#it's happened lads I got so into turtles I started watching backwards

[rhinocio]

words are hard

[tantei-chan-4869]

Chapter 1: The Return of the Female High School Detective

"Hnnng..... Ahhhhh!"

Edogawa Conan screamed as her body felt like it was melting. The painful sensation was unbearable as her fist clinched tightly to her chest while she gasped for air. The girl was trying to wait for the antidote to work.

Outside, a small scientist and a knowledgeable professor waited anxiously for the high school detective to finally return to the way she once was before being shrunken into a 7-year-old first grader.

"Kudo-kun?" Haibara knocked on the bathroom door gently. "Are you alright?"

She leaned her ear against the door. No responses was made. The shrunken scientist was about to open the locked door with her spare key until she felt the professor's hand on her small shoulder. Haibara looked up and met with the professor's calm eyes.

"Give her some time." He said. "It'll take some time for the effects to work after all."

Haibara bit her lips. She hesitated a bit before letting go of the doorknob with a sigh. She can only hope for the best. Just as the two of them was about to go back to the living room until the bathroom door clicked open. They turned around to see a beautiful 17 year old girl with waist length straight hair stood before them with a grin. Her school uniform fit snugly around her hourglass figure as she looked herself up and down. At last, she spoke.

"Haibara..... It worked!"

Haibara was indifferent. She secretly breathed a sigh of relief that Shinichi is alright. But she still have to keep the high school detective at a close watch just in case she go back to the 7-year-old first grader again.

"It may look like it's working now. But you don't know if it's permanent after 3 days. I'll have to keep a close watch on you just in case the antidote lost its effectiveness. In those 3 days, make sure you keep watch as well. Let me know if anything felt different or felt off.... " The small scientist trailed off as she made notes on her clipboard. "You may go home for the day, but again, contact me or the hagasei when anything happens."

Suddenly, Haibara turned around and looked at Shinichi very seriously and pointed at her with the tip of her pen.

"Remember, let. Us. Know. If. Anything. Happens. Got it?"

The high school detective scratched the back of her head in embarrassment. "Hai, hai. Of course Haibara. Thanks again for the antidote. I'm just glad to be back again."

The said scientist didn't say anything. She just turned around and walked away as she mumbled to herself. The hagasei only gave Shinichi a kind smile. The detective shook her head. Well, first day back as Shinichi was here and she was not about to miss out on that.

The detective immediately rushed back to the Kudo manor. Subaru (aka Akai) had already moved out of there so the whole place belonged to Shinichi once again. As soon as she got back home, the first thing she did was to take a walk in the Beika park. It had been a while since she had taken a stroll so she decided to go take a breather.

The detective changed into a comfy white turtle neck sweater and a blue skirt before going running out of the door with a scarf and a long coat. She looked around the scenery before her. It was autumn and leaves were already turning red. The air smelled of pumpkin spice and cinnamon. The chirpy detective was so happy that soon she had bumped straight into someone without looking.

Shinichi stumbled backwards. Just as she closed her eyes and was expecting a close contact with the ground until she realized that she didn't fall. The detective peeked out and was soon fascinated by a pair of indigo eyes staring at her. For a minute, she was lost in those orbs.

"Uh, are you okay?" Came the voice of the owner of the indigo eyes. It was cheerful and full of life with a mix of flirtatiousness.

"Ah- I... I'm alright.." she looked away blushing, aware of the arm that was wrapped around her slim waist that broke her from the fall.

"Ah, where are my manners." Said the stranger as he let go of Shinichi. Then, with a wave of his slender fingers, a blue rose appeared before Shinichi's eyes.

"Boku wa Kuroba Kaito. Douzo yoroshiku! (My name is Kuroba Kaito, nice to meet you!)" Kaito said as he took a bow while offering the flower to Shinichi.

The girl blushed pink. "Watashi wa Kudo Shinichi. Tantei desu ne douzo yoroshiku." (I'm Kudo Shinichi, a detective. Nice to meet you too.)

"Tantei eh? So you're that famous-" before Kaito have a chance to finish his sentence, his mouth was immediately covered by a very stressed Shinichi.

"Shush! I'm trying to keep a low profile! Don't be so loud!" Shinichi hushed. " I can't really explain how or why. But please, don't spread the fact that I'm around. I'm supposed..... To be dead."

With that, Shinichi had a very serious expression. Kaito noticed it but decided to keep a poker face. "Ah, I see...." He trailed off. Whatever the reason it may be, it seems like his favorite critic can't tell him why she's been disappearing for some time and suddenly popped out like that. Something told him not to pry.

It's not that Kaito doesn't know where Shinichi had gone to or who she is. In fact, he remembered her clearly as that moment she fired a bullet at his direction at that fateful night a year back. Kaito recalled the adrenaline rush as he tried to make a rather embarrassing escape from the detective's sharp, piercing blue eyes. He couldn't stare into them. No matter how much more exquisite they are than the bluest sapphire. Kaito just couldn't. He was afraid that as soon as he make eye contact, the pair of truth-seeing eyes would drill a hole in his soul and shatter his pokerface of a mask.

