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“Um, Lord Cutangle,” said Esk. “He's the Archchancellor. He was one of the ones who was in here.”
“The fat one, or the one like a streak of vinegar?”
Esk dragged her mind from the image of Simon on the cold desert and found herself saying: “He's an Eighth Level wizard and a 33° mage, actually.”
“You mean he's bent?” said Granny. “All this hanging around wizards has made you take them seriously, my girl. They all call themselves the Lord High this and the Imperial That, it's all part of the game. Even magicians do it, you'd think they'd be more sensible at least, but no, they call around saying they're the Amazing-Bonko-and-Doris. Anyway, where is this High Rumtiddlypo?”
ibrarian shook his head, and tugged insistently.
“Ook,” he explained, “Ook.”
He dragged her reluctantly down a side alley-way in the maze of ancient shelving a few seconds before a party of senior wizards, drawn by the noise, rounded the corner.
“The books have been fighting again . . . .”
“Oh, no! It'll take ages to capture all the spells again, you know they go and find places to hide . . . .”
“Who's that on the floor?”
There was a pause.
“He's knocked out. A shelf caught him, by the looks of it.”
“Who is he?”
“That new lad. You know; the one they say has got a whole head full of brains?”
“If that shelf had been a bit closer we'd be able to see if they were right.”
“You two, get him along to the infirmary. The rest of you better get these books rounded up. Where's the damn librarian? He ought to know better than to let a Critical Mass build up.”
Esk glanced sideways at the orang-outan, who waggled his eyebrows at her. He pulled a dusty volume of gardening spells out of the shelves beside him, extracted a soft brown banana from the recess behind it, and ate it with the quiet relish of one who knows that whatever the problems are, they belong firmly to human beings.
She looked the other way, at the staff in her hand, and her lips went thin. She knew her grip hadn't slipped. The staff had lunged at Simon, with murder in its heartwood.
The boy lay on a hard bed in a narrow room, a cold towel folded across his forehead. Treatle and Cutangle watched him carefully.
“How long has it been?” said Cutangle.
Trestle shrugged. “Three days.”
“And he hasn't come around once?”
“No.”
Cutangle sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, and pinched the bridge of his nose wearily. Simon had never looked particularly healthy, but now his face had a horrible sunken look.
“A. brilliant mind, that one,” he said. “His explanation of the fundamental principles of magic and matter - quite astounding.”
Trestle nodded.
“The way he just absorbs knowledge,” said Cutangle: “I've been a working wizard all my life, and somehow I never really understood magic until he explained it. So clear. So, well, obvious.”
“Everyone says that,” said Trestle gloomily. “They say it's like having a hoodwink pulled off and seeing the daylight for the first time.”
“That's exactly it,” said Cutangle, “He's sourcerer material, sure enough. You were right to bring him here.”
There was a thoughtful pause.
