Night of Madness (41 page)

“I wonder if anyone's ever done that before,” Hanner murmured.

Of course, Faran hadn't really done it, but it would make a good story.

And the Guild had executed him not for warlockry, but for all his years of accumulating magical paraphernalia when he was Azrad's chief advisor. The wizard had said so.

That presumably meant that the Wizards' Guild still had not yet decided to wipe out the warlocks—at least, not officially. Otherwise, why bother explaining the reasoning in killing Uncle Faran?

Someone should talk to them, Hanner thought. Someone should convince them that warlocks meant no one any harm. At least, the surviving warlocks; obviously, Uncle Faran had been dangerous, but he was gone.

Someone
had
to talk to them.

It was the Guild, after all, that was the real threat to the warlocks; Lord Azrad and the city guard were not a serious problem. Faran had demonstrated that much before he died. So long as the warlocks worked together, ordinary people could not harm them—only magic.

But magic could probably slaughter them all. Not just wizardry; Hanner had no idea how warlocks would fare against a horde of demons, or the ancient Northern weapons the sorcerers used.

And it appeared that their own magic would defeat them, in time, as it had Rudhira and Varrin.

That, at least, was slow, and could be anticipated and countered. If a warlock took the nightmares as a sign to stop using his magic, Hanner thought that he might live out the rest of a normal life in relative peace. Hanner certainly intended to try.

Of course, that was assuming there were no more surprises in the nature of warlockry, and Hanner didn't know whether that was the case.
Nobody
did.

The Calling put a real limit on what a warlock could do. Lord Azrad had feared that a warlock might take over the city, declare himself ruler in the overlord's place—and in fact, Faran might have intended to do just that.

But doing that, Hanner saw, would be slow suicide. In order to hold power claimed by magic the warlock would need to use his magic regularly, to prove it was still potent, to fight off competing claimants—and if he did that, then the Calling would take him that much sooner.

If someone would just
explain
that to Azrad … and, more importantly, to the Wizards' Guild.

But it wasn't Hanner's problem. He had done enough. He had fought against the chaos on the Night of Madness, and been banned from his home for his efforts; he had helped the warlocks band together, and seen his uncle murdered in response. And talking to anyone wasn't his strong point; he always said the wrong thing.

He had done enough, and he had had enough.

“Come on,” he told Nerra, turning away from the wreckage. “Let's go upstairs.”

Chapter Thirty-seven

Manrin looked out a third-floor window at High Street. It had taken a quarter hour for the watchers to trickle back after Lord Faran had led his party off toward the Palace, but they had returned, and once again were flinging bricks and stones at the house.

None of these missiles ever struck the building; the warlocks remaining downstairs deflected them all. It seemed a rather pointless exercise, really, but that didn't stop the attackers.

No one would ever dare throw rocks at wizards that way, Manrin thought. Wizards had
respect.
Warlocks, at least so far, clearly did not.

Lord Faran would have to change that.

Manrin considered that for a moment—what would it take to change it? What did wizards have that warlocks didn't?

Well, they had been around longer, of course. They often wore distinctive robes. And they had the Wizards' Guild, with its clear-cut rules. They were a familiar part of the World, while warlocks were still new and strange. Warlocks looked like ordinary people, but they weren't, and that scared people. They didn't know who the warlocks
were.

That was something Lord Faran should fix, once he had taken over the city from Lord Azrad—as Manrin was sure he would do. He should give the warlocks some sort of uniform and devise a set of rules, Manrin thought, and then send someone out to explain the rules to everyone. Make them consistent and familiar, that's what would help them fit in.

And convince those people out front that no, the warlocks had
not
stolen their family and friends.

Lord Faran hadn't done any of that yet. He had gathered all the warlocks together, which was good, since there was strength in numbers, and he had given them some leadership and a little basic organization, sorting out who could do what, but he had left them a motley, ill-assorted bunch and kept them hidden away in this mansion, and he hadn't set out solid rules. He hadn't even
tried
to talk to the rock-throwers about their missing loved ones.

