are so unadventurous,” said Fisher.
By now the massive Audition Hall was packed with row upon row of hopeful prospects, squeezed so tightly together they could hardly breathe. The only space left open was the demonstration area, before the dais. It was marked out with white chalk lines on the floor, with guards standing by to enforce them, the guards were hardly ever needed. No one was stupid enough to risk being thrown out before they’d even had a chance to show what they could do.
The crowd didn’t contain just hopeful young things; unfortunately, there were parents too. There to be supportive, or protective; to cheer or cry or pick arguments with the judges, as necessary. There were always some parents determined to live out their dreams through their children, to make them the heroes and warriors they’d always known they could have been . . . if only they could have found the time. And some parents (usually but not always mothers of a certain age) were there to fight to the death over any decision that didn’t favour their particular offspring. The heavily armed security guards drew lots in advance to see who got this duty, because the hazard pay was never enough to justify what they had to go through.
When it finally became clear that you couldn’t cram one more Auditioner into the hall, even if you greased them from head to foot and used a crowbar, Hawk and Fisher rose to their feet and the whole hall fell silent. The crowd was hushed, wrapped in an almost unbearable tension. Hawk and Fisher gave their usual brief speech of welcome and warning (Give it your best shot, but don’t waste our time) and then sat down again and gestured for the Auditions to begin. They kept the speech short because they knew everyone there was so on edge, and so caught up in themselves, that they could have announced the imminent end of the world and no one would have noticed.
The Administrator appeared, apparently out of nowhere, and jabbed his blackthorn staff at the first petitioner, and just like that, the Hero Auditions began.
First up was a really impressive performance from a would-be sorcerer. He was still in his late teens, though the black robes and white face paint made him look older as he produced clouds of billowing black smoke, shot flames from his hands, and pulled a dead rabbit out of his hat. Given his reaction to the rabbit being dead, and the speed with which he stuffed it back into the hat, presumably the dead part hadn’t been intentional. He got some applause, and bobbed his head quickly in all directions, until Lily Peck stepped forward and fixed him with a cold glare.
“Nice try,” she said, “but that’s not sorcery. Those were all tricks and illusions. The quickness of the hand deceives the mind, and all that. Come back when you’ve learned some real magic, and not before.”
The young man disappeared back into the crowd before she’d even finished talking. Bunny-killer, murmured some sections of the crowd.
An archer was the next to step forward, longbow in hand. He then made a long and tearful speech about what an honour it was to be there, and how much this would have meant to his poor dear dead granny, who had always believed in him . . . and how he was doing this for her . . . Until Hawk leant forward and shut the archer up with a cold look.
“Sorry,” said Hawk, “but we don’t do sentiment here. There’s a target off to your right. Hit the bull’s-eye or piss off.”
“Right,” said Fisher. “What are you going to do in the middle of a battle, make the other side cry so hard they can’t see to shoot straight?”
The archer swallowed hard, took careful aim, and hit the stuffed target every time. Unfortunately, nowhere near the bull’s-eye. The archer glared at Hawk and Fisher.
“You put me off! You made me nervous! I demand a second chance!”
“We don’t do demands, either,” said Hawk.
The archer slunk back into the crowd, close to tears again. No one paid
By now the massive Audition Hall was packed with row upon row of hopeful prospects, squeezed so tightly together they could hardly breathe. The only space left open was the demonstration area, before the dais. It was marked out with white chalk lines on the floor, with guards standing by to enforce them, the guards were hardly ever needed. No one was stupid enough to risk being thrown out before they’d even had a chance to show what they could do.
The crowd didn’t contain just hopeful young things; unfortunately, there were parents too. There to be supportive, or protective; to cheer or cry or pick arguments with the judges, as necessary. There were always some parents determined to live out their dreams through their children, to make them the heroes and warriors they’d always known they could have been . . . if only they could have found the time. And some parents (usually but not always mothers of a certain age) were there to fight to the death over any decision that didn’t favour their particular offspring. The heavily armed security guards drew lots in advance to see who got this duty, because the hazard pay was never enough to justify what they had to go through.
When it finally became clear that you couldn’t cram one more Auditioner into the hall, even if you greased them from head to foot and used a crowbar, Hawk and Fisher rose to their feet and the whole hall fell silent. The crowd was hushed, wrapped in an almost unbearable tension. Hawk and Fisher gave their usual brief speech of welcome and warning (Give it your best shot, but don’t waste our time) and then sat down again and gestured for the Auditions to begin. They kept the speech short because they knew everyone there was so on edge, and so caught up in themselves, that they could have announced the imminent end of the world and no one would have noticed.
The Administrator appeared, apparently out of nowhere, and jabbed his blackthorn staff at the first petitioner, and just like that, the Hero Auditions began.
First up was a really impressive performance from a would-be sorcerer. He was still in his late teens, though the black robes and white face paint made him look older as he produced clouds of billowing black smoke, shot flames from his hands, and pulled a dead rabbit out of his hat. Given his reaction to the rabbit being dead, and the speed with which he stuffed it back into the hat, presumably the dead part hadn’t been intentional. He got some applause, and bobbed his head quickly in all directions, until Lily Peck stepped forward and fixed him with a cold glare.
“Nice try,” she said, “but that’s not sorcery. Those were all tricks and illusions. The quickness of the hand deceives the mind, and all that. Come back when you’ve learned some real magic, and not before.”
The young man disappeared back into the crowd before she’d even finished talking. Bunny-killer, murmured some sections of the crowd.
An archer was the next to step forward, longbow in hand. He then made a long and tearful speech about what an honour it was to be there, and how much this would have meant to his poor dear dead granny, who had always believed in him . . . and how he was doing this for her . . . Until Hawk leant forward and shut the archer up with a cold look.
“Sorry,” said Hawk, “but we don’t do sentiment here. There’s a target off to your right. Hit the bull’s-eye or piss off.”
“Right,” said Fisher. “What are you going to do in the middle of a battle, make the other side cry so hard they can’t see to shoot straight?”
The archer swallowed hard, took careful aim, and hit the stuffed target every time. Unfortunately, nowhere near the bull’s-eye. The archer glared at Hawk and Fisher.
“You put me off! You made me nervous! I demand a second chance!”
“We don’t do demands, either,” said Hawk.
The archer slunk back into the crowd, close to tears again. No one paid
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