The Loblolly Boy and the Sorcerer by James Norcliffe Page A

that meant, but he had a very clear suspicion that the Sorcerer had made no mistake. Watch him, he thought. The Captain was right. He’s sharp and he’s mean. Again he saw those black, calculating eyes summing up the crowd and missing nothing.
    He’d rather thought that the Sorcerer would choose to go a fast-food outlet or a greasy spoon. Surely busking wouldn’t have brought in much money. To his surprise then, the Sorcerer paused outside an expensive-looking restaurant and studied the menu in the glass case intently.
    ‘This looks passable,’ he murmured. ‘Let us enter!’
    He led the loblolly boy down a richly carpeted foyer and into an elegant dining room. The tables were covered in white linen, the cutlery was silver, the napkins were real, not paper, and rolled into silver napkin rings. The loblolly boy had never been into such a place before.
    The Sorcerer, though, seemed perfectly comfortable. Hemoved easily between the tables, nodding pleasantly at the two or three already occupied. The loblolly boy followed, gazing about. The walls were panelled in dark oak and the room was illuminated by a large central chandelier and four smaller chandeliers.
    The Sorcerer found a table to one side and, after placing his violin on the carpet, sat down and leaned back in a lordly way. He gazed about expectantly, idly drumming his long fingers on the tablecloth.
    Eventually a waiter approached with a menu under one arm. This he handed to the Sorcerer and then moved to one side and hovered discreetly as the Sorcerer flicked through it.
    ‘What do you think?’ asked the Sorcerer. ‘Fish? Flesh? Or fowl?’
    The waiter started forward, thinking he was being addressed, and then stepped back again a little confused, divining correctly that the Sorcerer seemed to be speaking to the empty space across the table.
    ‘I don’t think I’ll bother with soup,’ continued the Sorcerer. ‘I’m not a soup man. I think …’ he paused, considering the options. ‘I think I’ll have fish. The turbot braised in white wine sounds perfect. What do you think?’
    Again the waiter stepped forward, ready to concur, but once again retreated in confusion.
    ‘You should have what you want,’ said the loblolly boy. ‘Go for it.’
    ‘Yes,’ mused the Sorcerer. ‘I think I will. I will have the fish … and to drink?’ He flicked through the menu tothe beverage section. ‘Ah, a pot of oolong tea, I think.’
    Now the waiter did step forward with a strained smile as the Sorcerer repeated his order. ‘So, I’ll have the turbot. And a small pot of oolong. Please ensure that the pot is heated before the tea is infused.’ The waiter nodded and made a note on his pad.
    ‘Thank you, sir,’ he murmured, and then hurried away.
    He returned shortly carrying a tray with a small pot of tea, a jug of hot water and a fine porcelain cup. ‘Your meal will not be long, sir,’ he said softly, before gliding away again.
    ‘So, little loblolly boy,’ said the Sorcerer, ‘you’ve lost your father.’
    ‘You know I have,’ said the loblolly boy.
    ‘Not for the first time, either, I’ll warrant,’ said the Sorcerer.
    The loblolly boy glanced down. The Sorcerer had struck home and he did not want to be caught in his glittery, penetrating stare.
    ‘So what do you want, then?’
    The loblolly boy did not respond. He sensed he was being goaded and did not like it.
    ‘You want him back, I suppose?’
    This time the loblolly boy did look up, and he nodded.
    ‘I can’t imagine why,’ mused the Sorcerer. ‘In my view fathers are very over-rated.’
    The loblolly boy looked about the dining room. The waiter was studying the Sorcerer with some alarm, and one or two of the other guests were staring at their table oddly. The loblolly boy realised that to the others in the room,the elegant man in the corner was having an animated conversation with himself.
    ‘I got rid of mine as soon as I discovered enough magic,’ continued the Sorcerer,