The room smelled of wood smoke.

It always had. He'd noticed it the first time he'd stood there, five years before, and it had been the same every time since. He had no idea why. So far as he knew, no fire had ever been lit in the Grand Assembly Hall of Lexandria University, and he couldn't think of any reason why it would be, but the smell was there even so, just enough to be at the edge of awareness.

The young apprentice wizard, Thomas Gown by name, was standing perfectly still on the finely tiled floor that had been worn smooth by centuries of young, sandaled feet. He stood among the one hundred and forty six other students in his year, standing in three rows like soldiers on parade. They were all wearing the plain white robes of apprentice wizards, except for two nomes standing a few places beside him wearing droopy conical hats and whose robes were trimmed with the grey and gold of the school of illusionism. For some reason, known to no-one except the Gods, illusionism and divination were the only kinds of magic that nomes were able to use.

The hall arched high above them like a vast gothic cathedral, susurrating gently with the sound of soft breathing and the occasional soft rustle of clothing as the chamber's superb acoustics magnified every tiniest movement of the apprentices. The beams and arches that supported the high vaulted ceiling were carved with the shapes of trailing vines and hideous gargoyles, and sunlight streamed in through the three giant stained glass windows high up in the eastern wall. The six windows, three on each side, depicted wizards of each of the six schools of magic, and these schools were also celebrated by a marble carving at the end of the hall, above the stage on which were set the twelve chairs of the University's senior staff. The six heads of schools, the five heads of years, and the Director, who ruled and coordinated them all. His chair was the most ornate of all, but they were all heavily decorated, to reflect the station of the person who sat there. At this time, however, they were all empty. The students had the hall all to themselves.

Thomas felt the hall pressing down on him, making him feel like a tiny insect on the floor of a giant's castle, horribly exposed and vulnerable to being trodden on and crushed. It was supposed to have that effect, of course. It had been designed to be imposing and intimidating by the wizards who had founded the University some five thousand years before. The ability to draw the magic force into one's body, refine and condense it and then use it to perform acts that could seem miraculous to ordinary people sometimes made wizards feel like giants or gods, and if those illusions were allowed to persist the common people would begin to see them as enemies, people to be feared and hated. Wizardry had come close to extinction once before when those who could use magic had lost the trust and tolerance of the common people, and one of the functions of the University was to ensure that that never happened again. The Grand Assembly Hall towered over the students, therefore, impressing them with their smallness and insignificance, crushing all trace of arrogance and superiority out of them while they were young, so that they'd remember it all their lives.

The vast majority of the apprentices were human, with about two thirds of these being young men. The two nomes stood side by side within their ranks, accepted unquestioningly as colleagues despite being no larger than children, but the six pure blooded shae folk stood a little way apart, to one side. Both they and humans were still uncomfortable with each others' presence despite the years of enforced intimacy they'd experienced during their training. The four half breeds, living proof that the two species did sometimes get along, stood between them like a living buffer zone. There were no trogs, though. The fourth of the four civilised races were incapable of using any kind of magic, and so the only trogs ever seen in the University grounds were contract workers brought in to repair the ageing buildings, the massively built humanoids being stoneworkers of unsurpassed skill.

All the apprentices had completed at least five years of grueling training, during which half of the original three hundred entrants of the year had either given up and dropped out or been judged unready for the test and held back for a year. The survivors were now awaiting the much dreaded test that they had to pass in order to become fully fledged wizards. The test that had, in fact, begun the moment they'd filed into this room nearly three hours before, fearfully silent as they contemplated the whispered rumours of what awaited them.

Inside a much smaller room, separated from the assembly hall by a wall of black marble upon which was inscribed the names of all those former students who had been awarded the much coveted order of merit for outstanding contributions to wizardry, were two high ranking wizards. Tragius Demonbinder, who wore the silver and black robes of the school of Conjuration, and the head of the fifth year, Rogin Rastellin, who wore the dull grey robes of one who had chosen to remain unspecialized, uncommitted to any particular school. They watched the apprentices through the marble wall, which was transparent from their side, waiting for one of them to make an illegal movement.

