Night of Madness (45 page)

Somehow, the warlocks—the
Council
of Warlocks—would have to convince them otherwise.

And beyond that, even people who didn't think that the warlocks were responsible for the disappearances, who didn't think there was some vast conspiracy behind it all thought warlocks were dangerous. Warlocks
were
dangerous, as they had demonstrated under Faran's leadership. The Council, once it existed, would have to convince everyone that danger was under firm control.

At this point, no one would believe anything warlocks told them. Hanner would need to find someone they
would
believe, and convince that someone to speak up on the warlocks' behalf.

The obvious possibilities were the established powers of the Hegemony—the overlords, the city guard, the Wizards' Guild, the Sisterhood of Witches, the Brotherhood of Witches, and so on. The overlord and the Guild in particular would be convincing, since both had acted openly against the warlocks. If Hanner could just convince Lord Azrad …

He stumbled over his own feet at the thought and realized that Bern had continued to talk, explaining how the warlocks had reacted to Manrin's proposals, while he had been lost in his planning.

He listened for a few seconds, decided that what Bern was saying wasn't important and he could always ask Bern to repeat it later, and resumed his chain of thought.

If Uncle Faran hadn't been able to talk sense to Lord Azrad, Hanner certainly couldn't hope to. The Wizards' Guild, though—the Guild wanted to minimize trouble. If they thought wiping out the warlocks was the way to do that, then Hanner and the others were as good as dead—though they'd take several wizards with them, he was sure.

But if they were convinced wiping out the warlocks would be more trouble than accommodating them, then the Guild would be the warlocks' natural ally. Faran had talked about appealing to them as fellow magicians, but hadn't really carried through. Hanner knew better than to try to appeal to their better nature or fellow feeling, but if he could present them with solid reasons that accommodation with the warlocks would be in their own best interests …

He thought he could.

“I need to talk to Ithinia,” he said, interrupting Bern's description of how they had dealt with Desset's nightmares.

“Now?”
Bern asked, startled.

Hanner looked around, suddenly aware that they were nearing Warlock House, and the normal morning crowds that had surrounded them since leaving the Palace were no longer present.

The people in the street had been pushed back away from them; they were walking down a cleared path leading directly to the open iron gate. Desset stood in the dooryard, watching them—clearly, the path was her doing.

“But she's already having nightmares!” Hanner said, breaking into a run.

Caught off guard, Bern took a moment to follow.

Hanner did not say anything, but inwardly he was seething. Didn't these people realize how the Calling worked? Hadn't they seen what happened to Rudhira and Varrin? The more magic a warlock used, the more powerful she became. The more powerful a warlock became, the more powerful the Calling was, until at last it became irresistible. The nightmares were a warning. Of the little group Bern had listed as still at the house Desset was the most powerful warlock remaining who had not been Called, with only Kirsha and maybe Ulpen coming anywhere close to matching her. That made her the obvious choice for big jobs like clearing a street so Hanner and Bern could get inside safely—but it also made her the
worst
choice, because at any moment the Calling might get the better of her and sweep her away.

“Get in here!” Hanner called as he pushed past her into the open doorway.

Startled, Desset and Bern hurried after him. He slammed the door behind them and turned to Desset.

“What is it?” she said breathlessly. “What's the matter?”

“
You
don't use magic anymore,” he told her, shaking a finger in her face. “Not unless you absolutely must!”

“But Bern and Alris needed to get out, and you and Bern needed to get in,” Desset protested.

“I don't care,” Hanner said. “It's not your job! Get one of the others—or if one can't handle the job, get two or three or four. But not
you.
You've had the nightmares.”

Desset's mouth opened, then closed.

“You'll hear the Calling!” Hanner said. “Like Rudhira and Varrin. Unless you
want
to go flying off northward in the middle of whatever you're doing, and never come back!”

“Oh,” Desset squeaked.

