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Atuin

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The Forest of Skund was indeed enchanted, which was nothing unusual on the Disc, and was also the only forest in the whole universe to be called – in the local language – Your Finger You Fool, which was the literal meaning of the word Skund. The reason for this is regrettably all too common. When the first explorers from the warm lands around the Circle Sea travelled into the chilly hinterland they filled in the blank spaces on their maps by grabbing the nearest native, pointing at some distant landmark, speaking very clearly in a loud voice, and writing down whatever the bemused man told them. Thus were immortalized in generations of atlases such geographical oddities as Just A Mountain, I Don’t Know, What? and, of course, Your Finger You Fool. Rainclouds clustered around the bald heights of Mt. Oolskunrahod (‘Who is this Fool who does Not Know what a Mountain Is’) and the Luggage settled itself more comfortably under a dripping tree, which tried unsuccessfully to strike up a conversation. Twoflower and Rincewind were arguing. The person they were arguing about sat on his mushroom and watched them with interest. He looked like someone who smelled like someone who lived in a mushroom, and that bothered Twoflower. ‘Well, why hasn’t he got a red hat?’ Rincewind hesitated, desperately trying to imagine what Twoflower was getting at. ‘What?’ he said, giving in. ‘He should have a red hat,’ said Twoflower. ‘And he certainly ought to be cleaner and more, more sort of jolly. He doesn’t look like any sort of gnome to me. ’ ‘What are you going on about?’ ‘Look at that beard,’ said Twoflower sternly. ‘I’ve seen better beards on a piece of cheese. ’ ‘Look, he’s six inches high and lives in a mushroom,’ snarled Rincewind. ‘Of course he’s a bloody gnome. ’ ‘We’ve only got his word for it. ’ Rincewind looked down at the gnome. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. He took Twoflower to the other side of the clearing. ‘Listen,’ he said between his teeth. ‘If he was fifteen feet tall and said he was a giant we’d only have his word for that too, wouldn’t we?’ ‘He could be a goblin,’ said Twoflower defiantly. Rincewind looked back at the tiny figure, which was industriously picking its nose. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘So what? Gnome, goblin, pixie – so what?’ ‘Not a pixie,’ said Twoflower firmly. ‘Pixies, they wear these sort of green combinations and they have pointy caps and little knobbly antenna thingies sticking out of their heads. I’ve seen pictures. ’ ‘Where?’ Twoflower hesitated, and looked at his feet. ‘I think it was called the “mutter, mutter, mutter. ” ’ ‘The what? Called the what?’ The little man took a sudden interest in the backs of his hands. ‘ The Little Folks’ Book of Flower Fairies ,’ he muttered. Rincewind looked blank. ‘It’s a book on how to avoid them?’ he said. ‘Oh no,’ said Twoflower hurriedly. ‘It tells you where to look for them. I can remember the pictures now. ’ A dreamy look came over his face, and Rincewind groaned inwardly. ‘There was even a special fairy that came and took your teeth away. ’ ‘What, came and pulled out your actual teeth—?’ ‘No, no, you’re wrong. I mean after they’d fallen out, what you did was, you put the tooth under your pillow and the fairy came and took it away and left a rhinu piece. ’ ‘Why?’ ‘Why what?’ ‘Why did it collect teeth?’ ‘It just did. ’ Rincewind formed a mental picture of some strange entity living in a castle made of teeth. It was the kind of mental picture you tried to forget. Unsuccessfully. ‘Urgh,’ he said. Red hats! He wondered whether to enlighten the tourist about what life was really like when a frog was a good meal, a rabbit hole a useful place to shelter out of the rain, and an owl a drifting, silent terror in the night. Moleskin trousers sounded quaint unless you personally had to remove them from their original owner when the vicious little sod was cornered in his burrow. As for red hats, anyone who went around a forest looking bright and