Sourcery

time, which was as good a reason as any for retaining the custom.
    The conversation died away. The assembled wizardry stared at the doors.
    There was a soft knocking.
    “Go away!” shouted the wizards, some of them collapsing at the sheer subtlety of the humor.
    Spelter picked up the great iron ring that contained the keys to the University. They weren’t all metal. They weren’t all visible. Some of them looked very strange indeed.
    “Who is that who knocketh without?” he intoned.
    “ I do .”
    What was strange about the voice was this: it seemed to every wizard that the speaker was standing right behind him. Most of them found themselves looking over their shoulders.
    In that moment of shocked silence there was the sharp little snick of the lock. They watched in fascinated horror as the iron bolts traveled back of their own accord; the great oak beams of timber, turned by Time into something tougher than rock, slid out of their sockets; the hinges flared from red through yellow to white and then exploded. Slowly, with a terrible inevitability, the doors fell into the hall.
    There was an indistinct figure standing in the smoke from the burning hinges.
    “Bloody hell, Virrid,” said one of the wizards nearby, “that was a good one.”
    As the figure strode into the light they could all see that it was not, after all, Virrid Wayzygoose.
    He was at least a head shorter than any other wizard, and wore a simple white robe. He was also several decades younger; he looked about ten years old, and in one hand he held a staff considerably taller than he was.
    “Here, he’s no wizard—”
    “Where’s his hood, then?”
    “Where’s his hat ?”
    The stranger walked up the line of astonished wizards until he was standing in front of the top table. Spelter looked down at a thin young face framed by a mass of blond hair, and most of all he looked into two golden eyes that glowed from within. But he felt they weren’t looking at him. They seemed to be looking at a point six inches beyond the back of his head. Spelter got the impression that he was in the way, and considerably surplus to immediate requirements.
    He rallied his dignity and pulled himself up to his full height.
    “What is the meaning of, um, this?” he said. It was pretty weak, he had to admit, but the steadiness of that incandescent glare appeared to be stripping all the words out of his memory.
    “I have come,” said the stranger.
    “Come? Come for what?”
    “To take my place. Where is the seat for me?”
    “Are you a student?” demanded Spelter, white with anger. “What is your name, young man?”
    The boy ignored him and looked around at the assembled wizards.
    “Who is the most powerful wizard here?” he said. “I wish to meet him.”
    Spelter nodded his head. Two of the college porters, who had been sidling toward the newcomer for the last few minutes, appeared at either elbow.
    “Take him out and throw him in the street,” said Spelter. The porters, big solid serious men, nodded. They gripped the boy’s pipestem arms with hands like banana bunches.
    “Your father will hear of this,” said Spelter severely.
    “He already has,” said the boy. He glanced up at the two men and shrugged.
    “What’s going on here?”
    Spelter turned to see Skarmer Billias, head of the Order of the Silver Star. Whereas Spelter tended toward the wiry, Billias was expansive, looking rather like a small captive balloon that had for some reason been draped in blue velvet and vermine; between them, the wizards averaged out as two normal-sized men.
    Unfortunately, Billias was the type of person who prided himself on being good with children. He bent down as far as his dinner would allow and thrust a whiskery red face toward the boy.
    “What’s the matter, lad?” he said.
    “This child had forced his way into here because, he says, he wants to meet a powerful wizard,” said Spelter, disapprovingly. Spelter disliked children intensely, which was perhaps why they found him so fascinating. At the moment he was successfully preventing himself from wondering about the door.
    “Nothing wrong with that,” said Billias. “Any lad worth his salt wants to be a wizard. I wanted to be a wizard when I was a lad. Isn’t that right lad?”
    “Are you puissant?” said the boy.
    “Hmm?”
    “I said, are you puissant? How powerful are you?”
    “Powerful?” said Billias. He stood up, fingered his eighth-level sash, and winked at Spelter. “Oh, pretty