I think what's permanent?”

“This warlockry. Maybe it's just temporary.”

“That would certainly simplify matters,” Hanner said.

“I stayed around today, hoping it would all just
stop,
” Mavi said, staring at the closed door. “I wanted to be here, to help when it ended—I thought some of them would be upset. And I thought I could take Pancha home. But it isn't stopping.”

“No, it isn't,” Hanner agreed. “At least, not yet.”

But it could, at any time. They couldn't know. That was the thing about magic—it didn't have to make sense. Sometimes it
did
make sense, and it was predictable enough that magicians could use it, and the whole city could rely on it, but sometimes it was just bizarre. A wizard could make a living creature out of powdered bone and feathers, or put a man to sleep with a pinch of dust and a single word—where was the logic in that? More than a hundred years ago a simple fire-lighting spell went wrong in the Small Kingdoms, and the resulting tower of flame was reportedly still burning, without fuel—how could it be? Why would virgin's tears work in certain spells, when the same woman's tears shed after her wedding night would be as useless as well water?

Wizardry was the strangest, but where was the logic in sorcery, where certain devices would perform their functions flawlessly for centuries, and then simply stop? And other devices that appeared perfectly identical didn't work at all, or did something different.

Or theurgy—why did the gods only grant certain requests? Why would they listen to some people and not others? Why did demons sometimes answer theurgical invocations?

Magic was not far from madness—and in the case of warlockry, the distinction had initially been invisible. The warlocks who went rampaging through the city that first night had certainly appeared mad.

So how could they know what warlockry would do? Uncle Faran was in there, trying to make sense of it—but what if there was no sense to be made? What if it were to simply vanish again, as abruptly as it had appeared? What if it changed form? What if there were another Night of Madness, but affecting an entirely different assortment of people?

But then, all of life was like that, really. Even when Hanner had been sleeping in his own bed in the Palace, as safe as anyone could be, at any moment some mad magician's spell could have turned him to stone, or transformed him into a cat, or simply killed him.

Even without magic, his own heart could just stop, or he could catch a fever, as his mother had, and be dead in a sixnight.

One just had to make the best of the situation, forge ahead as best one could, try to learn how things worked, and accept it when the rules changed and learn the new rules.

Warlockry wasn't any different. It could vanish at any time, but while it was here, it would be useful to know how it worked and what it could do.

He should be in there with Uncle Faran, studying the situation, he thought—but then he looked at Mavi's eyes, dark brown and shining.

Uncle Faran had chased him out, and now Uncle Faran would have to do without him for a while.

“Would you like me to walk you home?” he asked. “Get away from the warlocks?”

She smiled. “I'd like that very much,” she said.

Alris made a gagging noise. “You two,” she said. “What if I came along? That would ruin all your fun, wouldn't it?”

“No, of course not!” Mavi said, turning and reaching out a welcoming arm. “We'd be happy to have you join us.”

Hanner didn't say anything at first; he was too busy struggling not to glare at his sister.

Alris looked at him.

“We'd be glad of your company,” Hanner managed at last.

She snorted. “No, you wouldn't. And I don't want to walk all the way to Newmarket, anyway, and someone should be here in case more warlocks show up, or Uncle Faran wants to know where you've gone, or those wizards come back down here looking for help.”

“I'm sure Bern's around somewhere,” Hanner said.

“No, you go ahead,” Alris said with a wave. “I'll stay here.”

“As you please.” Hanner turned to Mavi. “Shall we?”

Chapter Twenty-eight

As Hanner and Mavi stepped out the door into the streets of Ethshar a score of wizards were gathered around a table, discussing the situation, in a place that was not part of Ethshar, nor even of the World.

“We still have no idea what caused it,” a white-haired wizard said. “I have had a dozen of my best people working every divination we can find for the past two days, approaching the question from every angle we can think of, and we haven't learned a thing about its origins. That magical aura around the Source blocks everything.”

“We have consulted the dead, and with the aid of several theurgists we have consulted the gods,” a cadaverous figure with a shaven skull said. “They know nothing of it.”

“I've spoken with Irith the Flyer, and of course with Valder,” a beautiful woman who appeared to be only in her twenties said. “They don't remember anything that might help. If anyone knows of any other immortals who aren't wizards, please tell me. And I've sent a message to Fendel the Great, but as yet he hasn't replied.”

“We have some thirty warlocks aiding us in our experiments,” another wizard reported. “Most volunteered; a few are prisoners taken on the Night of Madness who were, at our request, sentenced to serve us. So far, while we are learning a great deal about how warlockry operates, we don't have any idea what it
is,
where it came from, or whether it will remain as it is, go away, or change into something else.”

The litany continued—although they had learned a great deal about the events surrounding its appearance, nothing the wizards had tried had revealed anything important about the nature of warlockry itself.

“I've gone through the histories and the forbidden lore. Nothing like this is recorded anywhere.”

“We spoke with half a dozen demonologists, and questioned a few demons ourselves, but learned nothing.”

“We have charted the paths of some two hundred of those who were summoned on the Night of Madness, and have found no subtle deviations, no hidden patterns—they all simply headed toward the Source by the most direct routes available to them.”

“We have studied the histories of a randomly chosen sample of known warlocks and have found no links, nothing to indicate why these people were chosen while others were not. We have noticed that there is a slight tendency for a family with a warlock in it to have more than one—that is, a warlock's cousin or sibling is more likely to be a warlock than the average person is—but what trait in the blood might explain this we cannot determine. We have also found that magicians of every sort were afflicted.”