were keeping up with him, and noticed that Rudhira, who had been walking normally up to that point, was now airborne.
Hanner came to an abrupt halt and turned to her.
She stopped as well and hovered a foot off the ground, looking down at him slightly.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said, pointing at her dangling feet.
“I can’t walk that fast,” she replied.
“Then run.”
“Running is undignified. Especially if I trip. I don’t want to get these clothes muddy; your uncle’s mistress wouldn’t like it.”
“I don’t think my uncle’s current mistress ever saw them,” Hanner retorted. “I think they’re leftovers from a few women back.” He pointed toward the Palace. “Do you hear that crowd in the square there? I do, and I don’t think they sound happy. I think they sound dangerous. And angry. And one of the things they’re angry about is warlocks. Flying in there right now, openly announcing that you’re a warlock, is likely to start a riot and get us all killed. I don’t know about you, but I would prefer to get through today alive.”
Rudhira tossed her head dramatically. “I don’t think theycan kill me!” she said. “Because Iam a warlock, and going by what I’ve seen so far I’m one of the most powerful warlocks in Ethshar!”
“That’s probably true,” Hanner agreed, “but you’re still one person, and there are hundreds, maybe thousands, of people over there, and while I doubt any of them are warlocks, since I assume most warlocks have more sense than you, some of them might well be wizards. Or witches. Or sorcerers, or demonologists, or other sorts of magicians. I don’t know how warlockry matches up against the ordinary kinds of magic-doyou?”
Rudhira looked quickly toward the square, then dropped to the ground. “You’ve made your point,” she said as she started walking.
Othisen had observed this exchange silently; now, as the three of them walked quickly-though not quite as quickly as before— toward the Palace, he asked, “Do you really think it’s dangerous? Will there really be magicians?”
“Yes, it’s dangerous,” Manner said. “I don’t know whether there will be magicians.”
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. Itwanted 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’syour job to protect us!” someone roared.
“And weare 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’smagic” 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 thanyou 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 probablystarted it!” “It’s the demonologists!”
“Northern sorcery!”
“What does Lord Faran say?”
Thatquestion 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’tall 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
