Sourcery

conviviality was the fact that no one was trying to kill anyone else. This is an unusual state of affairs in magical circles.
    The higher levels of wizardry are a perilous place. Every wizard is trying to dislodge the wizards above him while stamping on the fingers of those below; to say that wizards are healthily competitive by nature is like saying that piranhas are naturally a little peckish. However, ever since the great Mage Wars left whole areas of the Disc uninhabitable * , wizards have been forbidden to settle their differences by magical means, because it caused a lot of trouble for the population at large and in any case it was often difficult to tell which of the resultant patches of smoking fat had been the winner. So they traditionally resort to knives, subtle poisons, scorpions in shoes and hilarious booby traps involving razor-sharp pendulums.
    On Small Gods’ Eve, however, it was considered extremely bad form to kill a brother wizard, and wizards felt able to let their hair down without fear of being strangled with it.
    The Archchancellor’s chair was empty. Wayzygoose was dining alone in his study, as befits a man chosen by the gods after their serious discussion with sensible senior wizards earlier in the day. Despite his eighty years, he was feeling a little bit nervous and hardly touched his second chicken.
    In a few minutes he would have to make a speech. Wayzygoose had, in his younger days, sought power in strange places; he’d wrestled with demons in blazing octagrams, stared into dimensions that men were not meant to know of, and even outfaced the Unseen University grants committee, but nothing in the eight circles of nothingness was quite so bad as a couple of hundred expectant faces staring up at him through the cigar smoke.
    The heralds would soon be coming by to collect him. He sighed and pushed his pudding away untasted, crossed the room, stood in front of the big mirror, and fumbled in the pocket of the robe for his notes.
    After a while he managed to get them in some sort of order and cleared his throat.
    “My brothers in art,” he began, “I cannot tell you how much I—er, how much…fine traditions of this ancient university…er…as I look around me and see the pictures of Archchancellors gone before…” He paused, sorted through his notes again, and plunged on rather more certainly. “Standing here tonight I am reminded of the story about the three-legged pedlar and the, er, merchant’s daughters. It seems that this merchant…”
    There was a knock at the door.
    “Enter,” Wayzygoose barked, and peered at the notes carefully.
    “This merchant,” he muttered, “this merchant, yes, this merchant had three daughters. I think it was. Yes. It was three. It would appear…”
    He looked into the mirror, and turned round.
    He started to say, “Who are y—”
    And found that there are things worse than making speeches, after all.

    The small dark figure creeping along the deserted corridors heard the noise, and didn’t take too much notice. Unpleasant noises were not uncommon in areas where magic was commonly practiced. The figure was looking for something. It wasn’t sure what it was, only that it would know it when it found it.
    After some minutes its search led it to Wayzygoose’s room. The air was full of greasy coils. Little particles of soot drifted gently on the air currents, and there were several foot-shaped burn marks on the floor.
    The figure shrugged. There was no accounting for the sort of things you found in wizard’s rooms. It caught sight of its multi-faceted reflection in the shattered mirror, adjusted the set of its hood, and got on with the search.
    Moving like one listening to inner directions, it padded noiselessly across the room until it reached the table whereon stood a tall, round and battered leather box. It crept closer and gently raised the lid.
    The voice from inside sounded as though it was talking through several layers of carpet when it said, At last. What kept you?

    “I mean, how did they all get started? I mean, back in the old times, there were real wizards, there was none of this levels business. They just went out and—did it. Pow!”
    One or two of the other customers in the darkened bar of the Mended Drum tavern looked around hastily at the noise. They were new in town. Regular customers never took any notice of surprising noises like groans or unpleasantly gristly sounds. It was a lot healthier. In some parts of the city