by Rick Cook
Wiz toyed with the cup, running his finger along the rim. "I suppose you’re right. I never was any good at teaching. I guess I need to try harder."
"Perhaps it would be more to the point if you tried to understand how others feel. Your task is difficult. But you make it more so. Your attitude does not make you friends, either on the Council of among the other wizards and that adds to the hostility against your methods. Specifically, you do yourself no good at all when you belittle the Council."
"I don’t belittle the Council!"
Bal-Simba arched a brow. "No? But your work is more important."
"Well…"
"Sparrow, the Council of the North has stood for centuries as the shield of humans against malevolent magic, both from the Dark League and from the World at large. It is the closest thing to a ruler this land has."
Wiz nodded. "Look, I’d be the last person to deny you and the other wizards have done a heck of a job. But magical programming changes things. As soon as I get the compiler perfected and get to work on the spells, anyone will be able to use magic. There won’t be a need for a Council of wizards to guard and protect humans."
Bal-Simba shook his head. "Sparrow, much as I admire your directness I think it leads you astray. But even if what you say is so, we must still get from where we are to where you wish to be. To do that you need the cooperation of all wizards, especially the Mighty and most especially the Council. You do not get someone’s cooperation by telling him he is obsolete and his life’s work is outworn."
"It would be easier if some of the Mighty would learn to use the compiler. But they’re all so dense."
"Wizards do not have the reputation for being stupid," Bal-Simba said with deceptive mildness.
Wiz sighed and rubbed his eyes. "You’re right. Stupid isn’t the word for it. But they don’t generalize. You guys learn one thing at a time and you can’t seem to work from a bunch of specifies to a general proposition." He shook his head. "And a lot of programming is generalization."
"Nonsense!" came a firm voice from the doorway. Wiz and Bal-Simba turned to the sound and saw a tall theatrically handsome man in wizard’s blue. His silver hair swept over his ears in carefully arranged waves to perfectly set off his aristocratic features and evenly tanned skin.
Bal-Simba nodded. "My Lord Ebrion."
Wiz stiffened, but he also nodded politely. Dammit, I will not lose my temper.
"The essence of magic is in the particular," Ebrion said in his beautifully modulated voice as he came into the room. "To control magic we must understand this tree or this fire, not these ’classes’ you keep on about. All trees are not alike, Sparrow, and it is only by deeply perceiving an object that we may control it magically."
Wiz kept quiet. He had enough trouble with Ebrion and his traditionalist friends already. Like all the traditionalists, Ebrion didn’t like Wiz. Unlike most of them he made no secret of his dislike beyond a certain cold civility. Worse, he was a theoretician, or the closest thing to a theoretician of magic this world had ever produced. Wiz’s success had thrown him into the shade in his own specialty and that made him dislike Wiz all the more.
"Magic is both organic and particular, Sparrow," Ebrion went on as if lecturing an apprentice. "The best magic cannot be built up from bits and pieces like a jackdaw’s nest. It must be conceived of whole."
"Wiz’s method seemed effective enough against the Dark League," Bal-Simba said quietly.
"Lord, I have never denied that the Sparrow ranks among the Mighty, but sheer talent does not make his theories correct."
He waved a hand dismissingly. "Oh, I will admit the trick of constructing a demon to recite his spells for him is useful—albeit it was not unknown to us before. But his notion of how magic works?" He shook his head.
"The compiler is a lot more than a spell-reciting demon," Wiz interjected.
"So you have told us repeatedly. But at bottom that is all it does, is it not?"
"No, it’s a compiler written in a threaded interpreted language that…"
Ebrion touched his fingertips to his forehead, as if stricken with a sudden headache. "Please Sparrow, spare us one of your explanations. You have told us this ’compiler’ demon recites the spells you create and that much, at least, is comprehensible."
Wiz started to protest and then clamped his jaw. Ebrion wasn’t interested in explanations and he wasn’t any good at making them.