Manrin decided he would make some suggestions when he next saw Lord Faran.

Then he noticed, out in the street, that the watchers were looking east along High Street rather than at the house. He leaned forward and peered off to the left.

Running figures were approaching—and
flying
figures, as well. Warlocks, returning from the Palace! Manrin started to smile, thinking that this meant the conquest was already secured, but then he stopped.

Why were they
running?

“Oh, no,” he said.

He didn't see little Rudhira's distinctive green skirt and red hair, or Varrin's multicolored linen tunic, or Lord Faran's silks, and he wasn't sure what that meant, but he didn't think it was a good sign.

Then the vanguard of the returning warlocks neared the line of watchers, and the watchers were abruptly flung back, tumbling down the street as if swept by a gigantic hand, clearing the area in front of the house.

The returning warlocks would be in the house in seconds, and Manrin decided he wanted to be there, to hear what had happened. He turned and headed for the stairs.

A moment later he trudged panting down the steps—he was really too old for all this climbing and wished that people in Ethshar of the Spices didn't build such tall houses. In Ethshar of the Sands only a handful of structures had more than two floors—the Palace, the Great Lighthouse, Grandgate—because the ground wasn't stable enough to support anything higher without either magic or amazing luck. A four-story house was ostentatious even here; back home it would have been completely ridiculous.

By the time he was midway down the second flight the ground floor was swarming with frightened people, awash in a babble of voices.

One of them was Ulpen, who looked up the stairs and called, “Master!”

Manrin stopped.

Other warlocks heard Ulpen call out and looked up the stairs at Manrin. The old wizard could hear them muttering to one another.

“… he's a wizard, he knows about magic…”

“… can talk to the Guild…”

“… used to running things…”

“… has experience…”

“Master,” Ulpen said loudly, “Lord Faran is dead. Will you lead us now?”

Manrin frowned. The lad was being ridiculous. And Lord Faran was
dead?

Manrin had not expected that. He had not thought anything would stop Lord Faran, certainly nothing short of an all-out assault by the Wizards' Guild.

“What happened?” he asked. “How did he die?”

“A wizard turned him to stone,” Kirsha called up to him.

“But he killed the wizard, too,” someone added.

Then the Guild
had
intervened. That was bad. Manrin had hoped that the Guild might indeed come to the aid of their fellow magicians in the end.

“We need a leader, Master,” Ulpen said.

Manrin snorted derisively. “I'm an old man, a wizard,” he said. “I'm not a lord. I'm not even from this city.”

“We need
someone,
Master. You were a Guildmaster, even if you weren't a lord, and isn't that more appropriate for a group of magicians?”

“It sounds to me as if
you're
taking charge, Ulpen!” Manrin tried to make plain in his tone and expression that he thought this was a
good
thing. If someone was going to face the Guild's wrath, Manrin would be happy to have it be someone other than himself. And the Guild might well take pity on a mere apprentice.

“Me?” Ulpen gasped, a hand on his chest. “I'm only sixteen!”

“And I'm a hundred and eleven, which is too old to be running around fighting soldiers.”

“We'll fight
for
you!” Othisen shouted. There was a ragged chorus of agreement.

Manrin sighed. It was clear he wasn't going to get out of this easily—and really, if someone was going to have to negotiate with the Guild, he had to admit he was more qualified than anyone else in this mad assortment.

But he still didn't want the honor. “Is there no one else more suitable?” he said. “What about that other young lord, Lord Hanner?”

“He's not even a warlock,” Ulpen said.

“And he didn't come back with us,” Kirsha added. “He stayed in the Palace with his sister.”

“He did?” This was from Lady Alris, on the fringe of the crowd. She had been sitting in the parlor when the others had returned from the Palace, and now she was standing in the doorway, listening.

Several voices replied, and the gathering dissolved into noisy chaos for a moment. Manrin, looking down from above, noticed young Shella, the former apprentice witch, standing in one corner, clearly trying to say something, but being ignored as the others all shouted at one another. She appeared to be on the verge of tears.

