Night of Madness (34 page)

“He's welcome, of course,” Hanner said. “But you…”

“She's a warlock,” Yorn said before Kirsha could speak. “She's one of us now. She made a mistake and she paid for it, but now she's come here for refuge, like the rest of us.”

“You don't hold a grudge?” Hanner asked her.

Kirsha turned up a palm. “You did what you knew was right. I'd have been happier if you had let me go, or let me join your group, but you weren't unfair.”

“We healed her,” Hinda said.

“Well, Desset and Shella did most of it,” Yorn said. “They were on guard when Kirsha got here, but the rest of us were here and did what we could to help. It was a chance for us all to learn how.”

Hanner remembered Desset well, since he had seen her just hours earlier, when she had awakened screaming from another of those peculiar nightmares. She was a plump, dark-eyed woman who had been in the party that had captured Kirsha in the first place. She was one of the three who had learned to fly right away, along with Rudhira and Varrin the Weaver.

She had seen the damage Kirsha did, the smashed shop windows and stolen jewelry; if she had helped heal the scars left by the whip, it wasn't out of ignorance.

Criminals weren't supposed to be magically healed after a flogging—the long-lasting discomfort was intended to be a reminder of crime's consequences, and healing it theoretically lessened the effectiveness of the penalty. Wealthy lawbreakers, those who were willing to pay enough, could generally find some magician who could be “fooled” about the nature of the injury, of course.

But that wasn't what had happened here. The warlocks had healed one of their own, simply because she
was
one of them. They were uniting, leaving their old lives behind and forming a new community.

And Hanner somehow suspected they would not appreciate it if he, who did not admit to being one of them, objected.

Besides, Kirsha
had
gone a little mad when that first … whatever-it-was had struck and filled her with magic. She had thought she was dreaming, and had not meant anyone any harm. That was clearly an extenuating circumstance.

And she had been cast out by her neighbors, presumably by her own family. Hanner could
definitely
sympathize with that—after another night here he really missed his own bed in the Palace.

“Good,” he said. “We're glad to have you. Guard well!” Then he waved and went on into breakfast.

He had missed Kirsha's arrival and healing, but even so, Hanner had had a long, busy night. The people in the street out front had been throwing things every so often, shouting, and occasionally charging the gate ever since Hanner's return; one old man, that persistent fellow who seemed to have been there longer than anyone else, had appeared to be leading them. The watch in the parlor to ward off these attacks was now permanent, with all the sufficiently capable warlocks in the house taking turns at it.

Manrin and Ulpen had attempted to put up magical wards around the rest of the house during the night, using what wizardry they could still make work, and the front gate, which was ordinarily left unlocked, was now sealed with three separate runes—though they were not certain how effective these would be, given their lessened wizardly abilities.

Hanner had not been involved in any of that; he had mostly stayed upstairs and out of the way, but he had been aware it was being done.

They truly were under siege here, trapped in the house until the situation improved—but at least now, with the wards and runes and the guards standing vigilant in the parlor, they were safe for the moment.

Apparently safe, anyway. For the moment everything appeared peaceful, but by Yorn's account it hadn't been for long.

And not everything upstairs had been peaceful during the night, either. A few of the warlocks were awakened by nightmares—not just Desset. The worst was Rudhira, who woke up screaming three separate times.

The first time she was merely confused when she awoke, insisting someone at the back of the house was calling her and she screamed to make it stop.

The second time she awakened in midair, bumping against the north wall of her room, saying she had to get out; her roommate Alris dragged her back to bed, displaying what Hanner thought was impressive courage.

The third time Rudhira smashed through her door and flew screaming down the hallway before smacking into a protective spell of some kind that Lord Faran had had placed on the door of his room. The noise roused the entire household, of course, and there were several theories about mysterious forces trying to use Rudhira against Lord Faran, or Lord Faran's magic somehow attracting Rudhira in her crazed and sleeping state.