"..... Earth to Kuroba-kun, daijoubu desu ka? (Are you okay?)" Shinichi waved her hand in front of Kaito's face with a concerned expression. "You haven't been speaking and you look exhausted-"

Indeed. There were quite some heavy bags under the magician's eyes as the night before he managed to pull another successful heist and pranking a certain blond detective who vowed to catch him while cursing loudly as he was left behind with temporary green hair dye. Kaito chuckled. "Oh nothing. Just feeling the fatigue of the night before. I had a huge exam that came up so I stayed up all night. It's nothing other than the highschooler trouble. Wouldn't you agree, Shin-chan?" He winked and smirked, flustering Shinichi in the process. "Also, please feel free to call me Kaito."

"D-don't call me Shin-chan! Sure we've just met but we're not that close to be calling each other by the nicknames!" Shinichi looked away, blushing and pouting in the same time."So please keep your distance, Kuroba-kun".

Kaito sighed. The high school detective is just as much of a tsundere and snappy as usual. But he's not the type to give up very easily. He only grinned back and got another blue rose out of nowhere. "A beautiful rose for a beautiful lad- achoo!" Kaito's sentence was interrupted by a rather loud sneeze. Shinichi gasped and bowed her head in apology.

"I'm so sorry for keeping you Kuroba-kun!" Shinichi gushed. "It's cold and yet I'm keeping you.... Do you want to.... Perhaps come over to my manor and warm up before going your way?"

Kaito was very much appreciative of the offer as he was only clothed in a dressy shirt and very thin suit pants. The nerve of the magic performance had left him feeling very hot and made him leave the rest of his top by the water fountain nearby. Kaito shuddered, the warmness had left him. "S-sure. Why not. I'd love to see what Tantei-chan's place looks like." He teased while packing up his stuff. In the blink of an eye, Kaito finished. It was so fast that even the detective herself was quite amazed of how fast he's actually managed it.

"Ready?" Kaito asked as he appeared beside Shinichi. Poor Shinichi, she was so baffled that she barely made out what she was saying before the the two was on their way back to the Kudo manor.

While they were walking, the two were both silent, each filled with their own thoughts. It was Kaito who broke the awkward moment.

"So Tantei-chan....." He began. "You've said that you are currently staying low in profile. What do you exactly mean by that? I mean, you were the most famous detective in Tokyo. There were almost no one that haven't heard of the name 'Kudo Shinichi'. So why staying low?"

The said detective froze in her tracks, forming a small battle in her head.

"Should I trust him? I just met him....." A voice ran in her head. But her instinct told her otherwise. After much battling and curious stares from the magician, she sighed and faced him.

"I'll tell you. But you have to promise me that you won't tell anyone else." She said gravely. "I don't usually tell anyone something like this, but because I trust you, I'll tell you."

Kaito only nodded silently, signalling Shinichi to go on. Taking a deep breath, Shinichi begin telling him her tales. Of how she was following the BO members, discovery their illegal trade, being discovered, shrunk and how her life was living as Conan. By the end of the story, Kaito started at her in shock. "Y-you're Meiantei-!? B-but how?"

Now, it was Shinichi's turn to gasp. "W-what did you just say-?" She immediately put up her guard up against Kaito as she took a step backwards. They were in a dark alleyway. No one ever passes this area often this late at night, and even if Shinichi was to scream, no one would be able to hear her. "Did you just call me 'Meitantei'-? Who are you, Kuroba Kaito." She asked again, as there is only one person who ever called her Meiantei. And he happened to be her worst rival and secret crush.

Hearing his whole name being announced and recovering from the shock that Shinichi is Conan, Kaito for a minute stood speechless as he was trying to process the information. Until Shinichi repeated her question again did he realize that he's messed up, big time.

"Shinichi-, I'm sorry.... I-....." Kaito stuttered. Shinichi only glared at him coldly with her azure blue eyes. "I repeat for the last time, don't lie to me. Who. Are. You.?" She narrowed her eyes to a slit as she crossed her arms. Kaito lowered his head. It was his fault that he might never get to confess to Shinichi of his feelings for her. But he had to be honest. So he sighed and looked into her eyes.

"You must've have guessed. Of course, for a brilliant detective like you, I have nowhere to hide. Yes. It is I, the Moonlight Phantom. Kaitou KID." Slowly, a smug begin to form on his face as he put his poker face on. "Looks like we'll have a lot to talk about tonight~" he said seductively as he slowly approached the unguarded detective. She slowly backed away, her heart beating wildly. She was fearful. What does he wanted do to her?

As his steps echoed closer, Shinichi shut her eyes in despair. "Help me..... someone. Anyone. Help me....."

