Tales From the Guilds

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 . . .?"

"But—but if she happens to enroll in one of my classes, what do I do?"

"Teach the class, Reader. That's your job. She's going to be wearing the same robes as any other student. What's underneath is none of your business. Teach the class."

The Reader in Invisible Runes backed away. Ponder Stibbons held enough positions in the faculty (mostly because no one else wanted them) that he could, if he wished, essentially rule the University Council. Trying to get huffy with that Wizard was unlikely to be a good career move and the Reader had only held his position for a few months. His anxiety reading well over 'ten', he scuttled off to his quarters.

*****

Phoebe's anxiety reading was no more than seven or possibly eight but it was enough to make Mrs. Whitlow bark at her. "Sit down, young lady, or you will make me sew this cloth to

you

instead o' to

gether

. Gods know tryin' to make a student gown fit a young lady is 'ard enough without you twitchin' around like that."

The girl made a visible effort to stop trembling. Two days ago she was an upstairs maid. She liked being an upstairs maid. Keeping things clean was satisfying and some of the things she had to clean up were very interesting and quite a bit more amusing than anything she'd found in Lancre Castle. Then she'd entered Baconer's room. It shouldn't have been any problem. It was during a time when he wasn't even supposed to be in there but when she opened the door, she had only a second to see the smoking pointy-toed shoes before a large book snarled and launched itself at her, it's pages open wide. And they looked like they had teeth. She'd let out a scream of terror and held up her hands. To her amazement a river of sparks had flown out of her fingertips and driven the book back against the wall with a thump. It had emitted a faint squeal and then fell to the floor, where the half dozen students who rushed in at her scream found it and her, on her knees, quaking in fear.

"Aye remember young Eskarina. She were a wonder at cleanin' and Aye always wondered meself how she did it. It turned out that her broom were a Wizardin' staff! Now you study 'ard and in a few years you'll 'ave a staff of your own and be an inspiration to the other gells downstairs. Make us proud, Phoebe, make us proud."

Mrs. Whitlow patted the girl on the shoulder and stood her up in front of a mirror. Phoebe looked at herself in amazement. Yes, she was wearing a gown just like the boys' but it wasn't

just

like theirs. If the Reader in Invisible Runes had seen it he would have likely fainted dead away. There was no doubt what sex she was.

*****

All books are dangerous, it is said, and not just the books of magic. Ordinary books can make the brain catch fire and move you to burn down the neighborhood. Books of magic can be even worse. Magic has a pseudo-life of its own, thus books on magic become, over time, magical living books and they were

not

friendly. And deep in the Library basement were the stone-doored, maximum security vaults where the worst ones were kept. Here even the Librarian avoided going and when he absolutely had to, he wore a protective mask and thick leather gloves. Here were kept the harsh and imperious

Octavo,

the compendium of fiendish practical jokes called

The Bumper Fun Grimoire, The Joy of Tantric Sex

that had to be kept under iced water and, worst of all, the

Necrotelicomnicom,

a book of such irredeemable evil that it was reputed to suck the brains of the unwary reader out through his eye sockets. And in an empty vault far from the stairs, the Librarian and the Senior Wrangler cautiously examined the most recent addition.

Baconer, it seemed, was more skillful than he'd been given credit for but not quite as skillful as he himself imagined. The margin notes he'd written looked harmless enough by themselves but, taken together, they formed a spell of ghastly maliciousness. Their examination complete, the Librarian closed that covers and fastened it down with iron chains before leaving the room and locking the stone door.

As they walked down the corridor they heard the faint snarls of the imprisoned volumes on either side and shuddered slightly. Even for the most senior and skilled of Wizards, this was a fearful place.

"Ook. Ook-a-eek eep!" The Librarian muttered.

"Well, old chap, it's your Library and your call but I'm not sure that sealing the damned thing up is the proper answer. I know my fellow Wizards. Tell them not to touch a button that will bring about the collapse of the known Multiverse and one of them will think, 'Well, how else could we explore the

unknown

Multiverse?' and give it a stab."

"Ook ooko?"

"Ah, a better plan. Yes, just put up a sign that says 'No admittance without a last will and testament on file' and have Ridcully sign it. That ought to give 'em pause. I don't know which is scarier, the book or the fact that an untrained serving maid was able to defeat it. What kind of power does young Phoebe have?"

"Ook!"

"No! Oh, gods, she's a Weatherwax? In direct line on her mother's side? No wonder the Archchancellor admitted her. She's far too dangerous to be let outside the University, at least until she learns to control her talent."

*****

Unlike most country Lancre girls, Phoebe could read. She was slow and needed to run her finger under the lines but she was steady and determined. Working her way through the archives on Eskarina Smith she repeatedly shook her head in amazement. The girl had essentially

forced

her way into the place and did so at the ripe old age of eight! Of course, having Granny's help couldn't have hurt but still . . . And the story of the battle with the Things from the Dungeon Dimensions just chilled Phoebe's bones. A little girl, just eight years old, taking on those monsters and winning. It was amazing.

Naturally, the story would have been incomplete without mention of her classmate Simon. A self-taught Wizard from deep in the country, he had developed a theory of magic so rarefied and abstract that even now, decades later, scholarly Wizards were still puzzling over and debating his thought. Strangely, he seemed to have disappeared after he was awarded a D. Thau. One would have thought that a Wizard of such power would have merged seamlessly into Senior Faculty but Simon had just donned his robe and pointy hat, picked up his staff and walked away. No word of him had been breathed in all the years since.

