Wragg’s belly felt like a pot of writhing eels as he waited outside the office of Professor Phlebas the Purple, the respected but somewhat notorious Headmaster of Cruxwails School of Sorcery and Cruxology. In his trembling hand he held the results of his nail levels, a document upon which the grade D minus featured rather too often for his liking:
· Sorcery: D-
· Alchemy: C-
· Fortune telling: D
· Application of Justice: D -
· Carpentry: D-
· Stripping a victim: D-
· Flaggelation: D-
· Crucifixion Technique: ungradeable.
· Care of weird and frightening beasties: A-
· History of Crux: C-
· Chronicling: C+
Wragg suspected that Prof. Phlebas was unlikely to be impressed with these results. The future looked bleak. Looking on the bright side, he was OK with beasties, if he was lucky, he might get a career mucking out the stables of the Flying Horses of Lord Jollyrei of High Groaning, but more likely he’d finish up scrubbing the various body fluids out of the assorted terrifying items of furniture that graced the dungeons of the much-feared Castle Windar.
He consulted his watch for the fifteenth time in a minute, determined at least to be punctual, and to knock the door at ten o’clock precisely. He needn’t have bothered, for the whole building began to shake as the great clock started to get worked up into announcing that the hour of ten had come. With an almighty BONG!!!! the hour was struck, and Wragg timidly knocked the door. He was not heard; in fact he would not have been heard even if he had slammed on the door with a Jedakk Mark XVII cruxhammer, such was the racket the clock was making as it continued its inexorable path through the ten o’clock chimes. Eventually, it lapsed into silence, the dust began to settle, and Wragg tried knocking again.
There was a loud bang, a puff of purply-green smoke, and Wragg found himself translated into a new location in front of the largest desk he’d ever seen. Phlebas didn’t believe in saying ‘come in’, everything he did was spectacular.
Phlebas himself was spectacular. Seven feet tall if an inch, clad head to toe in silken purple, with long tresses of purply-grey hair cascading over purple shoulders, and a long purply-silver beard betraying his great age, his great wisdom, and his love of, well, purple.
Wragg gazed up into a pair of piercing purple eyes which peered sharply at him over a pair of half-moon purple spectacles.
“Ah. So you’re Wragg.” He made it sound like an accusation.
“Y-yes sir. W-ragg. That’s m-me, sir.”
“Let’s see those results!” Phlebas held out his hand, and Wragg passed the paper to him, as if it were his own death-warrant.
“Hmmm,” said Phlebas.
“I see what Primus Pilus meant,” said Phlebas.
“How did you manage to get a C minus for alchemy, given your total lack of ability in sorcery?” inquired Phlebas.
“Well, sir, I did manage to transform a lead ingot into an…”
“Go on.”
“An….”
“I’m waiting.”
“An Eccles cake, sir.”
“An Eccles cake?”
“Yes sir. Very tasty, sir, at least, so Jollyrei Minor informed me. He scoffed it before I could say ‘Hey Presto!’”
“Were you intending to produce an Eccles cake?”
“No, sir, the plan was to produce gold.”
“I see,” said Phlebas again, “And an Eccles cake is worth, what, a tenth of the price of a lead ingot?”
“Yes, sir,” admitted Wragg, miserably.
“So you managed to transform low value into practically no value?”
“Not in the opinion of Jollyrei Minor, sir.”
“Are you trying to be clever, Wragg?”
“No sir! Not at all, sir!”
“Hmmm,” said Phlebas again.
There was an awkward silence, before Professor Phlebas announced, “I have asked Professor Tree to join us to explain this ‘ungradeable’ for Crucifixion Technique.”
He waved his wand, and uttered an utterly alien phrase to Wragg.
“Marlboro and Seagrams!”
There was another bang, and the unmistakeable form of Professor T.H. Tree condensed out of a cloud of purple smoke.
· Sorcery: D-
· Alchemy: C-
· Fortune telling: D
· Application of Justice: D -
· Carpentry: D-
· Stripping a victim: D-
· Flaggelation: D-
· Crucifixion Technique: ungradeable.
· Care of weird and frightening beasties: A-
· History of Crux: C-
· Chronicling: C+
Wragg suspected that Prof. Phlebas was unlikely to be impressed with these results. The future looked bleak. Looking on the bright side, he was OK with beasties, if he was lucky, he might get a career mucking out the stables of the Flying Horses of Lord Jollyrei of High Groaning, but more likely he’d finish up scrubbing the various body fluids out of the assorted terrifying items of furniture that graced the dungeons of the much-feared Castle Windar.
He consulted his watch for the fifteenth time in a minute, determined at least to be punctual, and to knock the door at ten o’clock precisely. He needn’t have bothered, for the whole building began to shake as the great clock started to get worked up into announcing that the hour of ten had come. With an almighty BONG!!!! the hour was struck, and Wragg timidly knocked the door. He was not heard; in fact he would not have been heard even if he had slammed on the door with a Jedakk Mark XVII cruxhammer, such was the racket the clock was making as it continued its inexorable path through the ten o’clock chimes. Eventually, it lapsed into silence, the dust began to settle, and Wragg tried knocking again.
There was a loud bang, a puff of purply-green smoke, and Wragg found himself translated into a new location in front of the largest desk he’d ever seen. Phlebas didn’t believe in saying ‘come in’, everything he did was spectacular.
Phlebas himself was spectacular. Seven feet tall if an inch, clad head to toe in silken purple, with long tresses of purply-grey hair cascading over purple shoulders, and a long purply-silver beard betraying his great age, his great wisdom, and his love of, well, purple.
Wragg gazed up into a pair of piercing purple eyes which peered sharply at him over a pair of half-moon purple spectacles.
“Ah. So you’re Wragg.” He made it sound like an accusation.
“Y-yes sir. W-ragg. That’s m-me, sir.”
“Let’s see those results!” Phlebas held out his hand, and Wragg passed the paper to him, as if it were his own death-warrant.
“Hmmm,” said Phlebas.
“I see what Primus Pilus meant,” said Phlebas.
“How did you manage to get a C minus for alchemy, given your total lack of ability in sorcery?” inquired Phlebas.
“Well, sir, I did manage to transform a lead ingot into an…”
“Go on.”
“An….”
“I’m waiting.”
“An Eccles cake, sir.”
“An Eccles cake?”
“Yes sir. Very tasty, sir, at least, so Jollyrei Minor informed me. He scoffed it before I could say ‘Hey Presto!’”
“Were you intending to produce an Eccles cake?”
“No, sir, the plan was to produce gold.”
“I see,” said Phlebas again, “And an Eccles cake is worth, what, a tenth of the price of a lead ingot?”
“Yes, sir,” admitted Wragg, miserably.
“So you managed to transform low value into practically no value?”
“Not in the opinion of Jollyrei Minor, sir.”
“Are you trying to be clever, Wragg?”
“No sir! Not at all, sir!”
“Hmmm,” said Phlebas again.
There was an awkward silence, before Professor Phlebas announced, “I have asked Professor Tree to join us to explain this ‘ungradeable’ for Crucifixion Technique.”
He waved his wand, and uttered an utterly alien phrase to Wragg.
“Marlboro and Seagrams!”
There was another bang, and the unmistakeable form of Professor T.H. Tree condensed out of a cloud of purple smoke.