Hanner didn't say so, but he thought Rudhira headed for Faran's room only because it was at the north end of the hall. He remembered that many of the people who vanished on the Night of Madness had headed north. He remembered how Roggit Rayel's son told the magistrate at his trial that he intended to flee to Aldagmor to escape the doom he thought was going to befall Ethshar, but couldn't explain why he chose Aldagmor.

Aldagmor was in the north. Hanner thought that was why Roggit chose it.

And Hanner could feel something in that direction himself, something very faint, very alien, and both slightly repulsive and slightly alluring.

But it was
very
faint. He could only sense it at all with his newfound warlock sight, and even with that it was like trying to hear the hum of a bee from a mile away.

After the third nightmare Uncle Faran went up to the fourth floor and came back down with something for Rudhira to drink, to help her sleep more soundly; she swallowed it without hesitation, and barely made it back to her bed before collapsing into unconsciousness.

The excitement over, everyone else retired again—except the handful on guard downstairs.

It took some time before Hanner got back to sleep after that. He wondered why Rudhira was affected more strongly than anyone else; was it because her warlockry was the most powerful of them all?

Was there a direct connection between the nightmares and the strength of a warlock's magic? He thought back, trying to remember that first breakfast gathering. There had been four warlocks there who had had the dreams after the initial experience on the Night of Madness—Rudhira, of course, and Desset of Eastwark, who had helped heal Kirsha, and Varrin the Weaver, and Alar Agor's son.

And, Hanner realized, Rudhira and Desset and Varrin had all had nightmares again this time, as well—Varrin had awakened twice, once in midair. Alar Agor's son was no longer in the house; he had left that first day, and had never come back.

At least, not yet, though Hanner supposed he might yet turn up.

Rudhira, Desset, and Varrin—those had been the three flyers in his party on the Night of Madness. When Uncle Faran had been sorting out who could fly and who couldn't Hanner had left the room before the sorting was complete, but he knew that Rudhira and Desset and Varrin had all been at the “can fly” end of the room.

There might well be a correlation between the nightmares and the power of a warlock's magic, then. Flying generally seemed to be something the stronger warlocks could do and the weaker could not.

That was interesting. Were the nightmares a sort of compensation, a disadvantage to balance out the advantages strong magic provided?

There were a dozen people seated at the dining table, eating a breakfast of sausages and cakes; Bern was hurrying in and out the door at the far side that led to the kitchens. Hanner exchanged greetings with the others—particularly Alris, who clearly had not slept well. She had shared a room with Rudhira, of course, which Hanner knew had hardly been restful.

Then Bern, returning with a tray of small beer, spotted Hanner.

“Lord Hanner!” he said. “Could I have a word with you, please?”

“Of course,” Hanner said. “Though if you could spare me a sausage to eat while we talk, I would appreciate it.”

“Yes, of course, my lord.” Bern put down the tray, quickly distributed the mugs, and found a plate and a couple of fat sausages for Hanner. He handed Hanner the plate, then said, “Could you come with me, please, my lord?”

“We can't talk here?”

“There's something I need to show you. I had hoped to tell Lord Faran, but I haven't seen him yet this morning, and he may well be busy upstairs all day. Could you please accompany me?”

“Very well.” Hanner followed, plate in hand, as Bern led him down a slanting stone passageway to a windowless, lamplit storeroom.

There they stopped. Bern simply stood for a moment, looking worried; Hanner glanced around, but could see nothing worrisome. It appeared to be a perfectly ordinary storeroom, though with more empty shelves than most.

“What is it, Bern?” Hanner asked.

“My lord,” Bern said, “I don't dare disturb Lord Faran about this; he's far too busy with all the magicians. But I need to point it out to
someone.
”

“Point out
what?
”

“Look, my lord,” Bern said, gesturing at the empty shelves. “This house is accustomed to lodging your uncle, sometimes one or two of his friends, and of course anywhere from one to six servants. But right now I believe we have
forty
people here. I thought this could be managed if I made daily trips to Southmarket, and went to Fishertown Market or Westgate Market every so often, and picked up a few things at the shops in the Merchants' Quarters or the Old City.”