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Author's Note:

Cliffhanger! Yay! UwU. Anyways, if you're at this point of the story, you must've had patience to finish the entire chapter. Congratulations! I'm so honored that I'm so entertaining to the point that you're able to bear with me until the end of chapter 1. If you like it like this, I'll continue to write longer chapters for your satisfaction. Please bear with me as the updates may be coming slowly. But I hope you like this chapter! (Psst chapter 2 is on the way UwU)

[izzy-b-hands]

In The Lap Of...

So, y’all know that video of the lads playing with each other’s instruments, and Freddie ends up behind the drums? 

Well, I thought what if Roger ended up on his lap, and then this fic happened. 

Fun thing I learned in researching  this fic: the seat behind the drum is called the throne! Ngl, I kind of love that. 

A warning, very NSFW in this. Mostly NSFW, in fact, but also some fun Bri and John banter in this. 

My love to all who read/like/reblog!

“Then you come over here and play them!” 

For once, no horribly serious work was being done. They were in a space where they could rehearse, yes, but so far the majority of the time had been spent like this. 

Mucking about with each other’s instruments, playing with the occasional new song idea, but otherwise, nothing overly productive, and for today, that was okay. 

Freddie had finally landed at the drums, bearing Roger’s sweet but not overly useful critiques, hence his demand. 

And Roger did waltz over at his call, and Freddie started to move off the throne to cede it to him. 

Before he could, Roger sat squarely in his lap. 

“What on earth are you doing?” 

“You said, come over and play,” Roger smirked, snagging the drumsticks from Freddie’s hands. “So here I am.” 

“I think you’re well aware this is not what I meant,” Freddie said, even as he slid his arms to rest around Roger’s waist. 

“Careful you don’t tip over,” John warned, wincing at the slight groan of the throne as they both adjusted. 

“Rude,” Roger scolded. “There’s plenty of room for both of us on this.” 

Freddie’s thighs were actually going slightly numb from how awkward it was to be sat together like that on a piece of equipment that was not designed for more than one, but he wasn’t going to let Roger know that if he could help it. Despite that, it was nice, leaning forward just a bit to rest his head against Roger’s back. 

“We ought to play shows like this,” Freddie said. “We could put you front and center, Rog.” 

“And backwards, so they could see you,” Roger added. 

“No,” Freddie protested. “They’d be fine seeing both of us like this.” 

“Are they stuck?” Brian asked, wandering into the room with a half-eaten sandwich in hand. 

“Where did you get that?” John asked as he shook his head in reply. 

“I made it,” Brian said. “Are they hurt at all?” 

“No,” John said. “You didn’t make me one?” 

“I didn’t know you were hungry,” Brian replied, exasperated. 

“We’re fine, thank you,” Freddie called over. “Testing out an idea for the next show.” 

Brian looked at John. “Doesn’t mean I have to carry him, or be in his lap, right?” 

“You’ve already bitched about ‘carrying’ shows...” John hissed under his breath. 

“Not this shit again, I was talking about one part of one song only, and I was just venting, but you-” 

“Well, that’s what you made it sound like, like you’re carrying the whole damned show, and-” John interrupted, taking the last few steps to get in Brian’s face as best he could. 

“Children!” Freddie interrupted himself, then sighed as Brian and John completely ignored him. “Roger, be a love, throw a stick at them so they don’t tackle each other?” 

Roger nodded, then laughed as he tossed not one, but both sticks at Brian and John, sending them dodging. “See! That’s what you get! Now make up and play nicely with each other.” 

“You say that, and boss us about,” Brian scoffed. “As if you won’t start whining when I play ‘too slow’, even when I’m playing perfectly fine-” 

“Whatever you say, you turtle,” Roger teased, his tongue stuck out at Brian. 

“Not helping,” Freddie whispered to him, and pinched his side ever so lightly. 

“Hey!” Roger almost squeaked. “You be nice too, or I’ll kick you off of here.” 

“And how do you intend to do that, with me underneath you?” Freddie grinned. 

“I have my ways,” Roger flipped himself round as quickly as he could manage, so he was facing Freddie. 

“I think this might have the opposite effect,” Freddie smiled, letting his hands slip from Roger’s waist down to his hips, fingertips teasing for a brief moment at the waistband of Roger’s jeans. 

“Oh, get a fucking room,” John laughed with a shake of his head. 

“We’re in one!” Roger protested.

“Not what you meant,” Brian mused. “But he’s got you there.” 

“We’ll lock the door,” John sighed, following Brian out of the room. 

“It’s not all bad,” Brian said as they left. “I made tea.” 

“Is it cold?” 

Brian gave a frustrated sigh. “You would have to ask that...” 

It was the last thing they heard as the now-locked door to the rehearsal space shut behind their bandmates. 

“Took you so damned long to call me over,” Roger muttered, carefully yanking Freddie’s shirt off of him. “Absolutely killing, sitting there, waiting...” 

