The Accidental sorcerer

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The entrance to Stuttley's Superior Staff factory, Ottosland's premier staff manufacturer, was guarded by a glass-fronted booth and blocked by a red and blue boom gate. Inside the booth slumped a dyspeptic-looking security guard, dressed in a rumpled green and orange Stuttley's uniform. It didn't suit him. An ash-tipped cigarette drooped from the corner of his mouth and the half-eaten sardine sandwich in his hand leaked tomato sauce onto the floor. He was reading a crumpled, food-stained copy of the previous day's Ottosland Times.

After several long moments of not being noticed, Gerald fished out his official identification and pressed it flat to the window, right in front of the guard's face.

'Gerald Dunwoody. Department of Thaumaturgy. I'm here for a snap inspection.'

The guard didn't look up. 'izzat right? Nobody tole me.'

'Well, no,' said Gerald, after another moment. 'That's why we call it a "snap inspection". On account of it being a surprise.'

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