Their quill pens, on which they had to carve the points themselves, either split or sputtered, bent or broke or leapt

out of their clutching fingers. The boys invariably ended up with more ink on themselves than on the scrolls, unless

they happened to upset the ink bottle, which accident occurred on a regular basis.

Any visitor entering the school on the afternoon of penmanship classes to find himself confronted by the inky

faces and hands of innumerable small demons, might well have imagined that he'd wandered into the Abyss by

mistake.

This thought crossed the mind of Antimodes the moment he walked through the door. This and a sudden swift

memory of his own days in the schoolroom, a memory brought on mostly by the smell-small bodies overly warmed by

the fire, the cabbage soup they'd choked down for lunch, ink and warm sheepskins-caused him to smile.

"The Archmagus Antimodes," announced the servant, or something approximating that, for she completely

mangled his name.

Antimodes paused in the doorway. The flushed, inky, frus-

trated faces of twelve boys lifted from their work to stare at him with hope in their eyes. A savior, perhaps. One who

would free them from their toil. A thirteenth face looked up, but not as quickly as the others. That face appeared to

have been intent upon its work, and only when that work was completed did it lift to stare at the visitor.

Antimodes was pleased-quite pleased-to see that this face was almost completely devoid of ink, with the exception

of a smudge along the left eyebrow, and that there was not an expression of relief on the face, but rather one of

irritation, as if it resented being interrupted in its work.

The irritation passed swiftly, however, once the face recognized Antimodes, as Antimodes had recognized the face.

Master Theobald rose hastily from his chair, officious and ponderous, jealous and insecure. He did not like

Antimodes, because the master suspected-and rightly so-that Antimodes had been opposed to Theobald's

appointment as schoolmaster and had voted against him in the conclave. Antimodes had been outvoted, Par-Salian

himself having presented very strong arguments in Theobald's favor: He was the only candidate. What else were they

to do with the man?

Even his friends agreed that Theobald would never make more than a mediocre mage. There were some,

Antimodes among them, who questioned how he had managed to pass the Test in the first place. Par-Salian was

always evasive whenever Antimodes brought up the subject, and Antimodes was left to believe that Theobald had

been passed on the condition that he accept a teaching assignment, a job no one else wanted.

Antimodes could offer no better suggestion. He himself, given the choice, would have preferred going to Mount

Nevermind to instruct the gnomes in pyrotechnics to teaching snot-faced human children magic. He had grudgingly

gone along with the majority.

Antimodes was forced to admit that Par-Salian and the others had been right. Theobald was not a particularly

good teacher, but he saw to it that his boys-the girls had their own school in Palanthas, taught by a slightly more

competent wizardess--learned the basics, and that was all that was necessary. He would never light any fires in the

average student, but where the fire of greatness already burned, Master Theobald would stoke it.

The two mages met with a show of amicability in front of the children.

"How do you do, sir?"

"How do you do, my dear sir?"

Antimodes was gracious in his greeting and lavish in his praise of the classroom, which to himself he thought

was unbearably hot, stuffy, and dirty.

Master Theobald was profuse in his welcome, all the time certain that Antimodes had been sent by Par-Salian

to check up on him and bitterly resenting the fact that the archmage was carelessly wearing a luxuriant cape

made of fine lamb's wool that would have cost the teacher a year's salary.

"Well, well, Archmagus. Are the roads still snow-covered?"

"No, no, Master. Quite passable. Even up north."

"Ah, you've come from the north, have you, Archmagus?"

"Lemish," Antimodes said smoothly. He'd actually been much farther north than that quaint and woodsy little

town, but he had no intention of discussing his travels with Theobald.

Theobald had no use for travel of any sort.He raised his eyebrows in an expression of disapproval, manifested

his disapproval by turning away and ending their conversation. "Boys, it is my great honor to introduce to you