“I fail to see the problem,” said the Supreme Grand Master. In fact, he saw it all too clearly. This was the last hurdle. Help their tiny little minds over this, and he held the world in the palm of his hand. Their stupe-fyingly unintelligent self-interest hadn't let him down so far, surely it couldn't fail him now . . .
The Brethren shuffled uneasily. Then Brother Dunnykin spoke.
“Huh. Wizards. What do they know about a day's work?”
The Supreme Grand master breathed deeply. Ah . , .
The air of mean-minded resentfulness thickened noticeably.
“Nothing, and that's a fact,” said Brother Fingers. “Goin1 around with their noses in the air, too good for the likes a'us. I used to see 'em when I worked up the University. Backsides a mile wide, I'm telling you. Catch 'em doing a job of honest toil?”
“Like thieving, you mean?” said Brother Watch-tower, who had never liked Brother Fingers much.
“O'course, they tell you,” Brother Fingers went on, pointedly ignoring the comment, “that you shouldn't go round doin' magic on account of only them knowin' about not disturbin' the universal harmony and whatnot. Load of rubbish, in my opinion.”
“We-ell,” said Brother Plasterer, “I dunno, really. I mean, you get the mix wrong, you just got a lot of damp plaster round your ankles. But you get a bit of magic wrong, and they say ghastly things comes out the woodwork and stitches you right up.”
“Yeah, but it's the wizards that say that,” said Brother Watchtower thoughtfully. “Never could stand them myself, to tell you the truth. Could be they're on to a good thing and don't want the rest of us to find out. It's only waving your arms and chanting, when all's said and done.”
The Brethren considered this. It sounded plausible. If they were on to a good thing, they certainly wouldn't want anyone else muscling in.
The Supreme Grand Master decided that the time was ripe.
“Then we are agreed, brethren? You are prepared to practise magic?”
“Oh, practise,” said Brother Plaster, relieved. “I don't mind practising. So long as we don't have to do it for real-”
The Supreme Grand Master thumped the book.
“I mean carry out real spells! Put the city back on the right lines! Summon a dragon!” he shouted.
They took a step back. Then Brother Doorkeeper said, “And then, if we get this dragon, the rightful king'll turn up, just like that?”
“Yes!” said the Supreme Grand Master.
“I can see that,” said Brother Watchtower supportively.
“Stands to reason. Because of destiny and the gnomic workings of fate.”
There was a moment's hesitation, and then a general nodding of cowls. Only Brother Plasterer looked vaguely unhappy.
“We-ell,” he said. “It won't get out of hand, will it?”
“I assure you, Brother Plasterer, that you can give it up any time you like,” said the Supreme Grand Master smoothly.
“Well ... all right,” said the reluctant Brother. “Just for a bit, then. Could we get it to stay here long enough to burn down, for example, any oppressive vegetable shops?” Ah. . .
He'd won. There'd be dragons again. And a king again. Not like the old kings. A king who would do what he was told.
“That,” said the Supreme Grand Master, “depends on how much help you can be. We shall need, initially, any items of magic you can bring ...”
It might not be a good idea to let them see that the last half of de Malachite's book was a charred lump. The man was clearly not up to it.
He could do a lot better. And absolutely no-one would be able to stop him.
Thunder rolled . . .
...