The chair was uncomfortable – an old oak seat from the Tokukan dynasty, probably worth hundreds of silver coins. Her arse hurt, but it was fine, because she was going to have an audience with the Grand Wyzard of Dorkburg. Over her head a glass cupola made the tall stone room light and beautiful. Ornaments were carved into the stones – stone magic! That was one of the things she meant to ask the Wyzard about. She had received a great deal of positive attention for her grimoire fragment, Granite Mutationes. She really hoped the Wyzard had read it. There might be a promotion for her today.
Suddenly the doors opened and she looked into the most adorable study she had ever seen. It was lined with leather-bound books, and deer hides lay on the old stone floor to make the ancient room more comfortable. The fireplace was a thing of its own; carved like a dragon's mouth, its fine workmanship contrasted beautifully with the rough stone walls. It was a study such as this she would like to have. And hopefully very soon, she had worked hard to get to where she was.
She took off her shoes and went barefoot into the room as etiquette prescribed, then knelt carefully before the Wyzard, who sat in a comfortable‑looking armchair by the window. A stately woman in her sixties.
"Oh,Wyzard, oh keeper of knowledge, oh ... " she stopped when she heard a giggle from the Wyzard. "Look at that," the Wyzard said, obviously referring to something that happened outside the window. "What the flying pig is that? Are they fornicating in the middle of the city square? Look! Those two."
She rose and, somewhat puzzled, went to the window. "No, Wyzard — respectfully, I think it is a fight between two stall‑holders." The Wyzard looked at her with a strange expression. "And who are you?"
"I am the newly appointed head of upcomers, I wrote ... "
The Wyzard looked at her and held up a hand. "Yea, well. Let me ask you something. Do you smoke the urt? I have some precious shit from my pusher."
She dropped down on the small stool placed besides the Wyzards much larger chair. "I suppose I do," she mumbled, thinking to herself: Ambition is a harsh master.