Wizards were trained from the very first to be able to stand perfectly still for long periods of time, this being essential in the participation of certain powerful rites and ceremonies. Rituals that only the very most powerful wizards would dare to attempt but which younger wizards might be called upon to help with. The spells used were so delicate that the slightest wrong move from either the master or his assistant could allow the powerful energies being used to break loose, killing both of them and possibly causing untold damage to surrounding areas. The only sure way to avoid this was to keep absolutely motionless when not actively participating in the spell. They were allowed only to blink, look around with their eyes without moving their heads, swallow, and shift their weight slowly from foot to foot to help their circulation and ease the cramp. If they itched, or felt a cough coming on, they just had to try to ignore it, as they also had to ignore the sudden loud noises conjured up at intervals, sounding natural so as not to arouse the suspicions of the students. The crash of someone in a nearby room dropping a pile of books, or a loud argument between two angry men.

At the end of the third hour, Tragius finally allowed himself a grunt of satisfaction. "Your staff trained them well, Rogin. Better than that lot last year."

The other senior wizard nodded. "All that work put into them. And how many will still be alive a year from now?"

"Do you regret it?" asked Tragius, "All that time kept away from your own studies?"

"You know me better than that. Even if only a handful grow up to be senior wizards and spreads the word about what a great place this is... When I think of all those inept amateurs out there, training their own apprentices to make the same mistakes they do..."

Tragius nodded. "Yes, and they still outnumber us by nearly three to one." He sighed, shaking his head. "How can we still be so far from our goal after more than two thousand years?"

"The world is too big, they are too many, and we are too few. We're already doing the only thing we can, teaching as many as possible to do it properly. Come on, let's go and put them out of their misery."

The door took them out into the corridor, and then they had to enter the hall not by the first door they came to, which only the Director himself was allowed to use, and only for the weekly assemblies, but by the second door, fifteen feet further on. As they entered the hall, one hundred and forty seven pairs of eyes turned towards them, but not one single head moved. Through the open door came the sound of third year students hurrying along the corridor to their next class, but the sound was shut off sharply as the door closed behind them on its oiled, sprung hinges.

The two senior wizards climbed the three steps to the stage, their footsteps echoing like gunshots, and took places behind the podium, the place where the Director stood to make announcements and give speeches to the assembled staff and apprentices at the start of every new week. The spot was illuminated by a slanting shaft of light, made visible by a million dancing motes of dust, that shone in through a skylight hidden amongst all the gothic splendour of the ceiling. It made him a creature of golden radiance, and every apprentice stared in awe and wonder.

Tragius Demonbinder was more than just a wizard to them. He was a legend! Everyone had heard the tales of his exploits, his victories against the forces of evil in the days of his youth. He had been a member of a dozen armies, fought for a dozen different nations, not as a paid mercenary, although there were some warrior wizards who earned their living that way, but as a champion of law and justice, offering his services wherever they were needed. So great had his reputation grown that the merest rumour of his coming was often enough to make an ambitious warlord think twice, and even now, retired and passing on his skills to the next generation, the name of Tragius Demonbinder was enough to strike terror into young hearts.

Tragius paused for the required forty seven seconds, counting softly under his breath and trying to curb his irritation at the endless rules and traditions that regulated every smallest facet of University life. It was said that Lexandros himself, the legendary founder of the University, had always paused this long before the podium before speaking, and so every speaker after him had to do the same. He resisted the temptation to cut the interval short. There was bound to be a proctor out in the corridor listening in, and he wasn't in the mood for a lecture from the Master of Ceremonies. He continued counting, therefore, while studying the assembled students with a critical eye, until the time had finally elapsed. "Stand easy," he then said, and his voice echoed out across the hall, transformed by the acoustics of the precisely designed chamber into a sound that could have issued from the throat of a great bronze colossus. The apprentices gave a collective sigh of relief as they stretched, scratched and swung their arms around, glad to be able to move again, until Tragius tapped a wand against the podium to get their attention, glaring down at them with cold, cruel eyes. He waited until everyone was still and silent before he spoke again.