“That's a great deal of walking,” Hanner remarked. Southmarket was roughly a mile away, Westgate considerably farther. “Especially carrying food for forty people.”

“I had thought I would hire a wagon,” Bern said. “But, my lord, I can't.”

“Why not?” Hanner said, but before the words were out of his mouth he remembered the mob on High Street, and the various magical protections sealing off the other three sides of the estate. “Oh,” he said, before Bern could reply.

“My household funds are depleted, in any case,” Bern said. “I'm not sure how good Lord Faran's credit is now—a few days ago his name was good anywhere, but now?”

“He probably has money,” Hanner said, trying to sound more convinced than he was. “Gold, most likely, or silver at the very least.”

“I hope so,” Bern said, “but even if he does, how am I to get out to market, and safely back in?”

Hanner looked at him thoughtfully. It was plainly time for the warlocks to start earning their keep here.

“I think we can manage that,” he said. “We can fly to the markets. And I don't think money will be a problem.” He was sure Uncle Faran must have funds stashed somewhere in the house, or if not, some of the furnishings could be sold.

Or, being warlocks, they could simply demand credit. Hanner doubted any direct threats would be necessary. Inquiring about the possibility of credit while standing in front of a farmer's wagon doing something like juggling a knife without using one's hands … well, that would be sufficiently intimidating that most people would probably agree to reasonable terms.

Most
people. Merchants who didn't want to sell to warlocks at all, on credit or otherwise, would probably be more of a problem, but one that could be handled—by brute force, if necessary.

He was, Hanner realized, calmly contemplating a career of crime, something that would have been almost unthinkable a few days ago.

But a few days ago he hadn't known that his uncle had been illegally collecting magic for years; he hadn't been evicted from his home by the overlord; he hadn't seen the overlord order Uncle Faran and the rest out of the city for no crime but being what they were.

A few days ago he hadn't been a warlock—and neither had anyone else. The Night of Madness had changed everything.

“Thank you, my lord,” Bern said.

“We'll need a list of everything you need or want,” Hanner said.

“Of course. I'll draw it up as soon as everyone's breakfasted.”

“Good,” Hanner said as he finally picked one of the sausages up from his plate. He took a healthy bite, smiled at the taste, and repeated, with a rather different emphasis, “Good!”

Chapter Thirty-one

The midday sun was hot as the people lined up in the garden; Lord Hanner held up a hand to shade his eyes.

Uncle Faran was sorting warlocks again. He had, he explained to Hanner, come to the conclusion that the ability to use warlockry really only had one variable: power. All the different things the magic could do, from healing to flying to warlock sight, could be learned, and once learned, the more powerful a warlock was, the better he could do any of them. A warlock couldn't be good at healing but a poor flyer, or a fast flyer unable to lift heavy weights; the magic simply didn't work that way.

Rudhira, the obvious example, was good at
everything,
once she learned how it was done. None of the others could match her in any use of warlockry. She simply had more power at her command than anyone else.

Faran therefore decided to rank everyone according to this simple measurement: How much could they lift to the height of their own heads? He brought a set of weights down from the fourth floor, ranging from tiny polished brass cylinders to immmense blocks of lead, and tested each of the warlocks with the idea of working up a scale of abilities so that he would know who could be called on for any given task.

Kirsha's cousin Ilvin turned out to be the weakest of them all; with anything over a quarter of a pound he was limited to sliding or bouncing it, rather than levitating it properly. He was unable to heal so much as a scratch, though he could soothe it slightly, and his warlock perceptions were so vague, so weak, and so limited by distance that no one, including Ilvin, was entirely certain he wasn't just imagining them.

Hinda was next in the rankings; she could bring a pound and a half to eye level, and was very proud of this accomplishment.