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Granny tapped him on the shoulder.
“A word in your ear, young man,” she said.
“Hardly young, madam,” sighed Cutangle, “hardly young.” He felt drained. It had been decades since he'd duelled in magic, although it was common enough among students. He had a nasty feeling that Granny would have won eventually. Fighting her was like swatting a fly on your own nose. He couldn't think what had come over him to try it.
Granny led him out into the passage and around the corner to a window-seat. She sat down, leaning her broomstick against the wall. Rain drummed heavily on the roofs outside, and a few zigzags of lightning indicated a storm of Ramtop proportions approaching the city.
“That was quite an impressive display,” she said: “You nearly won once or twice there.”
“Oh,” said Cutangle, brightening up. “Do you really think so?”
Granny nodded.
Cutangle patted at various bits of his robe until he located a tarry bag of tobacco and a roll of paper. His hands shook as he fumbled a few shreds of second-hand pipeweed into a skinny homemade. He ran the wretched thing across his tongue, and barely moistened it. Then a dim remembrance of propriety welled up in the back of his mind.
“Um,” he said, “do you mind if I smoke?”
Granny shrugged. Cutangle struck a match on the wall and tried desperately to navigate the flame and the cigarette into approximately the same position. Granny gently took the match from his trembling hand and lit it for him.
Cutangle sucked on the tobacco, had a ritual cough and settled back, the glowing end of the rollup the only light in the dim corridor.
“They've gone Wandering,” said Granny at last.
“I know,” said Cutangle.
“Your wizards won't be able to get them back.”
“I know that, too.”
“They might get something back, though.”
“I wish you hadn't said that.”
There was a pause while they contemplated what might come back, inhabiting living bodies, acting almost like the original inhabitants.
“It's probably my fault -”they said in unison, and stopped in astonishment.
“You first, madam,” said Cutangle.
“Them cigaretty things,” asked Granny, “are they good for the nerves?”
Cutangle opened his mouth to point out very courteously that tobacco was a habit reserved for wizards, but thought better of it. He extended the tobacco pouch towards Granny.
She told him about Esk's birth, and the coming of the old wizard, and the staff, and Esk's forays into magic. By the time she had finished she had succeeded in rolling a tight, thin cylinder that burned with a small blue flame and made her eyes water.
“I don't know that shaky nerves wouldn't be better,” she wheezed.
Cutangle wasn't listening.
“This is quite astonishing,” he said. “You say the child didn't suffer in any way?”
“Not that I noticed,” said Granny. “The staff seemed - well, on her side, if you know what I mean.”
“And where is this staff now?”
“She said she threw it in the river . . . .”
The old wizard and the elderly witch stared at each other, their faces illuminated by a flare of lightning outside.
