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steppecred in barbarian circles.
    The man on his right thoughtfully drank his cocktail of mare’s milk and snowcat blood, and spoke thus: “The crisp horizon of the steppe, the wind in your hair, a fresh horse under you.”
    The man on his left said: “The cry of the white eagle in the heights, the fall of snow in the forest, a true arrow in your bow.”
    The chieftain nodded, and said: “Surely it is the sight of your enemy slain, the humiliation of his tribe and the lamentation of his women.”
    There was a general murmur of whiskery approval at this outrageous display.
    Then the chieftain turned respectfully to his guest, a small figure carefully warming his chilblains by the fire, and said: “But our guest, whose name is legend, must tell us truly: What is it that a man may call the greatest things in life?”
    The guest paused in the middle of another unsuccessful attempt to light up.
    “What shay?” he said, toothlessly.
    “I said: What is it that a man may call the greatest things in life?”
    The warriors leaned closer. This should be worth hearing.
    The guest thought long and hard and then said, with deliberation: “Hot water, good dentishtry and shoft lavatory paper.”

    Brilliant octarine light flared in the forge. Galder Weatherwax, stripped to the waist, his face hidden by a mask of smoked glass, squinted into the glow and brought a hammer down with surgical precision. The magic squealed and writhed in the tongs but still he worked it, drawing it into a line of agonized fire.
    A floorboard creaked. Galder had spent many hours tuning them, always a wise precaution with an ambitious assistant who walked like a cat.
    D-flat. That meant he was just to the right of the door.
    “Ah, Trymon,” he said, without turning, and noted with some satisfaction the faint indrawing of breath behind him. “Good of you to come. Shut the door, will you?”
    Trymon pushed the heavy door, his face expressionless. On the high shelf above him various bottled impossibilities wallowed in their pickle jars and watched him with interest.
    Like all wizards’ workshops, the place looked as though a taxidermist had dropped his stock in a foundry and then had a fight with a maddened glass-blower, braining a passing crocodile in the process (it hung from the ceiling and smelled strongly of camphor). There were lamps and rings that Trymon itched to rub, and mirrors that looked as though they could repay a second glance. A pair of seven-league boots stirred restlessly in a cage. A whole library of grimoires, not of course as powerful as the Octavo but still heavy with spells, creaked and rattled their chains as they sensed the wizard’s covetous glance on them. The naked power of it all stirred him as nothing else could, but he deplored the scruffiness and Galder’s sense of theater.
    For example, he happened to know that the green liquid bubbling mysteriously through a maze of contorted pipework on one of the benches was just green dye with soap in it, because he’d bribed one of the servants.
    One day, he thought, it’s all going to go. Starting with that bloody alligator. His knuckles whitened…
    “Well, now,” said Galder cheerfully, hanging up his apron and sitting back in his chair with the lion paw arms and duck legs, “You sent me this memmy-thing.”
    Trymon shrugged. “Memo. I merely pointed out, lord, that the other Orders have all sent agents to Skund Forest to recapture the spell, while you do nothing,” he said. “No doubt you will reveal your reasons in good time.”
    “Your faith shames me,” said Galder.
    “The wizard who captures the spell will bring great honor on himself and his order,” said Trymon. “The others have used boots and all manner of elsewhere spells. What do you propose using, master?”
    “Did I detect a hint of sarcasm there?”
    “Absolutely not, master.”
    “Not even a smidgeon?”
    “Not even the merest smidgeon, master.”
    “Good. Because I don’t propose to go.” Galder