CHAPTER SEVEN

Iddo

IV

“WHAT!” Gramma shouted, leaping to her feet with startling agility. Something about this struck Wilburn as so funny that he doubled over laughing, leaning heavily on the smoking weenie stick for support. His face reddened. He laughed so hard he made no sound.

Gramma’s head swiveled back and forth as she glared, first at the boy, then at the yak, then at the boy, then at the yak.

Iddo said, “I jest, of course. Hnggrrnt hnggrrnt hnggrrnt. Young Wilburn has taken me on as his master, and I he as my apprentice, in keeping with ancient tradition.”

“What ancient tradition?” Gramma demanded. “I never heard of no ancient tradition.”

“Perhaps you are not quite ancient enough.” Iddo chuckled to himself some more. “Again, I jest. It is remarkable to me, Nyreen, that in all your travels you have managed to remain ignorant of this foundational magical tradition; but then, I suppose you are generally too busy researching flora and fauna to be bothered with the trivialities of human society. Variations of the apprenticeship system are practiced to this very day in nearly every corner of the world—Argylon being the notable exception, and Wilburn and I now being the notable exception to that notable exception. In Isloria, the tradition is known as the zlatna vergia, or golden chain, symbolic of the unbroken transmission of knowledge from master to apprentice throughout the millennia. As my master taught me, so I shall teach Wilburn, and so, one day, Wilburn shall teach his own apprentice.”

“I don’t like it,” Gramma said stubbornly. “Everyone knows the Islorians follow the Left Hand Path.”

“Only most of them. But the zlatna vergia belongs to no nation; it is of neither the Right nor the Left Hand Path.”

“I suppose it’s part of your Path, is it? Your mystical Path of eternal mumbo jumbo?”

“Naturally.”

Gramma harrumphed.“Why Wilburn? Why don’t you pick someone else?”

“Does the key choose the lock? Does the lock choose the key? Of course not,” Iddo answered his own question. “It is the locksmith who decides. It is destiny. Destiny, my dear.”

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Gramma began to argue, but Ez spoke over her. “Was Jack your apprentice too, Mr. Bungflower?” The accusation in her voice caught everyone off guard, including Ez herself. She hadn’t meant it to come out like that. Had she…? It was just that in the vision Jack had called Iddo his mentor, and accepted his advice about continuing his mission—whatever it was—and then Jack had been killed. Ez needed to know why, and she needed to know who to blame, and in the absence of these answers her emotions were leaping to conclusions—leaping, specifically, to the conclusion that Iddo was to blame… somehow. The yak didn’t exactly strike Ez as a murderer, but…

Iddo cleared his throat deliberately. “Jack was a student at Frogswallow’s College,” he said, “where I am a professor. I taught him, as I have taught hundreds of others. Later, he became my comrade in a great many adventures. He was as dear a friend as I have ever known. But he was never my apprentice. A master takes but one apprentice in a lifetime, Mrs. Totkins. That is the way of the zlatna vergia.”

“Oh,” Ez said. She felt slightly embarrassed. But why should she? Iddo knew how Jack had died; the vision he had shown her made that clear. Why show it to her at all if he didn’t intend to give her the full truth? Ez couldn’t force the information out of him, obviously. Perhaps he had a good reason for keeping it a secret. Or perhaps he really was insane, as Gramma Fark believed… Ez noticed Wilburn looking at her strangely. Are you still reading my mind? she thought-asked. The boy’s expression didn’t change. Good. The bangle must be working.

To quote myself, Iddo’s voice said in Ez’s mind, only the best, and most determined psychovates will be able to penetrate that artifact’s defenses. I, of course, am such a one. But not to worry; there are scarce others like me. I am, to once more quote myself, an aberration.

So... you heard what I was thinking just now? Ez thought with chagrin.

To quote myself a final time: you catch on quickly, Ms. Totkins. I take no offense. Your concerns are of the utmost relevance. Come by my hovel tomorrow evening after nineteenth chime. We shall have a drink together. And you shall have your answers, such as I can give. And then I’m afraid you shall have more questions... strange questions… the very questions that have troubled me for seven years. Perhaps, Ms. Totkins, if it is the Path, we shall be able to answer them together.

Nineteenth chime? How do I get to your, er, hovel, did you say?

The wind blows and the chimes chime at the top of every hour at Frogswallow’s College. Count the chimes to know the time. Nineteenth chime marks eight o’clock post meridian. I expect Nyreen will have you on campus by then. Ask her to point out my hovel. It is something of a landmark.

“Hey guys,” Wilburn said, “guess what! Weenies are ready!” He had roasted—no, let’s face it, burned to a crisp, four weenies: two for Gramma, one for Ez, and one, presumably, for himself. He’d only remembered to remove them from fire a minute ago, and coils of smoke were still whiskering off them and trailing up into the sycamore’s orange canopy.

“Ooooo!” Iddo smiled hugely at the sight of the four blackened ellipsoids. His smile opened, revealing rows of perfectly straight, blindingly white teeth. His teeth opened, revealing a tongue like a flamingo’s wing.

With a streak of smoke, the sausages—all four of them—shot off the stick and onto Iddo’s tongue, which curled around them and retracted into Iddo’s mouth, which closed. His shaggy beard twitched as he chewed. “Do you know,” he said, “you can see the far side of the universe from anywhere…?” He swallowed. “Well, ta ta.”

And with that, he walked straight out of existence.