conspicuous would only do so very, very briefly. He wanted to say: look, the life of gnomes and goblins is nasty, brutish and short. So are they. He wanted to say all this, and couldn’t. For a man with an itch to see the whole of infinity, Twoflower never actually moved outside his own head. Telling him the truth would be like kicking a spaniel. ‘Swee whee weedle wheet,’ said a voice by his foot. He looked down. The gnome, who had introduced himself as Swires, looked up. Rincewind had a very good ear for languages. The gnome had just said, ‘I’ve got some newt sorbet left over from yesterday. ’ ‘Sounds wonderful,’ said Rincewind Swires gave him another prod in the ankle. ‘The other bigger, is he all right?’ he said solicitously. ‘He’s just suffering from reality shock,’ said Rincewind. ‘You haven’t got a red hat, by any chance?’ ‘Wheet?’ ‘Just a thought. ’ ‘I know where there’s some food for biggers,’ said the gnome, ‘and shelter, too. It’s not far. ’ Rincewind looked at the lowering sky. The daylight was draining out of the landscape and the clouds looked as if they had heard about snow and were considering the idea. Of course, people who lived in mushrooms couldn’t necessarily be trusted, but right now a trap baited with a hot meal and clean sheets would have had the wizard hammering to get in. They set off. After a few seconds the Luggage got carefully to its feet and started to follow. ‘Psst!’ It turned carefully, little legs moving in a complicated pattern, and appeared to look up. ‘Is it good, being joinery?’ said the tree, anxiously. ‘Did it hurt?’ The Luggage seemed to think about this. Every brass handle, every knothole, radiated extreme concentration. Then it shrugged its lid and waddled away. The tree sighed, and shook a few dead leaves out of its twigs. The cottage was small, tumbledown and as ornate as a doily. Some mad whittler had got to work on it, Rincewind decided, and had created terrible havoc before he could be dragged away. Every door, every shutter had its clusters of wooden grapes and half-moon cutouts, and there were massed outbreaks of fretwork pinecones all over the walls. He half expected a giant cuckoo to come hurtling out of an upper window. What he also noticed was the characteristic greasy feel in the air. Tiny green and purple sparks flashed from his fingernails. ‘Strong magical field,’ he muttered. ‘A hundred millithaums 2 at least. ’ ‘There’s magic all over the place,’ said Swires. ‘An old witch used to live around here. She went a long time ago but the magic still keeps the house going. ’ ‘Here, there’s something odd about that door,’ said Twoflower. ‘Why should a house need magic to keep it going?’ said Rincewind. Twoflower touched a wall gingerly. ‘It’s all sticky!’ ‘Nougat,’ said Swires. ‘Good grief! A real gingerbread cottage! Rincewind, a real—’ Rincewind nodded glumly. ‘Yeah, the Confectionery School of Architecture,’ he said. ‘It never caught on. ’ He looked suspiciously at the liquorice door-knocker. ‘It sort of regenerates,’ said Swires. ‘Marvellous, really. You just don’t get this sort of place nowadays, you just can’t get the gingerbread. ’ ‘Really?’ said Rincewind, gloomily. ‘Come on in,’ said the gnome, ‘but mind the doormat. ’ ‘Why?’ ‘Candyfloss. ’ The great Disc spun slowly under its toiling sun, and daylight pooled in hollows and finally drained away as night fell. In his chilly room in Unseen University, Trymon pored over the book, his lips moving as his finger traced the unfamiliar, ancient script. He read that the Great Pyramid of Tsort, now long vanished, was made of one million, three thousand and ten limestone blocks. He read that ten thousand slaves had been worked to death in its building. He learned that it was a maze of secret passages, their walls reputedly decorated with the distilled wisdom of ancient Tsort. He read that its height plus its length divided by half its width equalled exactly 1. 67563, or precisely 1,237. 98712567 times the difference between the distance to the sun and the weight of a small orange. He learned that sixty years had been devoted entirely to its construction.

