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air under cover of the table. Now he muttered a syllable under his breath and fired the spell along the tabletop, where it left a smoking path in the varnish and met, about halfway, the silver snakes of Brother Hushmaster’s Potent Asp-Spray as they spewed from Carding’s fingertips.
    The two spells cannoned into one another, turned into a ball of green fire and exploded, filling the room with fine yellow crystals.
    The wizards exchanged the kind of long, slow glare you could roast chestnuts on.
    Bluntly, Carding was surprised. He shouldn’t have been. Eighth-level wizards are seldom faced with challenging tests of magical skill. In theory there are only seven other wizards of equal power and every lesser wizard is, by definition – well, lesser. This makes them complacent. But Spelter, on the other hand, was at the fifth level.
    It may be quite tough at the top, and it is probably even tougher at the bottom, but halfway up it’s so tough you could use it for horseshoes. By then all the no-hopers, the lazy, the silly and the downright unlucky have been weeded out, the field’s cleared, and every wizard stands alone and surrounded by mortal enemies on every side. There’s the pushy fours below, waiting to trip him up. There’s the arrogant sixes above, anxious to stamp out all ambition. And, of course, all around are his fellow fives, ready for any opportunity to reduce the competition a little. And there’s no standing still. Wizards of the fifth level are mean and tough and have reflexes of steel and their eyes are thin and narrow from staring down the length of that metaphorical last furlong at the end of which rests the prize of prizes, the Archchancellor’s hat.
    The novelty of co-operation began to appeal to Carding. There was worthwhile power here, which could be bribed into usefulness for as long as it was necessary. Of course, afterwards it might have to be – discouraged . . .
    Spelter thought: patronage. He’d heard the term used, though never within the University, and he knew it meant getting those above you to give you a leg up. Of course, no wizard would normally dream of giving a colleague a leg up unless it was in order to catch them on the hop. The mere thought of actually encouraging a competitor . . . But on the other hand, this old fool might be of assistance for a while, and afterwards , well...
    They looked at one another with mutual, grudging admiration and unlimited mistrust, but at least it was a mistrust each one felt he could rely on. Until afterwards.
    â€˜His name is Coin,’ said Spelter. ‘He says his father’s name is Ipslore.’
    â€˜I wonder how many brothers has he got?’ said Spelter.
    â€˜I’m sorry?’
    â€˜There hasn’t been magic like that in this university in centuries,’ said Carding, ‘maybe for thousands of years. I’ve only ever read about it.’
    â€˜We banished an Ipslore thirty years ago,’ said Spelter. ‘According to the records, he’d got married. I can see that if he had sons, um, they’d be wizards, but I don’t understand how—’
    â€˜That wasn’t wizardry. That was sourcery,’ said Carding, leaning back in his chair.
    Spelter stared at him across the bubbling varnish.
    â€˜Sourcery?’
    â€˜The eighth son of a wizard would be a sourcerer.’
    â€˜I didn’t know that!’
    â€˜It is not widely advertised.’
    â€˜Yes, but – sourcerers were a long time ago, I mean, the magic was a lot stronger then, um, men were different . . . it didn’t have anything to do with, well, breeding .’ Spelter was thinking, eight sons, that means he did it eight times. At least. Gosh.
    â€˜Sourcerers could do everything,’ he went on. ‘They were nearly as powerful as the gods. Um. There was no end of trouble. The gods simply wouldn’t allow that sort of thing any more, depend upon it.’
    â€˜Well,