“You like me behind these?” 

Roger kissed him hard enough it felt it might bruise, and he took that to be a strong ‘yes’ as he worked to unbutton Roger’s jeans. 

“What do you think they’ll tell the producer we’re up to in here?” Roger asked with a glint of mischief in his eyes.

“I would think Brian might make something up,” Freddie said, slightly breathless at the feeling of Roger’s hands as they roamed over his skin. “But he seems to be in a mood today, so they’ll probably both say it outright, that we’re fucking.” 

Roger nodded. “Fussy today, aren’t they?” 

“No more than usual,” Freddie replied. “You know they’re out in the next room, or the kitchen, commiserating over how irritating it is that we just had to fuck in here.” 

“We did have to though,” Roger smiled, standing to yank off his jeans and to let Freddie up and out of his. “Be too much work to drag the whole kit into a different room so we could fuck behind it, on it, however we manage this.” 

And that was the question, now. They had lube and condoms (”Why hidden near the timpani, Rog?” “Why not?”), their clothes off and on the floor, and each other, but getting down to it comfortably and with minimal risk to the drums was the biggest concern. 

“Move the cymbals,” Roger instructed as he leaned gently against the drums, testing his weight on them. “I’ll smack my head otherwise.” 

“You don’t want to let the others know when you come? I think they’d appreciate it, sort of a dinner bell, letting them know they can come back in...” 

Roger laughed as he watched Freddie move the cymbals away, as well as the throne. “We’d still be naked and in the middle of it, I don’t think they’d much appreciate rushing in here to see that.” 

“They don’t know what they’re missing out on,” Freddie said, and tossed the lube to Roger after putting on the condom and slicking up his cock. “Especially now.” 

It wasn’t just the fact that it was an incredibly intimate thing being done in a space aside from their bedroom, or that Roger loved to tease him by whining as if he couldn’t bear another moment without being touched (while refusing to let Freddie get in more than a quick grope.) There was something added to it, with Roger working himself open, leaning carefully back against the drum set. 

It made it hard to take any of it slowly, which was how he ended up on his knees in front of Roger, mouth open and tongue out as obscenely as he could make it look. 

“You’re something else,” Roger smiled, and paused his work to stand so Freddie could suck his cock. He wound a hand gently into Freddie’s curls. “I thought this would be a quick fuck, and here you are, spoiling me.” 

He hummed his agreement around Roger’s cock, and smiled inside at the moan it earned him. 

“Still,” Roger managed after another few moments. “Don’t want to keep them waiting too long.” 

“You can admit you can’t wait any longer for it,” Freddie smirked, standing as Roger turned and bent himself over a few of the drums. “Be careful now, I don’t want to push them over, and you with them.” 

“You going to fuck me that hard?” Roger teased, leaning back to give him a quick kiss as Freddie slipped inside him. 

“I would tell you yes,” Freddie replied, resisting the urge to move, instead staying as still as possible until Roger started to whine. “But they are fairly expensive to replace-” 

“As am I,” Roger interrupted with a happy sigh as Freddie finally moved his hips. 

“As are you,” Freddie agreed. “We could make up for it later tonight? We’ve got the day off tomorrow. Could take turns tonight with each other, leaving marks, making each other sore, wearing each other out...” 

Roger was able to give him a nod, but not much more in the moment, rightfully focused on the moment itself. 

The door handle rattled once, and he took it as a sign of ‘hurry the fuck up.’ Though whether it had come from Brian, John, the producer or all three was a mystery. 

That was fine though, because holding out any longer wasn’t going to happen anyway. 

Roger leaned up and back, and the change in angle was enough to leave him shuddering hard, fingers grasping Roger’s hips tightly, cock pulsing. 

Roger was right behind him, coming hard onto one of the drums with a loud whine. 

They paused for a moment right after, and looked at each other. 

“Interesting,” Roger said, slightly out of breath. “Not a loud noise, but-” 

“Different,” Freddie agreed. “You don’t think, if we asked John and Brian, they would let us use it...” 

He slipped out of Roger, arms still holding him loosely about the hips, and they considered it for a moment before breaking into giggles. 

“Can you imagine?” Freddie laughed. “Telling them we need to record one of us...” 

“God and all over a drum too, for how many takes,” Roger added. “As it is, I wonder how much damage that is to it...I should clean that right away, probably.” 

Freddie nodded, and gave Roger one last lingering, sweet kiss before letting him go. “You clean yourself and the drum, I’ll clean myself up, and then we’ll tell them they can come back in here?” 

“Yeah,” Roger replied. “As it is, wonder how much they heard.” 

“We heard enough!” John’s voice, slightly muted, came through the door, and they were in stitches again. 

“We’d best hurry,” Freddie smiled, but he didn’t rush off when Roger reached for him again, for another kiss. 

That settled it. They would definitely have to make up for it that night. And pity their neighbors, and the even-less-soundproofed walls of their flat. 

