Ebrion meant a contest of wizards. Superficially it was a fair way of determining who was the better magician. But there were tricks to such contests, just as there were subtleties to any kind of competition. From apprentices to wizards of the Mighty, all magicians practiced against each other for sport. The only experience Wiz had in such a contest was when he had inadvertently gotten into a duel to the death with the second most powerful wizard of the Dark League. Only Bal-Simba’s intervention had saved him.
When he saw Wiz would ignore the implied challenge, Ebrion went on. “You have taught us some new tricks and given us some important insights and for that we must thank you. But they do not amount to revolutionizing the practice of magic, nor do they sweep away all we have done here for hundreds of years. Magic is as it ever was, Sparrow.”
“Except that the Wild Wood isn’t pushing into human lands any more,” Wiz snapped. “The Dark League isn’t one step from throttling the entire North and the common people have a defense against hostile magic. You and all your traditions couldn’t do any of that!”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Wiz was sorry. Ebrion’s head jerked back as if he had been slapped and he blanched under his tan. He turned his back on Wiz and addressed Bal-Simba.
“My Lord I came merely to tell you that I will be leaving the Capital for Mountainhame on the morn and to inquire if there was some service I could perform there for you.”
“No, nothing.” Bal-Simba said.
“Then I will take my leave of you, Lord.” And with that he bowed and left the room, ignoring Wiz completely.
“That was ill-done, Sparrow,” Bal-Simba said as soon as the door had closed behind Ebrion.
“I know, Lord,” Wiz said uncomfortably. “Do you think I should go apologize to him?”
Bal-Simba shook his head. “Leave him for now,” he rumbled. “Perhaps when he returns you should speak to him.”
“He was trying to get under my skin.”
Bal-Simba frowned. “Get under . . . ah, I see what you mean. So he was, but you let him and that gave him the advantage of the encounter. You must learn to control yourself better.”
“I’ll try, Lord,” Wiz said uncomfortably.
“Let us hope you succeed,” Bal-Simba said. “You have students soon, do you not?”
“Yipe. I’m already late!”
“Go then, Sparrow. But remember what we have discussed.”
Three : Stirring the Pot
It’s never the technical stuff that gets you in trouble. It’s the personalties and the politics.
—programmer’s saying
Presumptuous puppy! Ebrion fumed as he made his way down the stairs and out into the main courtyard.
He did not return to his tower or to any of his other usual haunts. Instead he crossed the yard and made for the main gate of the keep. Just inside the gate was a much less plushly appointed day room used by off-duty guardsmen, minor merchants, castle servants, apprentices and others.
The big, low-ceilinged room was several steps down from the yard. Light flooded in through the windows up next to the whitewashed ceiling and reflected down onto the worn plank tables and rough benches and stools.
Heads turned as he came in and then turned back. This was hardly a place for the Mighty, much less a member of the Council, but Ebrion was known for his common touch. Two or three times in every turning of the moon he could be expected to drop by and exchange a few words with the habitués.
It was a time when apprentices should be at their studies or serving their masters. Still, Ebrion expected to find the one he sought here and he was not disappointed. Sitting by himself in a corner was a lank man with smoldering brown eyes and bowl-cut brown hair. Arms flat on the table and legs thrust straight out into the aisle, he was scowling into a mug of small beer as if he expected it to rise up and challenge him.
“Well met, Pryddian,” Ebrion said pleasantly.
The young man looked up and nodded, but he did not rise as befitted an apprentice in the presence of one of the Mighty.