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were even now coming to a conclusion.
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Fair enough, Master Treatle, but what of the young man? said the trail boss,
one Adab Gander, an impressive figure in a trollhide jerkin, rakishly floppy hat
and a leather kilt. He s no wizard, I can see.
He is in training, said Treatle- a tall skinny wizard whose robes declared him
to be a mage of the Ancient and Truly Original Brothers of the Silver Star, one of
the eight orders of wizardry.
Then no wizard he, said Gander. I know the rules, and you re not a wizard
unless you ve got a staff. And he hasn t.
Even now he travels to the Unseen University for that small detail, said
Treatle loftily. Wizards parted with money slightly less readily than tigers parted
with their teeth.
Gander looked at the lad in question. He had met a good many wizards in
his time and considered himself a good judge and he had to admit that this boy
looked like good wizard material. In other words, he was thin, gangling, pale
from reading disturbing books in unhealthy rooms, and had watery eyes like two
lightly-poached eggs. It crossed Gander s mind that one must speculate in order
to accumulate.
All he needs to get right to the top, he thought, is a bit of a handicap. Wizards
are martyrs to things like asthma and flat feet, it somehow seems to give them
their drive.
What s your name, lad? he said, as kindly as possible.
Sssssssssssssss said the boy. His Adam s apple bobbed like a captive bal-
loon. He turned to his companion, full of mute appeal.
Simon, said Trestle.
- imon, agreed Simon, thankfully.
Can you cast fireballs or whirling spells, such as might be hurled against an
enemy?
Simon looked sideways at Trestle.
Nnnnnnnnnn he ventured.
My young friend follows higher magic than the mere hurling of sorceries,
said the wizard.
-o, said Simon.
Gander nodded.
Well, he said, maybe you will indeed be a wizard, lad. Maybe when you
have your fine staff you ll consent to travel with me one time, yes? I will make an
investment in you, yes?
Just nod, said Gander, who was not naturally a cruel man.
Simon nodded gratefully. Treatle and Gander exchanged nods and then the
wizard strode off, with his apprentice trailing behind under a weight of baggage.
Gander looked down at the list in front of him and carefully crossed out wiz-
ard .
77
A small shadow fell across the page. He glanced up and gave an involuntary
start.
Well? he said coldly.
I want to go to Ankh-Morpork, said Esk, please. I ve got some money.
Go home to your mother, child.
No, really. I want to seek my fortune.
Gander sighed. Why are you holding that broomstick? he said.
Esk looked at it as though she had never seen it before.
Everything s got to be somewhere, she said.
Just go home, my girl, said Gander. I m not taking any runaways to Ankh-
Morpork. Strange things can happen to little girls in big cities.
Esk brightened. What sort of strange things?
Look, I said go home, right? Now!
He picked up his chalk and went on ticking off items on his slate, trying to
ignore the steady gaze that seemed to be boring through the top of his head.
I can be helpful, said Esk, quietly.
Gander threw down the chalk and scratched his chin irritably.
How old are you? he said.
Nine.
Well, Miss nine-years-old, I ve got two hundred animals and a hundred peo-
ple that want to go to Ankh, and half of them hate the other half, and I ve not
got enough people who can fight, and they say the roads are pretty bad and the
bandits are getting really cheeky up in the Paps and the trolls are demanding a
bigger bridge toll this year and there s weevils in the supplies and I keep getting
these headaches and where, in all this, do I need you?
Oh, said Esk. She looked around the crowded square. Which one of these
roads goes to Ankh, then?
The one over there, with the gate.
Thank you, she said gravely. Goodbye. I hope you don t have any more
trouble and your head gets better.
Right, said Gander uncertainly. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop as
he watched Esk walk away in the direction of the Ankh road. A long, winding
road. A road haunted by thieves and gnolls. A road that wheezed through high
mountain passes and crawled, panting, over deserts.
Oh bugger, he said, under his breath. Hey! You!
Granny Weatherwax was in trouble.
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First of all, she decided, she should never have allowed Hilta to talk her into
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