It all seemed, he thought, to be rather a lot of trouble to go to just to sharpen a razor blade. And in the Forest of Skund Twoflower and Rincewind settled down to a meal of gingerbread mantlepiece and thought longingly of pickled onions. And far away, but set as it were on a collision course, the greatest hero the Disc ever produced rolled himself a cigarette, entirely unaware of the role that lay in store for him. It was quite an interesting tailormade that he twirled expertly between his fingers because, like many of the wandering wizards from whom he had picked up the art, he was in the habit of saving dogends in a leather bag and rolling them into fresh smokes. The implacable law of averages therefore dictated that some of that tobacco had been smoked almost continuously for many years now. The thing he was trying unsuccessfully to light was, well, you could have coated roads with it. So great was the reputation of this person that a group of nomadic barbarian horsemen had respectfully invited him to join them as they sat around a horseturd fire. The nomads of the Hub regions usually migrated rimwards for the winter, and these were part of a tribe who had pitched their felt tents in the sweltering heatwave of a mere –3 degrees and were going around with peeling noses and complaining about heatstroke. The barbarian chieftain said: ‘What then are the greatest things that a man may find in life?’ This is the sort of thing you’re supposed to say to maintain steppe-cred in barbarian circles. The man on his right thoughtfully drank his cocktail of mare’s milk and snowcat blood, and spoke thus: ‘The crisp horizon of the steppe, the wind in your hair, a fresh horse under you. ’ The man on his left said: ‘The cry of the white eagle in the heights, the fall of snow in the forest, a true arrow in your bow. ’ The chieftain nodded, and said: ‘Surely it is the sight of your enemy slain, the humiliation of his tribe and the lamentation of his women. ’ There was a general murmur of whiskery approval at this outrageous display. Then the chieftain turned respectfully to his guest, a small figure carefully warming his chilblains by the fire, and said: ‘But our guest, whose name is legend, must tell us truly: what are they that a man may call the greatest things in life?’ The guest paused in the middle of another unsuccessful attempt to light up. ‘What shay?’ he said, toothlessly. ‘I said: what are they that a man may call the greatest things in life?’ The warriors leaned closer. This should be worth hearing. The guest thought long and hard and then said, with deliberation: ‘Hot water, good dentishtry and shoft lavatory paper. ’ Brilliant octarine light flared in the forge. Galder Weatherwax, stripped to the waist, his face hidden by a mask of smoked glass, squinted into the glow and brought a hammer down with surgical precision. The magic squealed and writhed in the tongs but still he worked it, drawing it into a line of agonized fire. A floorboard creaked. Galder had spent many hours tuning them, always a wise precaution with an ambitious assistant who walked like a cat. D flat. That meant he was just to the right of the door. ‘Ah, Trymon,’ he said, without turning, and noted with some satisfaction the faint indrawing of breath behind him. ‘Good of you to come. Shut the door, will you?’ Trymon pushed the heavy door, his face expressionless. On the high shelf above him various bottled impossibilities wallowed in their pickle jars and watched him with interest. Like all wizards’ workshops, the place looked as though a taxidermist had dropped his stock in a foundry and then had a fight with a maddened glass-blower, braining a passing crocodile in the process (it hung from the ceiling and smelt strongly of camphor). There were lamps and rings that Trymon itched to rub, and mirrors that looked as though they could repay a second glance. A pair of seven league boots stirred restlessly in a cage. A whole library of grimoires, not of course as powerful as the Octavo but still heavy with spells, creaked and rattled their chains as they sensed the wizard’s covetous glance on them. The naked power of it all stirred him as nothing else could, but he deplored the scruffiness and Galder’s sense of theatre. For example, he happened to know that the green liquid bubbling mysteriously through a maze of contorted pipework on one of the benches was just green dye with soap in it, because he’d