"Anyway, you’re wrong," he said sullenly. "I don’t have any talent for magic. Any one of the Mighty can sense that."
"We can all sense that you do not have our kind of talent. But you have shown us that you have enormous magical ability. What you have not shown us is that your system works. To do that you would have to teach others to make magic with it, by your own admission."
"So I’m a lousy teacher," Wiz said, nettled.
"For over a year you have dwelt here and tried to teach this marvelous system of yours. Have any of us mastered it? Has anyone but yourself learned it?"
"Programming takes time to learn. You didn’t learn magic overnight did you?"
"No, but with a few-months study I was able to perform certain useful spells. Your pupils work and work and can do little—and that poorly."
"You’ve got to learn the basics and work up."
"No Sparrow, this ’general theory of magic’ of yours is an illusion. You must learn one spell at a time. You must practice every gesture, every word, understand every influence. One spell at a time, Sparrow." He looked down at Wiz and smiled mockingly.
"That is how magic is made."
Wiz ground his teeth. He remembered one of the first classes, back when he was still trying to teach wizards in groups. The lesson was to construct a simple apparition spell, the rough equivalent of the "hello world" program in the C computer language.
Of course, the point was no more making a form appear than the point in C program was to put the words "hello world" on a computer screen. It was to familiarize the magicians with the basic workings of the magic compiler. Slowly and carefully, Wiz led his class through the fundamentals of his program for constructing magic spells. Then he asked each of them to make the spell with the compiler.
With a disdainful flick of his wand, Ebrion had created a shape that was ten times as real as the shadowy blobby forms the other students were struggling to make through the program.
"That is how magic is made," he said in a condescending tone as Wiz and the students stared at his result.
"The theory works," Wiz ground out. "Or did I just imagine taking on the Dark League?"
"Once again, I have never denied you were powerful," Ebrion said, as if repeating a simple lesson to a very slow pupil. "You attacked them with the completely alien magic of your world and overwhelmed them with spells they had never seen before. Thus you established your power. Surprise is ever an important weapon, Sparrow. As for the rest of your power, it would be a simple matter to put it to the test."
Ebrion meant a contest of wizards. Superficially it was a fair way of determining who was the better magician. But there were tricks to such contests, just as there were subtleties to any kind of competition. From apprentices to wizards of the Mighty, all magicians practiced against each other for sport. The only experience Wiz had in such a contest was when he had inadvertently gotten into a duel to the death with the second most powerful wizard of the Dark League. Only Bal-Simba’s intervention had saved him.
When he saw Wiz would ignore the implied challenge, Ebrion went on. "You have taught us some new tricks and given us some important insights and for that we must thank you. But they do not amount to revolutionizing the practice of magic, nor do they sweep away all we have done here for hundreds of years. Magic is as it ever was, Sparrow."
"Except that the Wild Wood isn’t pushing into human lands any more," Wiz snapped. "The Dark League isn’t one step from throttling the entire North and the common people have a defense against hostile magic. You and all your traditions couldn’t do any of
that!"
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Wiz was sorry. Ebrion’s head jerked back as if he had been slapped and he blanched under his tan. He turned his back on Wiz and addressed Bal-Simba.
"My Lord I came merely to tell you that I will be leaving the Capital for Mountainhame on the morn and to inquire if there was some service I could perform there for you."
"No, nothing." Bal-Simba said.
"Then I will take my leave of you, Lord." And with that he bowed and left the room, ignoring Wiz completely.
"That was ill-done, Sparrow," Bal-Simba said as soon as the door had closed behind Ebrion.
"I know, Lord," Wiz said uncomfortably. "Do you think I should go apologize to him?"
Bal-Simba shook his head. "Leave him for now," he rumbled. "Perhaps when he returns you should speak to him."
"He was trying to get under my skin."
