Sourcery

does it not?” he said.
    “Absolutely! It was drawn up—”
    “But I am not a wizard, Lord Hakardly.”
    The wizard hesitated. “Ah,” he said, and hesitated again. “Good point,” he said.
    “But I am well aware of the need for wisdom, foresight and good advice, and I would be honored if you could see your way clear to providing those much-valued commodities. For example—why is it that wizards do not rule the world?”
    “What?”
    “It is a simple question. There are in this room—” Coin’s lips moved for a fraction of a second—“four hundred and seventy-two wizards, skilled in the most subtle of arts. Yet all you rule are these few acres of rather inferior architecture. Why is this?”
    The most senior wizards exchanged knowing glances.
    “Such it may appear,” said Hakardly eventually, “but, my child, we have domains beyond the ken of the temporal power.” His eyes gleamed. “Magic can surely take the mind to inner landscape of arcane—”
    “Yes, yes,” said Coin. “Yet there are extremely solid walls outside your University. Why is this?”
    Carding ran his tongue over his lips. It was extraordinary. The child was speaking his thoughts.
    “You squabble for power,” said Coin, sweetly, “and yet, beyond these walls, to the man who carts nightsoil or the average merchant, is there really so much difference between a high-level mage and a mere conjuror?”
    Hakardly stared at him in complete and untrammeled astonishment.
    “Child, it’s obvious to the meanest citizen,” he said. “The robes and trimmings themselves—”
    “Ah,” said Coin, “the robes and trimmings. Of course.”
    A short, heavy and thoughtful silence filled the hall.
    “It seems to me,” said Coin eventually, “that wizards rule only wizards. Who rules in the reality outside?”
    “As far as the city is concerned, that would be the Patrician, Lord Vetinari,” said Carding with some caution.
    “And is he a fair and just ruler?”
    Carding thought about it. The Patrician’s spy network was said to be superb. “I would say,” he said carefully, “that he is unfair and unjust, but scrupulously evenhanded. He is unfair and unjust to everyone, without fear or favor.”
    “And you are content with this?” said Coin.
    Carding tried not to catch Hakardly’s eye.
    “It’s not a case of being content with it,” he said. “I suppose we’ve not given it much thought. A wizard’s true vocation, you see—”
    “Is it really true that the wise suffer themselves to be ruled in this way?”
    Carding growled. “Of course not! Don’t be silly! We merely tolerate it. That’s what wisdom is all about, you’ll find that out when you grow up, it’s a case of biding one’s time—”
    “Where is this Patrician? I would like to see him.”
    “That can be arranged, of course,” said Carding. “The Patrician is always graciously pleased to grant wizards an interview, and—”
    “Now I will grant him an interview,” said Coin. “He must learn that wizards have bided their time long enough. Stand back, please.”
    He pointed the staff.

    The temporal ruler of the sprawling city of Ankh-Morpork was sitting in his chair at the foot of the steps leading up to the throne, looking for any signs of intelligence in intelligence reports. The throne had been empty for more than two thousand years, since the death of the last of the line of the kings of Ankh. Legend said that one day the city would have a king again, and went on with various comments about magic swords, strawberry birthmarks and all the other things that legends gabble on about in these circumstances.
    In fact the only real qualification now was the ability to stay alive for more than about five minutes after revealing the existence of any magic swords or birthmarks, because the great merchant families of Ankh had been ruling the city for the last twenty centuries and were about to relinquish power as the average limpet is to let go of its rock.
    The current Patrician, head of the extremely rich and powerful Vetinari family, was thin, tall and apparently as cold-blooded as a dead penguin. Just by looking at him you could tell he was the sort of man you’d expect to keep a white cat, and caress it idly while sentencing people to death in a piranha tank; and you’d hazard for good measure that he probably collected rare thin porcelain, turning it over and over in his blue-white fingers while distant screams echoed from the depths of the