Two hundred and eight-seven cycles. He stopped what he was doing, hand poised above the parchment. His gaze, alert as ever, took in his creased and blotchy skin, then roved over the jumble of cupboards, cabinets, and bookshelves in search of a mirror. At length his blue eyes came to rest on the shiny surface of a vase.

He appraised the reflection: wrinkled face, gray hair with white streaks, and a graying beard dotted with smudges of ink. There's no denying I'm older, but am I wiser? That's the question…

His beige robes had been darned and patched a thousand times, but he refused to be parted from them. Unlike some of his fellow magi, he took no interest in his appearance, caring only that his garments were comfortable to wear.

In one important respect the old scholar agreed with the common people: Magic was a dangerous thing. To minimize the fallout from failed experiments, he pursued his studies in the safety of the vaults.

Of course, the magus's motives for retreating below the surface were not entirely selfless. In the calm of the vaults he could forget about his fellow humans and their trivial concerns. He delegated the running of the realm and the settling of minor disputes to his magisters, functionaries picked expressly for the job.

The enchanted realm of Ionandar stretched across the southeastern corner of Girdlegard, covering parts of Gauragar and Idoslane, its borders defined by a magic force field, one of six in total. Certain regions of Girdlegard were invested with an energy that could be channeled into living beings, as the very first wizards had learned. Once transferred to a human, the energy became finite, but a person could renew his store of magic by returning to the field. No sooner had the magi made this discovery than they seized the land, divided it into six enchanted realms, and defended the territory against existing monarchs who had no weapons to match their magic powers. Generations of rulers had been forced to accept that swathes of their kingdoms were under foreign rule.

The force fields were the key to the magi's power. The six wizards' skills and knowledge had increased over time and now their formulae, runes, and spells were capable of working great beauty, terror, and good.

Keep your mind on the formula, he chided himself. Carefully wiping the tip of his goose quill against the inkwell, he lowered it to the parchment and traced a symbol slowly on the sheet: the element of fire. Every flourish of the quill was vitally important; a second of inattention would ruin all his work.

His diligence paid off. Satisfied, he rose to his feet.

"Well, old boy, you've done it," he murmured in relief. The formula was complete. If the sequence of runes worked as he intended, he would be able to detect the presence of magic in people, creatures, or objects. But before he put the theory into practice, it was time for a little reward.

Lot-Ionan shuffled to one of his cabinets, the oldest of a timeworn lot, and removed a bottle from the third shelf. He glanced at the skull on the label and took a long swig.

The liquid was not poisonous, in spite of the warning symbol. Experience had taught him that it was the most effective way of preventing his finest brandy from disappearing into thirsty students' throats. The precaution was by no means unwarranted: Some of his apprentices, especially the older ones, were only too partial to a drop of good liquor. Lot-Ionan was prepared to share his learning but not his precious drink. He had run out of barrels of this particular vintage, so the bottle was worth protecting.

Just then a powerful explosion rocked the walls of his underground chamber. Fragments of stone rained down from the ceiling and landed on his desk, while phials and jars jangled in the cabinets, bouncing so violently that their stoppers struck the shelves above. Everything in the higgledy-piggledy study rattled and shook.

The magus froze in horror. The open inkwell was dancing up and down on his desk, tilting farther and farther until…Lot-Ionan's hastily uttered incantation came too late. Ink poured over the precious manuscript and his lovingly drawn runes were drowned in a viscous black tide.

For a second Lot-Ionan was rooted. "What in the name of Palandiell was that?" His kindly face hardened as he divined the origin of the bang. Gulping down the remains of his brandy, he turned sharply and strode from the room.

He raced through the shadowy galleries, practically flying past doorways and passageways, his fury at his wasted efforts increasing with every step.

By the time he reached the laboratory, he was seething with rage. Half a dozen famuli were talking in hushed voices outside the door, through which strange noises could be heard. They were evidently too afraid to go in.

"There you are, Estimable Magus," Jolosin began respectfully. "What a calamity! We got here too late. The dwarf slipped into the laboratory and before we could-"

"Out of my way!" Lot-Ionan barked angrily and unbolted the door.

The devastation could scarcely have been more complete if a mob of lunatic alchemists had rioted inside his precious laboratory. Equipment was floating through the air while small fires flared and spluttered at intervals throughout the room. The shelves dripped with valuable elixirs that had burst from the phials and formed foul-smelling pools on the floor.

Huddled in the corner behind an upturned cauldron was the culprit. His fingers were in his ears and his eyes were closed tightly. Despite his singed hair and scorched beard, there could be no mistaking who he was: Tungdil Bolofar.

There was another loud bang. Blue sparks shot through the air, missing the magus by a hairbreadth.

"Explain yourself, Tungdil!" Lot-Ionan thundered furiously. The dwarf, who evidently couldn't hear him, said nothing. "I'm talking to you, Tungdil Bolofar!" the magus bellowed as loudly as he could.

Looking up in surprise, the dwarf saw the lean wizard looming menacingly above him. He struggled out from behind the cauldron.

"This wasn't my doing, Estimable Magus," he said firmly. He shot an accusing glance at Jolosin, who was standing in the doorway with his pupils, doing his best to look surprised. Lot-Ionan wheeled on him.

"Don't look at me!" protested Jolosin with exaggerated indignation. "I had nothing to do with it! You saw for yourself that the door was locked!"

"Silence, the pair of you!" For the first time in ten cycles, Lot-Ionan was in danger of losing his temper altogether. He surveyed the costly mess. "This feuding has to stop!" His ink-stained beard seemed to ripple with rage.

The dwarf had no intention of taking any of the blame. He planted his feet firmly on the ground. "It wasn't my fault," he said stubbornly.

The magus was visibly struggling to regain his equilibrium. He sat down on an iron-bound chest of wood and crossed his arms.

"Listen carefully, the pair of you. I'm not interested in hearing who was responsible for this disaster. Nothing, but nothing is more infuriating than being distracted from my work. Your explosion has cost me orbits, if not an entire cycle, of study, so forgive me for losing my patience. Enough is enough! I intend to restore peace to my school."

"Estimable Magus, you're not going to banish the dwarf, are you?" exclaimed Jolosin, trying to sound horrified.

"Enough! We'll discuss your part in this fiasco later, but first I need this nonsense to stop. The sooner we have peace in the vaults, the better!" He turned to Tungdil. "An old friend gave me the use of a few items and now he needs them back."

The dwarf braced himself. "You, my little helper, will run the errand for me. In one hour I shall expect you in my study, bag packed and ready to go. I'll give you the items then. Prepare yourself for a good long walk."

The dwarf bowed politely and hurried from the room. This was far better than he had expected. A journey on foot was scarcely a chore; the paths and lanes of Girdlegard were no challenge for his sturdy legs. I might meet a dwarf, he thought hopefully. If this is supposed to be a punishment, he can punish me some more.