Bal-Simba frowned. "Get under… ah, I see what you mean. So he was, but you let him and that gave him the advantage of the encounter. You must learn to control yourself better."
"I’ll try, Lord," Wiz said uncomfortably.
"Let us hope you succeed," Bal-Simba said. "You have students soon, do you not?"
"Yipe. I’m already late!"
"Go then, Sparrow. But remember what we have discussed."
Three: Stirring the Pot
It’s never the technical stuff that gets you in trouble. It’s the personalties and the politics.
programmer’s saying
Presumptuous puppy! Ebrion fumed as he made his way down the stairs and out into the main courtyard.
He did not return to his tower or to any of his other usual haunts. Instead he crossed the yard and made for the main gate of the keep. Just inside the gate was a much less plushly appointed day room used by off-duty guardsmen, minor merchants, castle servants, apprentices and others.
The big, low-ceilinged room was several steps down from the yard. Light flooded in through the windows up next to the whitewashed ceiling and reflected down onto the worn plank tables and rough benches and stools.
Heads turned as he came in and then turned back. This was hardly a place for the Mighty, much less a member of the Council, but Ebrion was known for his common touch. Two or three times in every turning of the moon he could be expected to drop by and exchange a few words with the habitués.
It was a time when apprentices should be at their studies or serving their masters. Still, Ebrion expected to find the one he sought here and he was not disappointed. Sitting by himself in a corner was a lank man with smoldering brown eyes and bowl-cut brown hair. Arms flat on the table and legs thrust straight out into the aisle, he was scowling into a mug of small beer as if he expected it to rise up and challenge him.
"Well met, Pryddian," Ebrion said pleasantly.
The young man looked up and nodded, but he did not rise as befitted an apprentice in the presence of one of the Mighty.
"My Lord."
Ebrion eased himself down upon the bench and studied the man. Pryddian was the oldest of the Keep’s apprentices and now he was an apprentice without a master.
Pryddian seemed oblivious to the scrutiny. He kept his eyes fixed on his mug.
"I would speak with you on a matter of some import," Ebrion said. He made a show of looking around the room and lowered his voice. "What I say must stay between us."
Pryddian looked at him narrowly and nodded. Ebrion did not ask for a binding oath and the apprentice did not offer one.
"I had heard that Juvian released you."
"Arrogant old fool," Pryddian muttered. That earned him a sharp look from the wizard.
"I am sorry, Lord," he said sullenly. "But you know my story. I started my training here in the Capital instead of in some hedge witch’s hovel. I am widely acknowledged to have more talent than any of the other apprentices." Ebrion nodded, acknowledging a plain fact and Pryddian took another swallow of beer.
"Yet after two years I am turned off over a trifle. Juvian assured me I would have no trouble finding another master. But no other wizard will take me on and no one will tell me honestly why."
Ebrion nodded sympathetically. That was not the story Juvian told, but it did not serve his purpose to say so.
"I know. I sought you out because I thought you should know there was more to the matter than a disagreement between you and Juvian." He paused, picking his words.
"Naturally I cannot violate the confidences of my fellow wizards, but I can tell you that today there is more to being a successful apprentice than magical talent and a willingness to work hard. It is also necessary to master the Sparrow’s new magic."
Pryddian snorted. He had attended one or two classes and had not done well. Ever since he had made no secret of his contempt for Wiz’s method’s.
"I know. And between the two of us, I agree." He shrugged and spread his hands. "But who am I? The Sparrow sits on the Council of the North and has Bal-Simba’s ear. He can see to it that apprentices either learn the new magic or are no longer apprentices."
"How is this? I thought apprenticeship was a matter between the wizard and pupil alone."
"And so it is," Ebrion assured him. "But a wizard must consider relations with his fellows. You understand these things, surely."
Pryddian nodded. "I suspected there was a favor involved, in spite of what everyone says."
"Oh, not favor," Ebrion said hurriedly. "We prefer to think of it as maintaining harmonious relations."
