Minor Mage

by T. Kingfisher

There is something about a group of people that is less than the sum of its parts.

Oliver found himself missing his mother. Not that you could admit that, not if you were a twelve-year-old boy—you might as well just give up completely at that point.

Fear was bad, fear and boredom together were practically unbearable.

A real wizard wouldn’t be huddled in a ditch wishing for his mother. (In this, at least, Oliver was dead wrong—many wizards over the ages, some of them very major mages indeed, have found themselves curled in ditches and wishing desperately for their mothers. But they tend not to mention these things in their memoirs.)

“You’re a cynical kid,” said Trebastion. “You make harps out of dead people,” said Oliver. “Yes, but I haven’t allowed it to taint my basic optimism.”

Well, that was the thing with humans. They liked to be around each other and cram themselves three or four in a den if they could, then cram their dens in together as close as house martin nests. Leave a human alone for too long and it would get weird and sad.

It turned out that there was a worse fate than being sent off on a suicide mission by a bunch of grown-ups. It was being sent off on a suicide mission by a bunch of grown-ups and not having other grown-ups believe you.

“Oh, herbs,” said the bandit, in the dismissive tone used by people who don’t know anything about herbs. (This is generally not a very wise thing to say, because people who do know about herbs may take offense, and you will then find your socks stuffed full of stinging nettles and your tea full of cascara, which is no less potent a laxative for being tree bark.)