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The child had disappeared among the crowds. The merchant looked hard at the spot where she had been. He looked hard at the vendor, who was grinning nervously. He looked hard at the sky. Then took his sampling knife out of his pocket, stared at it for a moment, appeared to reach a decision, and sidled towards the nearest bale.
Esk, meanwhile, had by random eavesdropping found the caravan being assembled for Ankh-Morpork. The trail boss was sitting at a table made up of a plank across two barrels.
He was busy.
He was talking to a wizard.
Seasoned travellers know that a party setting out to cross possibly hostile country should have a fair number of swords in it but should definitely have a wizard in case there is any need for magic arts and, even if these do not become necessary, for lighting fires. A wizard of the third rank or above does not expect to pay for the privilege of joining the party. Rather, he expects to be paid. Delicate negotiations were even now coming to a conclusion.
“Fair enough, Master Treatle, but what of the young man?” said the trail boss, one Adab Gander, an impressive figure in a trollhide jerkin, rakishly floppy hat and a leather kilt. “He's no wizard, I can see.”
“He is in training,” said Treatle- a tall skinny wizard whose robes declared him to be a mage of the Ancient and Truly Original Brothers of the Silver Star, one of the eight orders of wizardry.
“Then no wizard he,” said Gander. “I know the rules, and you're not a wizard unless you've got a staff. And he hasn't.”
“Even now he travels to the Unseen University for that small detail,” said Treatle loftily. Wizards parted with money slightly less readily than tigers parted with their teeth.
Gander looked at the lad in question. He had met a good many wizards in his time and considered himself a good judge and he had to admit that this boy looked like good wizard material. In other words, he was thin, gangling, pale from reading disturbing books in unhealthy rooms, and had watery eyes like two lightly-poached eggs. It crossed Gander's mind that one must speculate in order to accumulate.
All he needs to get right to the top, he thought, is a bit of a handicap. Wizards are martyrs to things like asthma and flat feet, it somehow seems to give them their drive.
“What's your name, lad?” he said, as kindly as possible.
“Sssssssssssssss” said the boy. His Adam's apple bobbed like a captive balloon. He turned to his companion, full of mute appeal.
“Simon,” said Trestle.
“- imon,” agreed Simon, thankfully.
“Can you cast fireballs or whirling spells, such as might be hurled against an enemy?”
Simon looked sideways at Trestle.
“Nnnnnnnnnn” he ventured.
“My young friend follows higher magic than the mere hurling of sorceries,” said the wizard.
“-o,” said Simon.
Gander nodded.
“Well,” he said, “maybe you will indeed be a wizard, lad. Maybe when you have your fine staff you'll consent to travel with me one time, yes? I will make an investment in you, yes?”
“Just nod,” said Gander, who was not naturally a cruel man.
Simon nodded gratefully. Treatle and Gander exchanged nods and then the wizard strode off, with his apprentice trailing behind under a weight of baggage.
Gander looked down at the list in front of him and carefully crossed out “wizard”.
A small shadow fell across the page. He glanced up and gave an involuntary start.
“Well?” he said coldly.
“I want to go to Ankh-Morpork,” said Esk, “please. I've got some money.”
“Go home to your mother, child.”
“No, really. I want to seek my fortune.”
