The Outsorcerer's Apprentice Read Online Free Page B

trouble with ordinary folk. They simply couldn’t get their heads around the complexities of economics.
    He lapped the last half-inch of his beer round the bottom of his mug, watching the white specks of dead yeast scurrying in the eddies like carp in a pond. Two things, a wise old man had told him once, that you don’t ask about: what the meat is in a shop-bought meat and turnip pie, and where anything worth having comes from. Wisdom indeed. True, the same old man had then sold him a cow that died three days later, but there you go. Life is really just a river; it moves on, and all sorts of stuff ends up in it.
    Next day, he went to the desk in the other office and got his six shiny silver coins and his two rather world-weary coppers. He put the coppers in his pocket, then trotted along to the shimmering white marble building that housed the Consolidated Wizards Bank. Reckless courage, the willingness to risk everything on a desperate million-to-one chance, is the hallmark of the hero, except where money is concerned. But what could possibly be safer than a bank?
    “Three pounds,” the girl behind the counter told him, “nine shillings and fourpence.”
    Sir Turquine scowled. “That’s not right.”
    The girl checked her ledger. “Sorry,” she said. “Three pounds, nine shillings and fourpence
halfpenny
.”
    Knights are trained from boyhood to treat all damosels with chivalrous respect; even so, Sir Turquine couldn’t help making a growling noise in the bottom of his throat, like an angry dog. “That’s more like it,” he said. “Thank you so much.”
    “Have a nice day.”

T he next time, she didn’t hesitate. The moment she saw the little stooping figure tottering up the path in front of her, she reached into the basket, grabbed the hammer she’d borrowed from her father’s workbench and swung hard. There was a chunky noise and a shrill yelp, and she stepped back to give the wolf room to fall.
    “Right,” she said, pulling off the dented straw bonnet to reveal two pointed grey ears. “I want a word with you.”
    The wolf looked at her with pale yellow eyes. “Oh,” it said. “It’s you.”
    Buttercup frowned. “You know me?”
    “Heard of you,” the wolf replied. “Oh yes. Where I come from, we know all about
you
.”
    “Really?”
    “The Angel of Death, that’s what you’re known as.”
    Buttercup couldn’t help feeling mildly smug. “Is that right.”
    “Yes.”
    “Fine. So why’d you keep coming? You know it’ll all end in tears.”
    The wolf shrugged. “We’re wolves,” it said simply.
    Buttercup grabbed the nearest ear and twisted it hard.“That’s not good enough,” she said. “I mean, it doesn’t make
sense
.”
    The wolf looked at her. “Sense?”
    “That’s right,” she said eagerly. “Come on, think about it, for crying out loud. You’re wolves, right? Presumably you live in some sort of pack, up in the Blue Hills.”
    The wolf’s other ear was flat to the side of its head. “I’m not telling you where,” it said firmly.
    “I don’t want to know,” Buttercup said. “Really.”
    “Yeah, right.”
    “Really. I mean,” she went on, “what actual threat do you pose to us? None whatsoever. Because it’s always the wolf that gets killed, never the cute little girl. Look, how many raids do you do every week? Two? Three?”
    “Not telling.”
    “At least two, often three. And what happens? The wolf dies. You always lose.”
    “I know what you’re doing,” the wolf said. “This is advanced interrogation techniques, right? First you destroy my self-esteem and sense of individuality, then you force me to tell you where the pack hides out, so your woodcutter pals can come and slaughter us. Well, you’re wasting your breath. I won’t talk. I
won’t talk
. Got that?”
    “You are talking,” Buttercup pointed out. “In fact, shut up a minute and let me finish. Two raids a week, let’s say, fifty-two weeks a year, that’s a hundred and four dead