A Proper Wizard Read Online Free Page B

paragraph of explanation that was, Verent realized, straight from the Prattshaw book on pyrotechnics. The other wizard Keeston was right—he really did have it memorized. “And don’t worry,” Conn added quickly. “I’ll write it all down for you.” He paused. “Or maybe Keeston will do it.”
    With a sigh of relief, Verent put his notebook away.
    â€œReady?” Conn asked, and held up the vial full of purple crystals. “D’you want to add the last ingredient?” He pointed to a silver bowl on the cobblestones, where the rest of the pyrotechnic materials bubbled and smoked.
    Verent blinked. “Well, I suppose . . .” He was only pretending to hesitate, though. This really was interesting, and he did want to try it. Master Poulet would never trust him to complete a spell like this.
    â€œGood,” Conn said, handing him the vial. “Just a—”
    As he spoke, Verent tipped the vial, emptying a stream of scintillant crystals into the silver bowl.
    â€œâ€”just a pinch!” Conn shouted.
    But it was too late. The purple crystals hit the pyrotechnic materials, and an enormous flash and a percussive boom rolled out along with a wave of heat that scorched up Verent’s nattily suited front, singeing off his eyebrows and the front of his neatly combed hair, then flinging him back onto the muddy cobblestones. A tight column of smoke and flame beamed from the silver bowl, cutting a narrow swath through the black branches of the tree. Beside him, Conn covered his face with his arm while his dragon clung to his hair with its claws.
    Blinking the smoke and flame from his eyes, Verent saw Conn shouting magical spellwords, and abruptly the roaring of the explosion stopped, and the smoke and flame died back into the bowl as if Conn had put a magical lid on it. A sudden silence fell.
    Coughing, Verent got to his feet. He felt bruised all over. His face felt red and scorched. His eyelashes had been singed off, too. His suit and robe were covered, front and back, with ashes and mud puddle. He checked and—yes, his hair was sticking up straight on his head.
    Oh, what a fool he was! If he’d done such a careless thing at home in Danivelle, Master Poulet would be shouting at him, telling him he’d never be a proper wizard and threatening to take away his locus magicalicus. He knew, because he’d made mistakes before. Not as bad as this mistake, but bad enough. Steeling himself, expecting the worst, he faced the wizard Connwaer.
    Instead of shouting and scorn, Conn was getting to his feet, rubbing a bit of ash from his face. He looked up at the column of broken branches over the silver bowl. His dragon locus stone hopped from the top of his head to the shredded shoulder of his knitted sweater. “Mind the claws,” Conn said absently, and crouched to examine the silver bowl.
    â€œI’m—I’m very sorry about that,” Verent stammered.
    Without answering, Conn picked up the bowl and tilted it, as if trying to see something better. “That’s strange,” he said.
    Verent felt a twist of dread. Connwaer was going to write his master a letter, complaining about his clumsiness, his ineptness, his basic wizardly incompetence. How was he going to explain the failure of his mission?
    Suddenly Conn leaped to his feet, still holding the bowl. “That should not have happened.”
    â€œI know,” Verent said miserably. “I can only offer my most abject apology, and—”
    â€œNo,” Conn interrupted, with a flashing grin. “I mean it’s brilliant, Verent. The residue here. See?” He held up the bowl and tilted it.
    Leaning closer, Verent peered into it. Sure enough, inside the curve of the bowl was a thin sheen of glistening dust.
    â€œIt shouldn’t be there,” Conn explained. “I think you’ve discovered a completely new pyrotechnic material.”
    â€œI—I