“Oh,” Bern said. “I didn't think…”

“Obviously,” Hanner said, turning to Bern—and realizing that they had an audience. The other warlocks were watching them.

Zarek had stayed, of course—he wouldn't be in any hurry to go back to the Hundred-Foot Field. Kirsha—Hanner didn't know much of anything about her background, but apparently she still preferred the mansion to her home. Her cousin Ilvin had stayed, as well. Hinda wasn't allowed back in the Palace. Alladia, Shella, Ulpen—their former lives as other sorts of magicians were gone. Yorn, outcast from the city guard, remained, as well as Mavi's friend Pancha, and one other whose name Hanner didn't remember at first.

Artalda, that was it. Artalda the Fair.

Most of them were wearing black now, he noticed—not their own clothes dyed, as Manrin had suggested, but assorted mismatched garments apparently pilfered from Uncle Faran's wardrobes, most of them ill-fitting, since only Yorn matched the late Lord Faran's height.

They were not an impressive bunch, but they were what he, and all the warlocks of the World, had to start with.

And the time had come to start. If he was going to be their leader, he knew he had to establish his authority at once.

“Good morning, all of you,” Hanner said. “Just to reassure you, you are all still welcome in this house. As you see, I've chosen to accept your invitation to return and lead you.”

Saying it openly felt oddly pleasant. It felt
right.
All his life he had carefully stayed in the background, in his uncle's shadow, doing as he was told no matter what he thought of it. He had always refused to take on any real authority because he had always thought there was someone better, someone more qualified.

Now, here, at last, he did not think there was. The time had come to assert himself.

“My lord,” Yorn said, bowing. The others followed suit with varying degrees of awkwardness.

“Don't call me ‘lord,'” Hanner said. The term reminded him of his old life, where it had been almost a mockery—he had never been lord of anything, despite the title. “If I'm leading you, instead of serving the overlord, then I can no longer bear that title.”

Yorn straightened up. “Then how should we address you, uh … sir?”

“‘Sir' is perfectly acceptable,” Hanner said. “I believe my actual title ought to be Chairman, though.”

“Chairman?” Kirsha asked.

“Chairman of the Council of Warlocks,” Hanner said.

“There's a Council of Warlocks?” Zarek asked.

“There is now.”

“Where?” Shella asked.

“Here,” Hanner said. “The twelve of us.” He glanced at Bern. “I'm afraid you don't qualify for membership, Bern, unless there's something you haven't told us.”

“No, I do not, my I … sir,” Bern said, stepping back toward the dining hall.

“We could do something about that, if you like,” Hanner said. “Shella, here, taught us. We could take you on as an apprentice.”

“No, sir.”

“You said earlier that you wanted to discuss the terms of your employment,” Hanner said. “We never really did. I think I should make it clear that this house is now the headquarters of the Council of Warlocks, and if you stay on—which you're quite welcome to do—it will be as an employee of the Council rather than working for any individual.”

“I … I can accept that, sir, but I do not wish to
be
a warlock.”

“I don't blame you,” Hanner said. “We have formidable enemies, several weaknesses … it's hardly a life you'd choose, eh?”

“Exactly, sir,” Bern said, visibly relieved.

“Well, I hope to improve that,” Hanner said. “And when I have, perhaps you'll reconsider.”

“Or perhaps not. Please, sir…”

“We'll leave it for now, Bern. Thank you for staying on.” Hanner turned back to the others. “Now, as I've just said, we are the Council of Warlocks. We are going to be the organization that warlocks answer to, as wizards answer to their Guild. We are going to make rules and enforce them, and establish just who and what a proper warlock is. If this isn't what you want, then leave now.”

The warlocks glanced at one another. Then Ilvin said, “Excuse me, sir—perhaps I've misunderstood something, but if Bern doesn't qualify for membership, how can
you
appoint yourself as Chairman?”

Hanner smiled. He had expected that question. He pointed, and a lamp lifted from a table.