"Call it what you will, I am blackballed by the Sparrow."
"Well," the wizard admitted, "it would be—hmm—difficult for any wizard to take you as an apprentice."
"And my ability counts for nothing?"
"Times have changed. It seems the Sparrow’s new magic is more important than talent for the old."
"So I am forever barred from becoming a wizard. Unless you… ?" He trailed off hopefully.
"The Sparrow knows how I feel about him and his new magic. I would do you little good, I fear."
Pryddian nodded knowingly. "And doubtless it would do you little good to have me."
Ebrion shrugged.
Pryddian finished his beer in a single long pull. "This Sparrow rises above himself," he said darkly.
"Perhaps, but he is of the Mighty." The wizard rose. "In any event, I felt you should know. I cannot speak openly, of course."
"Of course." The would-be apprentice looked up. "I thank you for the information, Lord. And as to this Sparrow, perhaps he needs his feathers plucked." He dropped his eyes to scowl at the now-empty mug as Ebrion left.
Outside the door of the day room, Ebrion allowed himself a smile.
Under any circumstances Pryddian would never have become a wizard. Talent he had, and stubbornness to persist in the face of gentle hints and not-so-gentle discouragement, but he was undisciplined and he had a vindictive streak that ran both broad and deep. If he had started his training in the villages he probably never would have been sent to the Capital. But Ebrion was very glad he was here. His combination of talent, frustration and a viperish tongue made him ideal. Yes, the wizard thought, he is the perfect choice to bait the Sparrow into some heedless action.
Four: Fenceposts and Falling Rocks
Those who can’t do, teach.
article of faith among students
And vice-versa.
programmers’ addendum to students’ article of faith
Malus was waiting impatiently when Wiz arrived, obviously fuming.
To salve wizardly pride, Wiz did most of his teaching of actual wizards in private sessions. Malus was one of his least-favorite pupils. As a person, the pudgy little wizard was nice enough, always merry and joking. But he had particular trouble in grasping concepts and the thought that he was a slow learner made him even more resistant to the new magic.
Malus didn’t even let Wiz finish his apology for being late.
"This spell you showed me," he said accusingly. "It does not work."
Wiz sighed i
nwardly. "Well, let me see your code."
Grudgingly, the plump little sorcerer produced several strips of wood from the sleeve of his robe. Laid in the proper order the characters on them would list out the spell. Putting them on separate pieces of wood was a safety precaution against activating the spell by writing it down.
Wiz arranged the wood strips on the table and frowned briefly at what was written there.
"Oh, you’ve got a fence post error."
"Fence post?" the wizard asked.
"Yeah. Look, say you’ve got a hundred feet of fence to put up and you need to put a post every ten feet. How many posts do you need?"
"I am a wizard, not a farmer!" Malus said, drawing himself up to his entire five-foot-four.
"Well, just suppose," Wiz said half-desperately.
Malus thought hard for a minute. "Ten, of course."
"Nope," Wiz said triumphantly. "Eleven. Unless you strung your fence in a circle."
"But one hundred taken as tens is ten."
"Yeah, but if you’ve got a hundred feet of fence and only ten posts in a straight line, you leave one end of the fence hanging free. If you put the posts in a closed figure, you only need nine because you start and end on the same post."
"And how am I to know such things? I told you I am not a farmer."
"Well, just keep it in mind, okay? Boundary conditions are always likely to give you trouble."
"Borders are always unchancy places," Malus agreed.
"Uh, yeah. Let’s leave that for a minute. Do you have any other problems?"
"There is this business of names."
For about the fiftieth time, Wiz wished he hadn’t been so cavalier in choosing names for the standard routines in his library. To wizards, a thing’s name was vitally important and they took the name to be the thing.
"I told you that the names I used aren’t necessarily representative."
Malus looked at him like he was crazy. "Very well. But even granting that, why must the names change haphazardly? That is what I do not understand."
