Equal Rites

need to be quite so subservient. He nodded at the wizard, but it was a greeting between equals, or at least between equals as far as the smith was concerned. After all, any halfway competent blacksmith has more than a nodding acquaintance with magic, or at least likes to think he has.
    The wizard bowed. A white cat that had been sleeping by the furnace woke up and watched him carefully.
    “What is the name of this place, sir?” said the wizard.
    The blacksmith shrugged.
    “Bad Ass,” he said.
    “Bad—?”
    “Ass,” repeated the blacksmith, his tone defying anyone to make something of it.
    The wizard considered this.
    “A name with a story behind it,” he said at last, “which were circumstances otherwise I would be pleased to hear. But I would like to speak to you, smith, about your son.”
    “Which one?” said the smith, and the hangers-on sniggered. The wizard smiled.
    “You have seven sons, do you not? And you yourself were an eighth son?”
    The smith’s face stiffened. He turned to the other villagers.
    “All right, the rain’s stopping,” he said. “Piss off, the lot of you. Me and—” he looked at the wizard with raised eyebrows.
    “Drum Billet,” said the wizard.
    “Me and Mr. Billet have things to talk about.” He waved his hammer vaguely and, one after another, craning over their shoulders in case the wizard did anything interesting, the audience departed.
    The smith drew a couple of stools from under a bench. He took a bottle out of a cupboard by the water tank and poured a couple of very small glasses of clear liquid.
    The two men sat and watched the rain and the mist rolling over the bridge. Then the smith said: “I know what son you mean. Old Granny is up with my wife now. Eighth son of an eighth son, of course. It did cross my mind but I never gave it much thought, to be honest. Well, well. A wizard in the family, eh?”
    “You catch on very quickly,” said Billet. The white cat jumped down from its perch, sauntered across the floor and vaulted into the wizard’s lap, where it curled up. His thin fingers stroked it absentmindedly.
    “Well, well,” said the smith again. “A wizard in Bad Ass, eh?”
    “Possibly, possibly,” said Billet. “Of course, he’ll have to go to University first. He may do very well, of course.”
    The smith considered the idea from all angles, and decided he liked it a lot. A thought struck him.
    “Hang on,” he said. “I’m trying to remember what my father told me. A wizard who knows he’s going to die can sort of pass on his sort of wizardness to a sort of successor, right?”
    “I have never heard it put so succinctly, yes,” said the wizard.
    “So you’re going to sort of die?”
    “Oh yes.” The cat purred as the fingers tickled it behind the ear.
    The smith looked embarrassed. “When?”
    The wizard thought for a moment. “In about six minutes’ time.”
    “Oh.”
    “Don’t worry,” said the wizard. “I’m quite looking forward to it, to tell you the truth. I’ve heard it’s quite painless.”
    The blacksmith considered this. “Who told you?” he said at last.
    The wizard pretended not to hear him. He was watching the bridge, looking for telltale turbulence in the mist.
    “Look,” said the smith. “You’d better tell me how we go about bringing up a wizard, you see, because there isn’t a wizard in these parts and—”
    “It will all sort itself out,” said Billet pleasantly. “The magic has guided me to you and the magic will take care of everything. It usually does. Did I hear a cry?”
    The blacksmith looked at the ceiling. Above the splash of the rain he could make out the sound of a pair of new lungs at full bore.
    The wizard smiled. “Have him brought down here,” he said.
    The cat sat up and looked interestedly at the forge’s wide doorway. As the smith called excitedly up the stairs it jumped down and padded slowly across the floor, purring like a bandsaw.
    A tall white-haired woman appeared at the bottom of the stairs, clutching a bundle in a blanket. The smith hurried her over to where the wizard sat.
    “But—” she began.
    “This is very important,” said the smith importantly. “What do we do now, sir?”
    The wizard held up his staff. It was man-high and nearly as thick as his wrist, and covered with carvings that seemed to change as the smith looked at them, exactly as if they didn’t want him to see what they were.
    “The child must hold it,” said Drum Billet. The smith