Sourcery by Terry Pratchett Page A

gods, of course.) It is the Lore! (The very idea!)”
    Hakardly had studied the Lore of magic for years and, because magic always tends to be a two-way process, it had made its mark on him; he gave the impression of being as fragile as a cheese straw, and in some unaccountable way the dryness of his endeavours had left him with the ability to pronounce punctuation.
    He stood vibrating with indignation and, he became aware, he was rapidly standing alone. In fact he was the center of an expanding circle of empty floor fringed with wizards who were suddenly ready to swear that they’d never clapped eyes on him in their life.
    Coin had raised his staff.
    Hakardly raised an admonitory finger.
    “You do not frighten me, young man,” he snapped. “Talented you may be, but magical talent alone is not enough. There are many other qualities required of a great wizard. Administrative ability, for example, and wisdom, and the—”
    Coin lowered his staff.
    “The Lore applies to all wizards, does it not?” he said.
    “Absolutely! It was drawn up—”
    “But I am not a wizard, Lord Hakardly.”
    The wizard hesitated. “Ah,” he said, and hesitated again. “Good point,” he said.
    “But I am well aware of the need for wisdom, foresight and good advice, and I would be honored if you could see your way clear to providing those much-valued commodities. For example—why is it that wizards do not rule the world?”
    “What?”
    “It is a simple question. There are in this room—” Coin’s lips moved for a fraction of a second—“four hundred and seventy-two wizards, skilled in the most subtle of arts. Yet all you rule are these few acres of rather inferior architecture. Why is this?”
    The most senior wizards exchanged knowing glances.
    “Such it may appear,” said Hakardly eventually, “but, my child, we have domains beyond the ken of the temporal power.” His eyes gleamed. “Magic can surely take the mind to inner landscape of arcane—”
    “Yes, yes,” said Coin. “Yet there are extremely solid walls outside your University. Why is this?”
    Carding ran his tongue over his lips. It was extraordinary. The child was speaking his thoughts.
    “You squabble for power,” said Coin, sweetly, “and yet, beyond these walls, to the man who carts nightsoil or the average merchant, is there really so much difference between a high-level mage and a mere conjuror?”
    Hakardly stared at him in complete and untrammeled astonishment.
    “Child, it’s obvious to the meanest citizen,” he said. “The robes and trimmings themselves—”
    “Ah,” said Coin, “the robes and trimmings. Of course.”
    A short, heavy and thoughtful silence filled the hall.
    “It seems to me,” said Coin eventually, “that wizards rule only wizards. Who rules in the reality outside?”
    “As far as the city is concerned, that would be the Patrician, Lord Vetinari,” said Carding with some caution.
    “And is he a fair and just ruler?”
    Carding thought about it. The Patrician’s spy network was said to be superb. “I would say,” he said carefully, “that he is unfair and unjust, but scrupulously evenhanded. He is unfair and unjust to everyone, without fear or favor.”
    “And you are content with this?” said Coin.
    Carding tried not to catch Hakardly’s eye.
    “It’s not a case of being content with it,” he said. “I suppose we’ve not given it much thought. A wizard’s true vocation, you see—”
    “Is it really true that the wise suffer themselves to be ruled in this way?”
    Carding growled. “Of course not! Don’t be silly! We merely tolerate it. That’s what wisdom is all about, you’ll find that out when you grow up, it’s a case of biding one’s time—”
    “Where is this Patrician? I would like to see him.”
    “That can be arranged, of course,” said Carding. “The Patrician is always graciously pleased to grant wizards an interview, and—”
    “Now I will grant him an interview,” said Coin.