A Proper Wizard by Sarah Prineas Page B

singlehandedly defeated a plot to hold hostage Wellmet’s supply of magic. The villains, Verent had heard, had created a terrible device that, without Connwaer’s magical expertise, might have destroyed the practice of magic in Wellmet and beyond. Then, it was told, Connwaer had foiled an attempt by another magical being to feed on the magic of Wellmet and had bound both magics to the city, thus revealing the connection between magic and dragons. Now wizards across all the cities were debating his discoveries. Meeting the wizard responsible for such deeds made Verent nervous. “You’re afraid of him, you say?”
    â€œWell, I’m not,” the boy answered. He went to the table and inspected a dirty teacup, which he polished with the hem of his sweater, then filled with hot tea from the pot. “But people who don’t know him are. He’s tall and stern, that’s one thing. And he’s got that old gray-bearded croakety-croak look, you know?”
    â€œNo, I do not,” Verent said stiffly. How impertinent. His own master, Senior Wizard Poulet, was very strict and stern, and he had a gray beard.
    The boy grinned. “And he shouts a lot because he’s impatient. Sugar?” He held up a sugar bowl.
    Verent nodded. “Yes, please.”
    â€œBenet’s at the market. There isn’t any milk until he gets back.” The boy carried him a steaming cup—no saucer, Verent noted.
    Carefully taking the tea, Verent nodded his thanks.
    â€œBut he loves doing magic, and talking about it, and he’s really very kind,” the boy said, filling his own cup and then sitting cross-legged on the hearthstone. The cat uncurled itself and climbed into his lap. “Be careful, Lady,” the boy said to the cat, “or I’ll spill tea on you.” With one hand he held the teacup; with the other he stroked the cat.
    Verent took a sip of his own watery tea. “He is kind to you, then? Do you like serving him?”
    â€œI’m not his servant,” the boy said flatly.
    â€œOh,” Verent said. “I beg your pardon.” The boy’s accent was lower class. It was a reasonable mistake.
    The boy shrugged. “It’s all right. I used to be his apprentice.”
    Oh, so the boy was a magical practitioner. But used to be , he had said. Most likely, Verent thought, he had failed his exams. He didn’t seem very bright.
    The door burst open. Verent turned to see a girl with long braided blond hair, wearing an apprentice’s gray robe over a neat dress, poke her head into the room. “Aletho!” she said, excited. “And dimmertil, almost. Are you coming up?”
    The boy put down his cup, set aside the cat, and got to his feet. “As soon as Pip gets back, Bre. Keep an eye on it.”
    â€œRight-o,” the girl said cheerfully, and left.
    Odd, Verent thought.
    The boy had crossed to the table, where he rummaged in a box of springs and bits of metal parts. “D’you want to see what we’re working on?”
    â€œAh, no,” Verent answered. “I will wait here for the wizard Connwaer.”
    The boy turned from the table, his eyes wide. “Oh. You think you’re waiting for Connwaer?”
    â€œYes, of course,” Verent answered. How rude. The boy ought to be calling him “sir”—Verent was an apprentice, after all, as his robe and shiny locus stone made clear—and then there was the girl apprentice popping in and out of the room like that. Really, the wizard ought to keep his people in better order.
    â€œDrats,” the boy said. “ Greatest wizard , you said. I thought your master’s letter must have been meant for Nevery instead. I’m Conn.”
    The room spun around Verent, and he set down his teacup with shaking hands. This scruffy, scrawny boy in the holey sweater was the greatest wizard of the age? No, not possible. “ You are Connwaer?” he asked.
    The