[readbookywooks]

This is the bright candlelit room where the life-timers are stored – shelf upon shelf of them, squat hourglasses, one for every living person, pouring their fine sand from the future into the past. The accumulated hiss of the falling grains makes the room roar like the sea. This is the owner of the room, stalking through it with a preoccupied air. His name is Death. But not any Death. This is the Death whose particular sphere of operations is, well, not a sphere at all, but the Discworld, which is flat and rides on the back of four giant elephants who stand on the shell of the enormous star turtle Great A'Tuin, and which is bounded by a waterfall that cascades endlessly into space. Scientists have calculated that the chance of anything so patently absurd actually existing are millions to one. But magicians have calculated that million-to-one chances crop up nine times out of ten. Death clicks across the black and white tiled floor on toes of bone, muttering inside his cowl as his skeletal fingers count along the rows of busy hourglasses. Finally he finds one that seems to satisfy him, lifts it carefully from its shelf and carries it across to the nearest candle. He holds it so that the light lints off it, and stares at the little point of reflected brilliance. The steady gaze from those twinkling eye-sockets encompasses the world turtle, sculling through the deeps of space, carapace scarred by comets and pitted by meteors. One day even Great A'Tuin will die, Death knows; now, that would be a challenge. But the focus of his gaze dives onwards towards the blue-green magnificence of the Disc itself, turning slowly under its tiny orbiting sun. Now it curves away towards the great mountain range called the Ramtops. The Ramtops are full of deep valleys and unexpected crags and considerably more geography than they know what to do with. They have their own peculiar weather, full of shrapnel rain and whiplash winds and permanent thunder-storms. Some people say it's all because the Ramtops are the home of old, wild magic. Mind you, some people will say anything. Death blinks, adjusts for depth of vision. Now he sees the grassy country on the turnwise slopes of the mountains. Now he sees a particular hillside. Now he sees a field. Now he sees a boy, running. Now he watches. Now, in a voice like lead slabs being dropped on granite, he says: YES. There was no doubt that there was something magical in the soil of that hilly, broken area which – because of the strange tint that it gave to the local flora – was known as the octarine grass country. For example, it was one of the few places on the Disc where plants produced reannual varieties. Reannuals are plants that grow backwards in time. You sow the seed this year and they grow last year. Mort's family specialised in distilling the wine from reannual grapes. These were very powerful and much sought after by fortune-tellers, since of course they enabled them to see the future. The only snag was that you got the hangover the morning before, and had to drink a lot to get over it. Reannual growers tended to be big, serious men, much given to introspection and close examination of the calendar. A farmer who neglects to sow ordinary seeds only loses the crop, whereas anyone who forgets to sow seeds of a crop that has already been harvested twelve months before risks disturbing the entire fabric of causality, not to mention acute embarrassment. It was also acutely embarrassing to Mort's family that the youngest son was not at all serious and had about the same talent for horticulture that you would find in a dead starfish. It wasn't that he was unhelpful, but he had the land of vague, cheerful helpfulness that serious men soon learn to dread. There was something infectious, possibly even fatal, about it. He was tall, red-haired and freckled, with the sort of body that seems to be only marginally under its owner's control; it appeared to have been built out of knees. On this particular day it was hurtling across the high fields, waving its hands and yelling. Mort's father and uncle watched it disconsolately from the stone wall. 'What I don't understand,' said father Lezek, 'is that the birds don't even fly away. I'd fly away, if I saw it coining towards me.' 'Ah. The human body's a wonderful thing. I mean, his legs go all over the place but there's a fair turn of speed there.' Mort reached the end of a furrow. An overfull woodpigeon lurched slowly out of his way. 'His heart's in the right place, mind,' said Lezek, carefully. 'Ah. 'Course, 'tis the rest of him that isn't.' 'He's clean about the house. Doesn't eat much,' said Lezek. 'No, I can see that.' Lezek looked sideways at his brother, who was staring fixedly at the sky. 'I did hear you'd got a place going up at your farm, Hamesh,' he said. 'Ah. Got an apprentice in, didn't I?' 'Ah,' said Lezek gloomily, 'when was that, then?' 'Yesterday,' said his brother, lying with rattlesnake speed. 'All signed and sealed. Sorry. Look, I got nothing against young Mort, see, he's as nice a boy as you could wish to meet, it's just that —' 'I know, I know,' said Lezek. 'He couldn't find his arse with both hands.' They stared at the distant figure. It had fallen over. Some pigeons had waddled over to inspect it. 'He's not stupid, mind,' said Hamesh. 'Not what you'd call stupid.' 'There's a brain there all right,' Lezek conceded. 'Sometimes he starts thinking so hard you has to hit him round the head to get his attention. His granny taught him to read, see. I reckon it overheated his mind.' Mort had got up and tripped over his robe. 'You ought to set him to a trade,' said Hamesh, reflectively. 'The priesthood, maybe. Or wizardry. They do a lot of reading, wizards.' They looked at each other. Into both their minds stole an inkling of what Mort might be capable of if he got his well-meaning hands on a book of magic. 