Eskarina, on the other hand, seemed to flit in and out of history. She apparently had married or, at least, formed a relationship and produced a son. There were rumors that she had made some arrangement with Time and would show up when least expected as everything from a mature woman, rich in years, to a saucy wench. It seemed to depend on how she needed to be. Phoebe started to worry. She hoped against all hope that Unseen University wouldn't expect her to meet those expectations.

"I really wonder what did 'appen to Simon," she mused out loud one day.

"Everyone does," Jeremy Barcbeadle answered over the top of the heavy grimoire he was studying, "While he was a student, he had so many illnesses that Eskarina had to pretty much care for him full-time. But once he finished, he sort of cast off all the ills and walked away. The Reader in Inadvisedly-Applied Magic thinks he may have become a Sourceror."

"Be that possible? I thought you had t' be the eighth son of an eighth son of an eighth son and 'at's why Wizards aren't allowed to get married anymore."

"It's hard to say," Barcbeadle replied. "Certainly that's the usual theory but Simon was unique. No one really is sure what he was capable of. And since he never spoke of any parents but his mother, it's possible that he

was

an eighth of an eighth of an eighth and no one knew it."

Phoebe nodded knowingly. "Well, he were from th' countryside and we country folk has a diff'rent take on such things. Do anyone know who it were Eskarina married, if'n she did?"

"Not that I'm aware of. But if Simon was the father, the boy would be frighteningly powerful."

Phoebe's eyes widened and she shuddered.

*****

Light a candle. To most folk that's a fairly easy task. But in Unseen University it's a bit more complex. What the teacher means is, "Make the candle light", and that's rather a different thing. One student had already been carried off to the infirmary because his candle exploded sending burning wax all over the boy's face and hands. Others had retreated behind shields before concentrating their energy on making the blamed thing catch fire. Phoebe watched the others and then tried a different tack. Instead of trying to summon flame and send it toward the wick she simply reached out a forefinger and touched the tip while imagining warmth. Nothing happened for some seconds but then suddenly a single flame popped into existence. She sat back in surprise.

"Be that all there be to it?" she asked the instructor.

The Reader in Obscurity nodded. "Yes, Miss Emergent, that's all there is to it. This is the real danger. Magic is very easy—

too

easy. However, one must always keep in mind that Magic has a pseudo-life of its own and it isn't friendly. Use it carelessly and too often and it will send you a bill—a bill that is always more than you can afford. That is why we at Unseen University have cultivated the non-use of Magic. Not because we think we can't, but because we know we can. And when someone wants us to use it, we charge high prices. We Wizards, of all people, know just how dangerous it is and what it takes to keep it under control. Your mother's witch relatives also used as little as possible, relying on herbs and psychology instead. In ages past Wizards would have scoffed at them for it. Now we know they were right all along."

"Coo . . ." Phoebe answered in amazement.

*****

Phoebe was several years older than most entering students but that did not turn out to be any sort of handicap. Being a very practical young person for her whole life she had few illusions about the power, glory and romance of magic. It was, in her common-sense opinion, one more way of getting things done. Use as little as possible for the shortest time necessary and accomplish the task at hand. The boys were given to showing off and challenging each other but Phoebe felt no need for the first and her straight forward outlook and obvious ability made the second unattractive. After all, the university had an entire pond full of people who had tried to challenge someone above their skill.

Perhaps it was hereditary or maturity but whatever the cause, Phoebe rose through the academic levels at record speed. Even the Archchancellor who had made Seventh Level mage at the unheard of age of twenty-seven was impressed.

"At this rate the gel's going to be Senior Faculty before she's thirty," he mused aloud to Ponder Stibbons, "Perhaps you'll be able t' shuck off some of those jobs you've accrued over the years."

Ponder nodded. "It would be a relief to be rid of some of them. That way I could get back to the High Energy Magic research I've had to neglect."

"Actually, I was thinking of sending her there. She seems to have a knack with Thinkin' Engine you call Hex."

Ponder scowled. Working with Hex was the best part of his job, he thought, and he wasn't too pleased with letting anyone else get too cozy with it. Still, there was no questioning Phoebe's skill. Who knew? Perhaps her alternate point of view might uncover something the male Wizards hadn't thought to seek.

*****

After only six years of study, Phoebe was awarded the degree of D.Thau, doctor of Thaumaturgy. Most faculty members held it and usually a string of others. Phoebe wasn't sure what other realms of study she wanted to pursue so one day she wondered into the High Energy Magic building and sat down in front of the strange collection of bits, pieces, ants, mice and other magical items that made up Hex. The university's strange thinking engine that had started as a way for Wizards to solve numerical problems but by now had blossomed into something else. Just what it had blossomed into was questionable for it seemed to have a consciousness of its own. The original keyboard still occupied the front of the thing but hadn't been used in years. She sat down on the bench.

"Hex," she asked, "What happens to Sourcerors?"

A ghostly, inhuman face appeared over the keys. "Long ago," it said, "they warred incessantly and killed each other off. Once the University was founded and the rules of celibacy established, very few occurred so they faded into history. However, on the rarest of occasions, one still shows up. Some cause a great deal of trouble. The usual route, however, is for them to create a private, perfect world of their own and leave for it."

Phoebe sat quietly in thought. "Don't they get lonely?"

***INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR A MEANINGFUL ANSWER***