Mustrum Ridcully, longest serving Archchancellor in Unseen University's thousand year history, looked down at the small pile of documents on his desk. He shook his head. His world was trembling, he thought, but whether because its foundations were about to collapse or because it was poised to shoot forward into the future remained to be seen. He looked up at the red, shaggy form of the Librarian who was soothingly patting that hand of a frightened-looking maid.
And longest surviving!
"Librarian, in all your years in the Library, Wizard and ape, had this book
ever
shown the slightest hint o' magic before?"
The orangutan shook his head. "Ook."
"Really? Not the slightest, eh. So that explains why young Baconer could check it out and take it back t' his quarters. Tell me, Mr. Stibbons," he turned to his multi-positioned, right-hand Wizard, "How well did y' know the young chap?"
Ponder Stibbons shook his head and shrugged. "He was just another student. I could put his name to his face when I passed him in the hall but there was nothing of note about him. I've queried the rest of the faculty. To the Wizard, they were generally of the opinion that he was the sort who would go into private practice in some small town on the Sto Plains. The best he could hope for was to become a court advisor to some lordling or other."
"And yet he took the book back to his room and then did—somethin'—and obviously somethin' ill-advised. He goes up in a flash, leavin' th' obligatory smokin' pair of pointy toed shoes and when you," here he turned to the maid, "enter th' room to clean, it attacks."
Phoebe's lower lip started to tremble and tears leaked from her eyes as she nodded hesitantly.
"And obviously, y' were terrified," the Archchancellor continued kindly, his country accent deepening with his rising emotion, "so y' threw up yer hands t' protect y'rself and that's when th' sparks flew from yer fingers and knocked the' wretched thing to th' floor?"
Phoebe nodded again, put her face in her hands and started to sob in earnest. The Librarian produced a clean, neatly folded handkerchief from somewhere and handed it to her.
Ridcully picked up a hand-written note and looked at it soberly. After a few minutes he said, "Mrs. Whitlow writes that you're from a Lancre family. Phoebe, are y' in any way related t' the Weatherwaxes?"
"Yessir," Phoebe sniffled as she got back in control, "Me mum were a Weatherwax. She always considered it a point o' pride that she were second cousin t' Granny. Whenever anyone gave her a bad time come Market Day, she'd always imply that if things weren't corrected to her way o' thinkin', there might come a reckonin'. I don't know if any ever did but just sharin' the same name gave her a real edge when it come down t' the 'agglin'."
Ridcully smiled in a melancholy way. In his youth he had spent a happy summer in the Ramtops. There he'd met a remarkable girl named Esmerelda and had been positively smitten. However, she didn't seem to return the infatuation quite as much as he could have hoped and when he'd written to her repeatedly after returning to University, she hadn't answered. Decades later, when making a state visit to Lancre to celebrate the coronation of its new king, they'd met again. To his surprise (and somewhat to her dismay) Mustrum discovered that his ardor had only gone into hibernation, not died. In the end, though, they had come to the reluctant agreement that their separate careers would forever keep them separate—though at least she started answering his letters.
When she finally died, his mourning had been deep and long. And now, suddenly, a new connection rose. It appeared he had something like a new niece. A niece with magical talent. Magic seems often to run in families and in the Weatherwaxes it ran swift, strong and deep. Not only had (Granny) Esmerelda Weatherwax been acknowledged the most powerful witch on the Disc but a more distant uncle (Galder) had served as Unseen University Archchancellor back in the day when the position merited combat pay.
It might have come to naught if the Lore had been followed to the letter. Women were witches and only men could be Wizards, it said. However, Stibbons in his obsessively orderly way had unearthed the record of one Eskarina Smith, a
woman
who had become a Wizard. Even better, she had been mentored by his beloved Esme.
"Phoebe," Ridcully asked, "what's your last name?"
"E—Emergent, your Worship. Phoebe Emergent."
The Archchancellor's left eyebrow raised enough to impress even the Patrician. He wasn't big on omens; he left that to his younger brother Hughnon, Chief Priest of Blind Io. However, if you combined the family names you got the double-barrelled (and somewhat ominous) surname of Phoebe Emergent-Weatherwax. And that should be enough to sober even his own faculty.
"Librarian, d' y' have any recollection of this Eskarina Smith? Or was she before your time?"
"Ook."
"That long ago, eh? So Esme would have been a comparatively young witch then. I certainly don't remember the lass so it must have been just after I left for the estates after graduatin'. Interestin'. Miss Emergent, d' you find the prospect of magical power a bit dauntin', a little scary?"
Phoebe let out a howl of fear, sorrow and regret. No, she didn't find the idea a little scary; she found it utterly terrifying. And that, the Archchancellor thought, made her an excellent prospect. According to her history, Eskarina Smith was the first to suggest that greatest thing to know about magic was when
not
to use it. For centuries Wizards hadn't thought like that with the result that there were areas of the Disc where the grass would never grow again. There hadn't been an incursion of Things from the Dungeon Dimensions since that regrettable episode with the moving pictures and that might be a new record. Wizard's duels now consisted of nasty memos rather than fireballs. It was all to the good, he thought. Just maybe there was some sort of innate good sense about women that could make a general improvement in the profession of Wizardry.
"I understand completely, child," he spoke softly, "and the best way to fight back is to learn to control it. Miss Emergent, welcome to the next freshman class of Unseen University."
*****
The Reader in Invisible Runes was visibly upset. "But—but it just isn't done! How dare the Archchancellor admit a—a serving maid into the University? What possible talent could a slip of a girl like that have?"
Ponder Stibbons lowered his chin and peered impatiently over his glasses. "One, she defeated a magical book that essentially
ate
a sixth form student, and did it totally without training. Two, she's a Weatherwax. Does that name perhaps ring a bell? Three, he's the Archchancellor and can do whatever he wants. It even says so on his door. Now, your next question will be . . .?"