That was too much. He could never stand the sight of weeping children, and Shella reminded him of his granddaughter Planette.

“Silence!” he bellowed, hands raised, augmenting his voice with warlockry as Rudhira had taught him.

Silence fell. A dozen worried faces looked up at him.

“It would seem I
am
your new leader, whether I like it or not,” Manrin said. “Well, if I am to lead you, I need to know who you all are, what you can do, and what has happened so far—as you may have noticed, I have spent much of my time upstairs, using what wizardry I still have to study our situation. I have missed details of events down here, even while I learned things the rest of you don't know. I do have some ideas—I had intended to speak to Lord Faran about them upon his return, but it appears that if he is indeed dead, I will have to act on them myself. First, though, I need to know just what has really happened, to Lord Faran and to the rest of you.” He pointed at Ulpen. “I'll hear you one at a time, starting with my apprentice.”

For the next two hours Manrin questioned the other warlocks. He learned about the Calling, and how it had taken Rudhira and Varrin; he learned about Lord Faran's ghastly death at the hands of the Wizards' Guild. He took a roll call, learning who was still in the group and who had fled, going home or hiding elsewhere, and he sorted the warlocks out by their level of power, as Faran had.

When that was done he thought he had a fairly good understanding of the situation—and he didn't like it much. Varrin had done serious damage to the Palace, and Faran had slain a high-ranking member of the Wizards' Guild—executions were never left to anyone of low rank. The party as a whole had further antagonized the entire city by their march through the streets.

But it might not be too late to make amends, Manrin thought. Lord Faran's death, while a tragic loss, was also an opportunity. Their dead leader could be made a convenient target for the city's anger and mistrust. The warlocks could blame Lord Faran for all the harm they had done, absolving the survivors of any responsibility.

But, Manrin was convinced, they had to present themselves as real magicians, a lawful part of the city, not a mysterious, lawless, alien force.

He started to explain this to his new followers, but had not gotten very far before Kirsha demanded, “How?”

Manrin stopped. “How what?” he asked.

“How can we present ourselves as normal magicians? We're not—we're from all over the city, from a dozen different backgrounds, not people who served a proper apprenticeship to learn a trade. Just look at us!”

“You have a point,” Manrin said, “and I've thought about it. I think we need to do something to make ourselves look more like a coherent group. Perhaps if we all dyed our clothes to one color? Red might be nice. Is that man Bern around? He might be able to help…”

“He's in the kitchens somewhere,” Shella called. “I'll go find him.”

“We can't dye all our clothes red,” Desset said. “You can't dye dark colors red; the old color will show through. We'd need to get all new clothes.”

“We could dye everything black,” Othisen suggested. “Black will cover anything.”

“Then we'd look like demonologists,” Alladia said.

“Is that bad?” Desset asked. “Everyone knows demonologists are magicians, and they may not like them, but nobody throws bricks at their windows.”

“Exactly!” Manrin said. “Black it is, then—from now on, warlocks wear black.”

“But they'll think we're all demonologists!” Alladia protested.

“Better that than thinking we're warlocks, I'd say,” Yorn commented.

“Black,” Manrin said. “You chose me to lead you, and as your leader, I tell you to wear black—if Bern can get us the dye.”

Desset nodded. “Everyone looks good in black, too.”

Manrin didn't think everyone present agreed with that, but he wasn't about to let his followers argue about trivia. “And we'll need to advertise,” he said. “Ordinary magicians are useful, they earn their living from their magic. Well, we can all do things that people will pay for—we can heal wounds as well as anyone, we can open locks, we can break things or repair things. We need to let everyone know that. Right now, thanks to those of us who did things we shouldn't have on the Night of Madness, they think of us as thieves and bullies, not honest citizens, and we need to fix that. Some of us should volunteer to help rebuild the shops and houses that got smashed on the Night of Madness. And people think we kidnapped all those people who disappeared out of their beds—we need to convince them we didn't.”