“I'm qualified,” he said. “I didn't mention it before because my uncle was running things, but now that he's gone the time to hide is past.”

“
I
knew he was a warlock!” Shella said proudly.

“Yes, you did,” Hanner agreed. “Now, we will begin with rules on attire and deportment, then discuss the nature of the nightmares and the Calling, and how this affects us. I want to get through this quickly.”

“Why?” Shella asked.

“Because we have several things to do, and we don't know how much time we have to do them. The guard could make another assault, or the Wizards' Guild might reach a decision and attempt to act on it,” Hanner said. “I want to get a few basics established and learn exactly what the situation is here—for example, what's been done with Manrin's body?”

“It's still upstairs,” Bern said.

“Well, it must be dealt with eventually. At any rate, once the essentials here are settled, I'll go talk to the Wizards' Guild.”

“About Manrin?” Ulpen asked.

Hanner smiled.

“Among other things,” he said. “There are also a few things I need to explain to them about warlocks.”

Chapter Forty-one

Demonologists usually wore black robes as their formal garb and trimmed them with red. Therefore, to prevent confusion, warlocks would never wear robes—they would wear black tunics, but not full robes—and they would avoid red trim. Gold or white trim would be acceptable, to make their appearance less forbidding.

Warlocks would be polite but aloof in public, as befitted respected magicians.

The most powerful warlocks were most susceptible to the Calling. Therefore, they would use their magic as sparingly as possible. For any specific task, the weakest warlock who could handle it safely would be given that duty.

Warlocks would obey the law, so that the overlord would have no valid grounds for exiling or killing them. Any Council warlock who found another warlock breaking the law must stop him immediately, by any means necessary, up to and including stopping his heart. If the criminal was more powerful than the Council member, then aid should be called in at once—Hanner's group had demonstrated, on the Night of Madness, that warlocks working together could overcome a single warlock more powerful than any of them.

If any of them came across damage done by a warlock, they would offer to help repair it, but they would not force their aid on anyone who did not want it.

Those were the rules Hanner set forth. He had gathered the entire group in the dining hall; though Ulpen was posted at a front window, ready to ward off anything thrown at the house, the rest were seated around the table.

Hanner also explained everything he knew about the Calling, including his theory that it was responsible for the disappearances on the Night of Madness.

And when that was done, he said, “Now I need to talk to the wizards. Ulpen, how can I contact the Guild?”

“Uh…” Ulpen had not been expecting the question; he stared stupidly across the dining table at Hanner for a moment before collecting his wits.

“I don't know,” he said at last.

Hanner frowned. “You don't have any idea?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“Then we'll have to improvise.” Hanner thought for a minute, then looked around at the others.

Desset was there, looking oddly distracted; she glanced northward. Hanner was not about to ask her to do
anything.
He wondered if sending her farther south, farther from whatever was calling her, might help. The peninsula that separated the Gulf of the East from the Ocean only extended for a few leagues south of the city, though. Perhaps if she went to the Small Kingdoms …

But it wasn't urgent yet, and speaking to the wizards before they made their decision was vital.

Ilvin and Yorn weren't powerful enough to be any use; he wasn't sure about some of the others. Ulpen was a possibility, but really, the best choice was obvious.

“Kirsha,” he said, “can you fly me up above the city?”

She blinked at him. “I think so,” she said. “Where to? How far?”

“I don't know yet.” He frowned slightly and asked, “Have you had any nightmares since that first night?”

She hesitated, then said, “No.”

He was not happy about the hesitation, but he was not going to choose someone else now; he didn't want Kirsha to think he didn't trust her. She would probably think it was because of her crimes on the Night of Madness.

“Good,” he said. He glanced at a window; the sunlight was slanting from the west, the afternoon well advanced. They had spent most of the day establishing and explaining the Council rules.

He didn't want to waste any more time. He pushed back his chair and got to his feet.