is disapproving so loudly it’s giving me a headache.”
“La Vern was a Bladesmaster,” said Crane, in his harsh soldier’s voice. “We don’t grow on trees. Even if some of us teach in them.” That might or might not have been a joke. Crane wasn’t exactly famous for his sense of humour. In fact, some said that if he did smile, it meant it was going to rain for forty days.
“We’ll get you another assistant Bladesmaster as soon as we can,” said Hawk.
“I want a raise,” said Jonas Crane.
“It’s nice to want things,” said Fisher. “Now stop moaning, or I will slap you one, and it will hurt.”
Crane snorted loudly but had nothing more to say. For the moment. In Hawk and Fisher’s experience, Crane was never short of things to say, in his own good time. He also had a tendency to loom, in a meaningful sort of way. Crane was a large and blocky man in his late forties, as ugly as a cow’s arse, and strangely proud of his great barbarian’s mane of long blonde hair. He dyed it, and only thought no one else knew. He had a certain kind of animal magnetism, which attracted a certain kind of student, and his bed was rarely empty. If any of his conquests started getting too possessive, Crane would let them fight it out in a public duel.
Lily Peck, the Academy’s Witch in Residence, was always the last to arrive. A gifted and highly experienced adept at every kind of magic you could name, and some best not discussed in front of the easily shocked, Lily was short and dumpy, defiantly middle-aged, in a sweet and cosy way, who turned people into small, smelly snot creatures only when they really annoyed her. She was always ready to lend an ear, because she loved gossip, and she could brew a lust philtre that would blow the top of your head off. This sometimes led to complaints, particularly when she drank the stuff herself, and then there would be loud recriminations, and tears before bedtime, and before you knew it . . . it was small-hopping-thing time again.
Lily Peck preferred to stand at the very back of the dais, half-hidden behind the other tutors. Not because she was shy, but because she didn’t believe in making a target of herself. You don’t get to be a really powerful witch without making many enemies, among the living and the dead. She always carried a dead cat balanced on her shoulder, which hunched and spat at everyone and observed the world through malevolent fused-over eyes. Hawk winced as Lily took up her usual position, just behind his chair.
“I do wish you’d get yourself a new familiar, Lily. That cat is getting decidedly whiffy.”
“You’re just prejudiced against the mortally challenged,” said Lily. “Spot’s a good cat.”
“He is not mortally challenged, he is dead,” Hawk said firmly. “And he stinks! I know he’s dead because my dog keeps trying to roll on him, and I can tell he’s decaying because my eyes start to water every time you bring him anywhere near me. Why couldn’t you settle for a parrot on your shoulder, like most people?”
“Because I am not like most people!” said Lily. “And I am not a pirate! I’m a witch, and some traditions you just don’t mess with. I’ll get a new familiar when this one falls apart, and not before. That is one of the traditional tests for how your familiar’s doing; if he nods his head and it falls off, it’s time to upgrade.”
“I remember Cook talking to me once,” said Fisher, “about how you can tell when a game bird is ready to eat.”
Hawk looked at her suspiciously. “What?”
“You hang it up by the head, and when the neck rots through and the body falls to the floor, that’s when it’s ready to eat,” said Fisher. “And she also told me that when she had to deal with game meat, she was always careful to grease her arms up to the elbows, so that when the maggots came crawling out of the meat, they couldn’t get up her arms.”
“I am never eating game meat again,” said Hawk.
“You
“La Vern was a Bladesmaster,” said Crane, in his harsh soldier’s voice. “We don’t grow on trees. Even if some of us teach in them.” That might or might not have been a joke. Crane wasn’t exactly famous for his sense of humour. In fact, some said that if he did smile, it meant it was going to rain for forty days.
“We’ll get you another assistant Bladesmaster as soon as we can,” said Hawk.
“I want a raise,” said Jonas Crane.
“It’s nice to want things,” said Fisher. “Now stop moaning, or I will slap you one, and it will hurt.”
Crane snorted loudly but had nothing more to say. For the moment. In Hawk and Fisher’s experience, Crane was never short of things to say, in his own good time. He also had a tendency to loom, in a meaningful sort of way. Crane was a large and blocky man in his late forties, as ugly as a cow’s arse, and strangely proud of his great barbarian’s mane of long blonde hair. He dyed it, and only thought no one else knew. He had a certain kind of animal magnetism, which attracted a certain kind of student, and his bed was rarely empty. If any of his conquests started getting too possessive, Crane would let them fight it out in a public duel.
Lily Peck, the Academy’s Witch in Residence, was always the last to arrive. A gifted and highly experienced adept at every kind of magic you could name, and some best not discussed in front of the easily shocked, Lily was short and dumpy, defiantly middle-aged, in a sweet and cosy way, who turned people into small, smelly snot creatures only when they really annoyed her. She was always ready to lend an ear, because she loved gossip, and she could brew a lust philtre that would blow the top of your head off. This sometimes led to complaints, particularly when she drank the stuff herself, and then there would be loud recriminations, and tears before bedtime, and before you knew it . . . it was small-hopping-thing time again.
Lily Peck preferred to stand at the very back of the dais, half-hidden behind the other tutors. Not because she was shy, but because she didn’t believe in making a target of herself. You don’t get to be a really powerful witch without making many enemies, among the living and the dead. She always carried a dead cat balanced on her shoulder, which hunched and spat at everyone and observed the world through malevolent fused-over eyes. Hawk winced as Lily took up her usual position, just behind his chair.
“I do wish you’d get yourself a new familiar, Lily. That cat is getting decidedly whiffy.”
“You’re just prejudiced against the mortally challenged,” said Lily. “Spot’s a good cat.”
“He is not mortally challenged, he is dead,” Hawk said firmly. “And he stinks! I know he’s dead because my dog keeps trying to roll on him, and I can tell he’s decaying because my eyes start to water every time you bring him anywhere near me. Why couldn’t you settle for a parrot on your shoulder, like most people?”
“Because I am not like most people!” said Lily. “And I am not a pirate! I’m a witch, and some traditions you just don’t mess with. I’ll get a new familiar when this one falls apart, and not before. That is one of the traditional tests for how your familiar’s doing; if he nods his head and it falls off, it’s time to upgrade.”
“I remember Cook talking to me once,” said Fisher, “about how you can tell when a game bird is ready to eat.”
Hawk looked at her suspiciously. “What?”
“You hang it up by the head, and when the neck rots through and the body falls to the floor, that’s when it’s ready to eat,” said Fisher. “And she also told me that when she had to deal with game meat, she was always careful to grease her arms up to the elbows, so that when the maggots came crawling out of the meat, they couldn’t get up her arms.”
“I am never eating game meat again,” said Hawk.
“You
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