'All right,' said Hamesh hurriedly. 'Something else, then. There must be lots of things he could turn his hand to.' 'He starts thinking too much, that's the trouble,' said Lezek. 'Look at him now. You don't think about how to scare birds, you just does it. A normal boy, I mean.' Hamesh scratched his chin thoughtfully. 'It could be someone else's problem,' he said. Lezek's expression did not alter, but there was a subtle change around his eyes. 'How do you mean?' he said. 'There's the hiring fair at Sheepridge next week. You set him as a prentice, see, and his new master'll have the job of knocking him into shape. 'Tis the law. Get him indentured, and 'tis binding.' Lezek looked across the field at his son, who was examining a rock. 'I wouldn't want anything to happen to him, mind,' he said doubtfully. 'We're quite fond of him, his mother and me. You get used to people.' 'It'd be for his own good, you'll see. Make a man of him.' 'Ah. Well. There's certainly plenty of raw material,' sighed Lezek. Mort was getting interested in the rock. It had curly shells in it, relics of the early days of the world when the Creator had made creatures out of stone, no-one knew why. Mort was interested in lots of things. Why people's teeth fitted together so neatly, for example. He'd given that one a lot of thought. Then there was the puzzle of why the sun came out during the day, instead of at night when the light would come in useful. He knew the standard explanation, which somehow didn't seem satisfying. In short, Mort was one of those people who are more dangerous than a bag full of rattlesnakes. He was determined to discover the underlying logic behind the universe. Which was going to be hard, because there wasn't one. The Creator had a lot of remarkably good ideas when he put the world together, but making it understandable hadn't been one of them. Tragic heroes always moan when the gods take an interest in them, but it's the people the gods ignore who get the really tough deals. His father was yelling at him, as usual. Mort threw the rock at a pigeon, which was almost too full to lurch out of the way, and wandered back across the field. And that was why Mort and his father walked down through the mountains into Sheepridge on Hogswatch Eve, with Mort's rather sparse possessions in a sack on the back of a donkey. The town wasn't much more than four sides to a cobbled square, lined with shops that provided all the service industry of the farming community. After five minutes Mort came out of the tailors wearing a loose fitting brown garment of imprecise function, which had been understandably unclaimed by a previous owner and had plenty of room for him to grow, on the assumption that he would grow into a nineteen-legged elephant. His father regarded him critically. 'Very nice,' he said, 'for the money.' 'It itches,' said Mort. 'I think there's things in here with me.' There's thousands of lads in the world'd be very thankful for a nice warm —' Lezek paused, and gave up – 'garment like that, my lad.' 'I could share it with them?' Mort said hopefully. 'You've got to look smart,' said Lezek severely. 'You've got to make an impression, stand out in the crowd.' There was no doubt about it. He would. They set out among the throng crowding the square, each listening to his own thoughts. Usually Mort enjoyed visiting the town, with its cosmopolitan atmosphere and strange dialects from villages as far away as five, even ten miles, but this time he felt unpleasantly apprehensive, as if he could remember something that hadn't happened yet. The fair seemed to work like this: men looking for work stood in ragged lines in the centre of the square. Many of them sported little symbols in their hats to tell the world the kind of work they were trained in – shepherds wore a wisp of wool, carters a hank of horsehair, interior decorators a strip of rather interesting hessian wallcovering, and so on. The boys seeking apprenticeships were clustered on the Hub side of the square. 'You just go and stand there, and someone comes and offers you an apprenticeship,' said Lezek, his voice trimmed with uncertainty. 'If they like the look of you, that is.' 'How do they do that?' said Mort. 'Well,' said Lezek, and paused. Hamesh hadn't explained about this bit. He drew on his limited knowledge of the marketplace, which was restricted to livestock sales, and ventured, 'I suppose they count your teeth and that. And make sure you don't wheeze and your feet are all right. I shouldn't let on about the reading, it unsettles people.' 'And then what?' said Mort. 'Then you go and learn a trade,' said Lezek. 'What trade in particular?' 'Well . . . carpentry is a good one,' Lezek hazarded. 'Or thievery. Someone's got to do it.' Mort looked at his feet. He was a dutiful son, when he remembered, and if being an apprentice was what was expected of him then he was determined to be a good one. Carpentry didn't sound very promising, though – wood had a stubborn life of its own, and a tendency to split. And official thieves were rare in the Ramtops, where people weren't rich enough to afford them. 'All right,' he said eventually, 'I'll go and give it a try. But what happens if I don't get prenticed?' Lezek scratched his head. 'I don't know,' he said. 'I expect you just wait until the end of the fair. At midnight. I suppose.' And now midnight approached. A light frost began to crisp the cobblestones. In the ornamental clock tower that overlooked the square a couple of delicately-carved little automatons whirred out of trapdoors in the clockface and struck the quarter hour. Fifteen minutes to midnight. Mort shivered, but the crimson fires of shame and stubbornness flared up inside him, hotter than the slopes of Hell. He blew on his fingers for something to do and stared up at the freezing sky, trying to avoid the stares of the few stragglers among what remained of the fair. 

