“I am bound for Toravithranax,” she said. She had rehearsed it a hundred times, learning to say the words in the thick accent of the cold Bits that lay north of Calla. This was the first time she had spoken them directly to a stranger.

“And what is your business there?” inquired the Autochthon.

Prim and a score of other travelers were milling around before the north gate of Secondel, being looked at and interrogated by a few Autochthons who nudged their mounts about, approaching anyone who aroused their curiosity.

She tried to ignore this Autochthon’s mount, which was curiously shoving its huge nose into her pack, drawn no doubt by the scent of the apples. Instead she shielded her eyes with her hand—for the sun was very near the Autochthon’s head—and looked him in the eye as best she could.

“I have been sent into the south by my family to learn the art of writing from Pestle,” Prim said—meaning, as this Autochthon would understand, the Academy that Pestle had founded ages ago.

“Who’s to say they’ll have you?” asked the Autochthon, looking her up and down.

“If they won’t, I shall learn it from one of the lesser scribes who, it is said, have little schools around the verges of the great one.”

“And what is writing to your family, that they would send you so far to learn it?”

“We have three ships and much need of keeping records.”

The Autochthon still had her at a disadvantage, because of the angle of the sun, but she could only assume he was giving her a close look. “To the narrow gate,” he commanded, and then looked up at the top of the wall to be sure he had been understood by those who kept watch there. Prim followed his gaze and saw a row of helmets, strung bows, full quivers. Below were two gates: a wide one bestriding the road and affording passage for even the largest teams and wagons, and another just wide enough for a single soul on foot. The former gave way to the main waterfront street; the latter was merely a doorway into the ground floor of a building that lay inside the wall. How far that building might extend and what might go on in it she had no way of knowing. But several of those helmets were now inclined toward her and she knew she would not get far if she disobeyed. Glancing over her shoulder the way she’d come, she saw that going back was just as likely to draw unwanted notice and arrows between the shoulder blades. Not that she had any thought of doing so. To give up now was to fail in the Quest before it had really got started.

So she walked through it into a sort of antechamber, and then drew up short as she came face-to-face, for the first time in her life, with a Beedle.