The Inquisitor's Apprentice by Chris Moriarty

to, anyway. You, on the other hand, are overflowing with talent but don't seem to have a clue why you want the job. Or am I missing something?"
    Wolf took off his spectacles and held them up to the light as if he were trying to formulate a plan of attack against the smudges and fingerprints. He took his already untucked shirttail and began using that to clean the glasses—or more likely just rearrange the smudges, considering that the shirt looked like Wolf had been sleeping in it for a week.
    The silence thickened. Sacha could feel Lily staring at him out of the corners of her eyes like a spooked horse. "I, um," he stammered, "I want to fight magical crime? And, uh, protect and defend the innocent?"
    Wolf looked up—and Sacha felt a quiver of shock run down his spine.
    Judging by the thickness of Wolf's glasses, he had expected to see the vague, myopic gaze of a nearsighted man. But Wolf's eyes were as bright as fresh-fallen snow on a sunny day. In fact, Sacha would have bet good money that Wolf didn't need glasses at all.
    Then the moment passed. Wolf put his glasses back on—no cleaner than before—and was once more average and forgettable. He was also clearly disappointed with Sacha's answer.
    Sacha felt a hot wave of shame sweep over him. Who was Wolf to judge him? Who was Lily Astral? What did they know about his life and his reasons for being here?
    "My family needs the money!" he blurted out before he could stop himself. "Is there something wrong with that?"
    Wolf lowered his eyes to the files on his desk so that Sacha couldn't read their expression. "There's not a thing in the world wrong with that," he said softly. "And what's more, it's the first true thing you've said to me."
    Then, Wolf smiled at Sacha. It was a clean, clear, honest smile. There was humor in it. And intelligence. And not even the faintest hint of meanness. People would follow a man who smiled like that, Sacha caught himself thinking. They'd follow him just about anywhere.
    "Message from Commissioner Keegan," Payton called, sticking his head around the door. "You're supposed to be at J. P. Morgaunt's mansion. The commissioner's already waiting for you there. He seems quite put out about it."
    Wolf raised an eyebrow. "Since when does Mr. Morgaunt rate a house call?"
    "Since he got Commissioner Roosevelt run out of town on a rail," Payton drawled.
    "Sailing off for an African safari with three French chefs and a string of polo ponies hardly constitutes being run out of town on a rail," Wolf observed mildly. "Most people would consider it a thrilling adventure."
    Payton snorted. "Not most New Yorkers!"
    Wolf coughed as if he'd gotten something caught in his throat. Then he unfolded his lanky body from behind the desk, slouched over to the muddy heap of coat on the floor, and began shrugging his way into it. "I suppose the commissioner will expect me to bring the apprentices?"
    "We might as well keep him happy," Payton agreed smoothly.
    Wolf made a face at that—but he nodded at Sacha and Lily to follow him. They had just about made it to the door when Payton put a hand up to stop them.
    "Pockets!" he announced in the peremptory tone of a train conductor ordering passengers to produce their tickets.
    Without a word of protest, Wolf began emptying out his pockets and placing their contents in Payton's hands.
    Suddenly Sacha understood why Wolf's clothes looked so baggy and bulgy. In short order he produced several chewed pencil stubs, a collection of rubber bands worthy of a slingshot champion, and a dozen crumpled scraps of paper entirely covered in tiny, deceptively neat yet completely illegible handwriting. The scraps of paper seemed to come from every corner of New York and every walk of life. There were laundry tickets, lottery tickets, Bowery playbills. Even a greasy wad of old newsprint that looked suspiciously like a used fish wrapper.
    Payton collected these items as solemnly as Moses receiving the Ten Commandments. As he