[readbookywooks]

So the more typical method was to be sponsored by a senior and respected wizard, after a suitable period of apprenticeship. Competition was stiff for a University place and the honour and privileges an Unseen degree could bring. Many of the boys milling around the hall, and launching minor spells at each other, would fail and have to spend their lives as lowly magicians, mere magical technologists with defiant beards and leather patches on their elbows who congregated in small jealous groups at parties. Not for them the coveted pointy hat with optional astrological symbols, or the impressive robes, or the staff of authority. But at least they could look down on conjurers, who tended to be jolly and fat and inclined to drop their aitches and drink beer and go around with sad thin women in spangly tights and really infuriate magicians by not realising how lowly they were and kept telling them jokes. Lowliest of all - apart from witches, of course - were thaumaturgists, who never got any schooling at all. A thaumaturgist could just about be trusted to wash out an alembic. Many spells required things like mould from a corpse dead of crushing, or the semen of a living tiger, or the root of a plant that gave an ultrasonic scream when it was uprooted. Who was sent to get them? Right. It is a common error to refer to the lower magical ranks as hedge wizards. In fact hedge wizardry is a very honoured and specialised form of magic that attracts silent, thoughtful men of the druidical persuasion and topiaric inclinations. If you invited a hedge wizard to a party he would spend half the evening talking to your potted plant. And he would spend the other half listening. Esk noticed that there were some women in the hall, because even young wizards had mothers and sisters. Whole families had turned up to bid the favoured sons farewell. There was a considerable blowing of noses, wiping of tears and the clink of coins as proud fathers tucked a little spending money into their offspring's hands. Very senior wizards were perambulating among the crowds, talking to the sponsoring wizards and examining the prospective students. Several of them pushed through the throng to meet Treatle, moving like gold-trimmed galleons under full sail. They bowed gravely to him and looked approvingly at Simon. “This is young Simon, is it?” said the fattest of them, beaming at the boy. “We've heard great reports of you, young man. Eh? What?” “Simon, bow to Archchancellor Cutangle, Archmage of the Wizards of the Silver Star,” said Treatle. Simon bowed apprehensively. Cutangle looked at him benevolently. “We've heard great things about you, my boy,” he said. “All this mountain air must be good for the brain, eh?” He laughed. The wizards around him laughed. Treatle laughed. Which Esk thought was rather funny, because there wasn't anything particularly amusing happening. “I ddddon't know, ssss-” “From what we hear it must be the only thing you don't know, lad!” said Cutangle, his jowls waggling. There was another carefully timed bout of laughter. Cutangle patted Simon on the shoulder. “This is the scholarship boy,” he said. “Quite astounding results, never seen better. Self-taught, too. Astonishing, what? Isn't that so, Treatle?” “Superb, Archchancellor.” Cutangle looked around at the watching wizards. “Perhaps you could give us a sample,” he said. “A little demonstration, perhaps?” Simon looked at him in animal panic. “A-actually I'm not very g-g-g-” “Now, now,” said Cutangle, in what he probably really did think was an encouraging tone of voice. “Do not be afraid. Take your time. When you are ready.” Simon licked his dry lips and gave Treatle a look of mute appeal. “Um,” he said, “y-you s-s-s-s-.” He stopped and swallowed hard. “The f-f-f-f-” His eyes bulged. The tears streamed from his eyes, and his shoulders heaved. Treatle patted him reassuringly on the back. “Hayfever,” he explained. “Don't seem to be able to cure it. Tried everything.” Simon swallowed, and nodded. He waved Treatle away with his long white hands and closed his eyes. For a few seconds nothing happened. He stood with his lips moving soundlessly, and then silence spread out from him like candlelight. Ripples of noiselessness washed across the crowds in the hall, striking the walls with all the force of a blown kiss and then curling back in waves. People watched their companions mouthing silently and then went red with effort when their own laughter was as audible as a gnat's squeak. Tiny motes of light winked into existence around his head. They whirled and spiralled in a complex three-dimensional dance, and then formed a shape. In fact it seemed to Esk that the shape had been there all the time, waiting for her eyes to see it, in the same way that a perfectly innocent cloud can suddenly become, without changing in any way, a whale or a ship or a face. The shape around Simon's head was the world. That was quite clear, although the glitter and rush of the little lights blurred some of the detail. But there was Great A'Tuin the sky turtle, with the four Elephants on its back, and on them the Disc itself. There was the sparkle of the great waterfall around the edge of the world, and there at the very hub a tiny needle of rock that was the great mountain Cori Celesti, where the gods lived. The image expanded and homed in on the Circle Sea and then on Ankh itself, the little lights flowing away from Simon and winking out of existence a few feet from his head. Now they showed the city from