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whimpering, and several had their eyes squeezed firmly shut. Their tutor, the Witch in Residence, Lily Peck, walked along the branch behind them and briskly pushed them off, one by one. They plummeted swiftly out of sight, leaving only their screams behind.
    “It’s the only way to teach them to fly,” said Hawk. “Ask them to jump, and they’d still be there at dinnertime.”
    Fisher sniffed. “If we really wanted to motivate them, we should take away the safety nets.”
    •   •   •
     
    T hey moved on. Some time later, they paused before a very firmly closed, locked, and bolted door. Various sounds of an extreme nature drifted past the heavy wooden door, which bore the sign Exams Under Way.
    “I see the magical tantric sex classes are still very popular,” said Hawk.
    “For those who survive them, yes,” said Fisher.
    They lingered for a while outside the door. They had no business there, but still . . . Sudden raised voices from the base of the Tree travelled up the open elevator shaft behind them and caught their attention, and they reluctantly decided that they’d better check them out. They shot down the shaft on the flat wooden slab, just a little more quickly than they were comfortable with, and made their way to the entrance of the Millennium Oak, where a Famous Name had turned up, demanding entrance.
    The Tree’s security guards were blocking the newcomer’s way, politely but very firmly, with closed ranks and drawn swords; but Warren Wulfshead wasn’t the kind to be easily impressed or intimidated. He just stood there, his fists planted solidly on his hips, glaring right into the guards’ faces, loudly demanding to be allowed to enter. Demanding that he had a right to enter the Academy, because of who and what he was, and that he had every intention of tutoring all the students, teaching them everything he knew and recruiting the best of them for his own purposes.
    Everyone had heard of the Wulfshead, of course, though for many this was the first chance they’d had to see the outlaw legend in the flesh. He was tall and darkly handsome, lithely muscled, and even standing still he burned with barely suppressed nervous energy. He looked like he’d much rather be killing a whole bunch of people, and only basic politeness was holding him back. He looked down his prominent nose at everyone present, his mouth set in a flat, determined line. He had a high, bony forehead, a receding hairline, and cold, cold eyes. It was hard to believe he could have done all the heroically violent things he was supposed to have done, and still appear to be only in his early thirties. Just looking at him, you got the impression he was quite prepared to walk through and over absolutely anyone who got in his way. You could also tell that he quite clearly saw himself as a Born Leader. Such men are dangerous. Especially to those they lead.
    Warren Wulfshead, legendary bandit and brigand of Redhart, wore clothes of green and brown, for camouflage, so he could blend into the scenery and shoot his enemies in the back, from ambush. And then run away. Though that was rarely mentioned in the many widely circulating stories and songs based on his exploits. Warren Wulfshead was a professional outlaw, a renegade by choice, and if the rumours were to believed . . . he was also the author of most of the stories and songs about him.
    Hawk and Fisher had heard of him. They didn’t approve of him at all.
    They shouldered their way through the crowd that had gathered in the entrance hall, eager for a look at a living legend and maybe even an autograph, and then they eased their way through the ranks of security guards, to finally stand before the Wulfshead. Who looked Hawk and Fisher up and down, curled his lip briefly to show how unimpressed he was, and then went for the bluff and hearty approach. He gave them both a quick, manly smile, nicely calculated to demonstrate that he was officially pleased to meet the current heads