“But we didn’t, and there it is.” Bayaz looked over at Logen. “If they do catch us, what’s your plan?”

“Run. And hope our horses are the faster.”

“And this one?” asked Bayaz.

The wind blew keenly through the hollow in spite of the trees, making the flames of the campfire flicker and dance. Malacus Quai hunched his shoulders and drew his blanket tight around them. He peered at the short stem that Bayaz was holding up to him, forehead crinkled with concentration.

“Erm…” This was the fifth plant, and the miserable apprentice had yet to get one of them right. “Is that… er… Ilyith?”

“Ilyith?” echoed the wizard, his face giving no clue as to whether it was the right answer. He was merciless as Bethod where his apprentice was concerned.

“Perhaps?”

“Hardly.” The apprentice closed his eyes and sighed for the fifth time that evening. Logen felt for him, he really did, but there was nothing to be done. “Ursilum, in the old tongue, the round-leafed kind.”

“Yes, yes, of course, Ursilum, it was at the end of my tongue the whole time.”

“If the name was at the end of your tongue, then the uses of the plant cannot be far behind, eh?”

The apprentice narrowed his eyes and looked hopefully up towards the night sky, as though the answer might be written in the stars. “Is it… for aches in the joints?”

“No, it is decidedly not. I am afraid your aching joints will still be troubling you.” Bayaz turned the stem slowly round in his fingers. “Ursilum has no uses, not that I know of. It’s just a plant.” And he tossed it away into the bushes.

“Just a plant,” echoed Quai, shaking his head. Logen sighed and rubbed his tired eyes.

“I’m sorry, Master Ninefingers, are we boring you?”

“What does it matter?” asked Logen, throwing his hands up in the air. “Who cares about the name of a plant with no use?”

Bayaz smiled. “A fair point. Tell us, Malacus, what does it matter?”

“If a man seeks to change the world, he should first understand it.” The apprentice trotted the words out as if by rote, evidently relieved to be asked a question he knew the answer to. “The smith must learn the ways of metals, the carpenter the ways of wood, or their work will be of but little worth. Base magic is wild and dangerous, for it comes from the Other Side, and to draw from the world below is fraught with peril. The Magus tempers magic with knowledge, and thus produces High Art, but like the smith or the carpenter, he should only seek to change that which he understands. With each thing he learns, his power is increased. So must the Magus strive to learn all, to understand the world entire. The tree is only as strong as its root, and knowledge is the root of power.”

“Don’t tell me, Juvens’ Principles of Art?”

“The very first lines,” said Bayaz.

“Forgive me for saying so, but I’ve been on this world for more than thirty years, and I’ve yet to understand a single thing that’s happened. To know the world completely? To understand everything? That’s quite a task.”

The Magus chuckled. “An impossible one, to be sure. To truly know and understand even a blade of grass is the study of a lifetime, and the world is ever changing. That is why we tend to specialise.”

“So what did you choose?”

“Fire,” said Bayaz, gazing happily into the flames, the light dancing on his bald head. “Fire, and force, and will. But even in my chosen fields, after countless long years of study, I remain a novice. The more you learn, the more you realise how little you know. Still, the struggle itself is worthwhile. Knowledge is the root of power, after all.”

“So with enough knowledge, you Magi can do anything?”

Bayaz frowned. “There are limits. And there are rules.”

“Like the First Law?” Master and apprentice glanced up at Logen as one. “It’s forbidden to speak with devils, am I right?” It was plain that Quai didn’t remember his fevered outburst, his mouth was open with surprise. Bayaz’ eyes only narrowed a little, with the faintest trace of suspicion.

“Why, yes you are,” said the First of the Magi. “It is forbidden to touch the Other Side direct. The First Law must apply to all, without exception. As must the Second.”

“Which is?”

“It is forbidden to eat the flesh of men.”

Logen raised an eyebrow. “You wizards get up to some strange stuff.”

Bayaz smiled. “Oh, you don’t know the half of it.” He turned to his apprentice, holding up a lumpy brown root. “And now, Master Quai, would you be good enough to tell me the name of this?”

Logen couldn’t help grinning to himself. He knew this one.

“Come, come, Master Quai, we don’t have all night.”

Logen wasn’t able to stand the apprentice’s misery any longer. He leaned toward him, pretending to poke at the fire with a stick, coughed to conceal his words and whispered, “Crow’s Foot,” under his breath. Bayaz was a good distance away, and the wind was still rustling in the trees. There was no way the Magus could have heard him.

Quai played his part well. He continued to peer at the root, brow knitted in thought. “Is it Crow’s Foot?” he ventured.

Bayaz raised an eyebrow. “Why, yes it is. Well done, Malacus. And can you tell me its uses?”

Logen coughed again. “Wounds,” he whispered, looking carelessly off into the bushes, one hand shielding his mouth. He might not know too much about plants, but on the subject of wounds he had a wealth of experience.

“I believe it’s good for wounds,” said Quai slowly.

“Excellent, Master Quai. Crow’s Foot is correct. And it is good for wounds. I am glad to see we are making some progress after all.” He cleared his throat. “It does seem curious that you should use that name however. They only call this Crow’s Foot north of the mountains. I certainly never taught you that name. I wonder who it is you know, from that part of the world?” He glanced over at Logen. “Have you ever considered a career in the magical arts, Master Ninefingers?” He narrowed his eyes at Quai once more. “I may have space for an apprentice.”

Malacus hung his head. “Sorry, Master Bayaz.”

“You are indeed. Perhaps you could clean the pots for us. That task may be better suited to your talents.”

Quai reluctantly shrugged off his blanket, collected the dirty bowls and shuffled off through the brush towards the stream. Bayaz bent over the pot on the fire, adding some dried-up leaves to the bubbling water. The flickering light of the flames caught the underside of his face, the steam curled around his bald head. All in all, he looked quite the part.

“What is that?” asked Logen, reaching for his pipe. “Some spell? Some potion? Some great work of High Art?”

“Tea.”

“Eh?”

“Leaves of a certain plant, boiled up in water. It is considered quite a luxury in Gurkhul.” He poured some of the brew out into a cup. “Would you like to try it?”

Logen sniffed at it suspiciously. “Smells like feet.”

“Suit yourself.” Bayaz shook his head and sat back down beside the fire, wrapping both hands around the steaming cup. “But you’re missing out on one of nature’s greatest gifts to man.” He took a sip and smacked his lips in satisfaction. “Calming to the mind, invigorating to the body. There are few ills a good cup of tea won’t help with.”

Logen pressed a lump of chagga into the bowl of his pipe. “How about an axe in the head?”

“That’s one of them,” admitted Bayaz with a grin. “Tell me, Master Ninefingers, why all the blood between you and Bethod? Did you not fight for him many times? Why do you hate each other so?”

Logen paused as he was sucking smoke from the pipe, let his breath out. “There are reasons,” he said stiffly. The wounds of that time were still raw. He didn’t like anyone picking at them.

“Ah, reasons.” Bayaz looked down at his tea-cup. “And what of your reasons? Does this feud not cut both ways?”