the air, rushing towards the watchers. There was the University itself, growing larger. There was the Great Hall - there were the people, watching silent and open-mouthed, and Simon himself, outlined in specks of silver light. And a tiny sparkling image in the air around him, and that image contained an image and another and another There was a feeling that the universe had been turned inside out in all dimensions at once. It was a bloated, swollen sensation. It sounded as though the whole world had said “gloop”. The walls faded. So did the floor. The paintings of former great mages, all scrolls and beards and slightly constipated frowns, vanished. The tiles underfoot, a rather nice black and white pattern, evaporated - to be replaced by fine sand, grey as moonlight and cold as ice. Strange and unexpected stars glittered overhead; on the horizon were low hills, eroded not by wind or rain in this weatherless place but by the soft sandpaper of Time itself. No one else seemed to have noticed. No one else, in fact, seemed alive. Esk was surrounded by people as still and silent as statues. And they weren't alone. There were other-Things-behind them, and more were appearing all the time. They had no shape, or rather they seemed to be taking their shapes at random from a variety of creatures; they gave the impression that they had heard about arms and legs and jaws and claws and organs but didn't really know how they all fitted together. Or didn't care. Or were so hungry they hadn't bothered to find out. They made a sound like a swarm of flies. They were the creatures out of her dreams, come to feed on magic. She knew they weren't interested in her now, except in the nature of an after-dinner mint. Their whole concentration was focused on Simon, who was totally unaware of their presence. Esk kicked him smartly on the ankle. The cold desert vanished. The real world rushed back. Simon opened his eyes, smiled faintly, and gently fell backwards into Esk's arms. A buzz went up from the wizards, and several of them started to clap. No one seemed to have noticed anything odd, apart from the silver lights. Cutangle shook himself, and raised a hand to quell the crowd. “Quite - astonishing,” he said to Treatle. “You say he worked it out all by himself?” “Indeed, lord.” “No one helped him at all?” “There was no one to help him,” said Treatle. “He was just wandering from village to village, doing small spells. But only if people paid him in books or paper.” Cutangle nodded. “It was no illusion,” he said, “yet he didn't use his hands. What was he saying to himself? Do you know?” “He says it's just words to make his mind work properly,” said Treatle, and shrugged. “I can't understand half of what he says and that's a fact. He says he's having to invent words because there aren't any for the things he's doing.” Cutangle glanced sideways at his fellow mages. They nodded. “It will be an honour to admit him to the University,” he said. “Perhaps you would tell him so when he wakes up.” He felt a tugging at his robe, and looked down. “Excuse me,” said Esk. “Hallo, young lady,” said Cutangle, in a sugarmouse voice. “Have you come to see your brother enter the University?” “He's not my brother,” said Esk. There were times when the world had seemed to be full of brothers, but this wasn't one of them. “Are you important?” she said. Cutangle looked at his colleagues, and beamed. There were fashions in wizardry, just like anything else; sometimes wizards were thin and gaunt and talked to animals (the animals didn't listen, but it's the thought that counts) while at other times they tended towards the dark and saturnine, with little black pointed beards. Currently Aldermanic was in. Cutangle swelled with modesty. “Quite important,” he said. “One does one's best in the service of one's fellow man. Yes. Quite important, I would say.” “I want to be a wizard,” said Esk. The lesser wizards behind Cutangle stared at her as if she was a new and interesting kind of beetle. Cutangle's face went red and his eyes bulged. He looked down at Esk and seemed to be holding his breath. Then he started to laugh. It started somewhere down in his extensive stomach regions and worked its way up, echoing from rib to rib and causing minor wizardquakes across his chest until it burst forth in a series of strangled snorts. It was quite fascinating to watch, that laugh. It had a personality all of its own. But he stopped when he saw Esk's stare. If the laugh was a music hall clown then Esk's determined squint was a whitewash bucket on a fast trajectory. “A wizard?” he said; “You want to be a wizard?” “Yes,” said Esk, pushing the dazed Simon into Trestle's reluctant arms. “I'm the eighth son of an eighth son. I mean daughter.” The wizards around her were looking at one another and whispering. Esk tried to ignore them. “What did she say?” “Is she serious?” “I always think children are so delightful at that age, don't you?” “You're the eighth son of an eighth daughter?” said Cutangle. “Really?” “The other way around, only not exactly,” said Esk, defiantly. Cutangle dabbed his eyes with a handkerchief. “This is quite fascinating,” he said. “I don't think I've ever heard of something quite like this before. Eh?” He looked around at his growing audience. The people at the back couldn't see Esk and were craning to check if some interesting magic was going on. Cutangle was at a loss. “Well, now,” he said. “You want to be a wizard?” “I keep telling everyone but no one seems to listen,” said Esk.