bribed one of the servants. One day, he thought, it’s all going to go. Starting with that bloody alligator. His knuckles whitened. . . ‘Well now,’ said Galder cheerfully, hanging up his apron and sitting back in his chair with the lion paw arms and duck legs. ‘You sent me this memmy-thing. ’ Trymon shrugged. ‘Memo. I merely pointed out, lord, that the other Orders have all sent agents to Skund Forest to recapture the Spell, while you do nothing,’ he said. ‘No doubt you will reveal your reasons in good time. ’ ‘Your faith shames me,’ said Galder. ‘The wizard who captures the Spell will bring great honour on himself and his order,’ said Trymon. ‘The others have used boots and all manner of elsewhere spells. What do you propose using, master?’ ‘Did I detect a hint of sarcasm there?’ ‘Absolutely not, master. ’ ‘Not even a smidgeon?’ ‘Not even the merest smidgeon, master. ’ ‘Good. Because I don’t propose to go. ’ Galder reached down and picked up an ancient book. He mumbled a command and it creaked open; a bookmark suspiciously like a tongue flicked back into the binding. He fumbled down beside his cushion and produced a little leather bag of tobacco and a pipe the size of an incinerator. With all the skill of a terminal nicotine addict he rubbed a nut of tobacco between his hands and tamped it into the bowl. He snapped his fingers and fire flared. He sucked deep, sighed with satisfaction. . . . . . looked up. ‘Still here, Trymon?’ ‘You summoned me, master,’ said Trymon levelly. At least, that’s what his voice said. Deep in his grey eyes was the faintest glitter that said he had a list of every slight, every patronizing twinkle, every gentle reproof, every knowing glance, and for every single one Galder’s living brain was going to spend a year in acid. ‘Oh, yes, so I did. Humour the deficiencies of an old man,’ said Galder pleasantly. He held up the book he had been reading. ‘I don’t hold with all this running about,’ he said. ‘It’s all very dramatic, mucking about with magic carpets and the like, but it isn’t true magic to my mind. Take seven league boots, now. If men were meant to walk twenty-one miles at a step I am sure God would have given us longer legs. . . Where was I?’ ‘I am not sure,’ said Trymon coldly. ‘Ah, yes. Strange that we could find nothing about the Pyramid of Tsort in the Library, you would have thought there’d be something, wouldn’t you?’ ‘The librarian will be disciplined, of course. ’ Galder looked sideways at him. ‘Nothing drastic,’ he said. ‘Withold his bananas, perhaps. ’ They looked at each other for a moment. Galder broke off first – looking hard at Trymon always bothered him. It had the same disconcerting effect as gazing into a mirror and seeing no one there. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘strangely enough, I found assistance elsewhere. In my own modest bookshelves, in fact. The journal of Skrelt Changebasket, the founder of our Order. You, my keen young man who would rush off so soon, do you know what happens when a wizard dies?’ ‘Any spells he has memorized say themselves,’ said Trymon. ‘It is one of the first things we learn. ’ ‘In fact it is not true of the original Eight Great Spells. By dint of close study Skrelt learned that a Great Spell will simply take refuge in the nearest mind open and ready to receive it. Just push the big mirror over here, will you?’ Galder got to his feet and shuffled across to the forge, which was now cold. The strand of magic still writhed, though, at once present and not present, like a slit cut into another universe full of hot blue light.

He picked it up easily, took a longbow from a rack, said a word of power, and watched with satisfaction as the magic grasped the ends of the bow and then tightened until the wood creaked. Then he selected an arrow. Trymon had tugged a heavy, full-length mirror into the middle of the floor. When I am head of the Order, he told himself, I certainly won’t shuffle around in carpet slippers. Trymon, as mentioned earlier, felt that a lot could be done by fresh blood if only the dead wood could be removed – but, just for the moment, he was genuinely interested in seeing what the old fool would do next. He may have derived some satisfaction if he had known that Galder and Skrelt Changebasket were both absolutely wrong. Galder made a few passes in front of the glass, which clouded over and then cleared to show an aerial view of the Forest of Skund. He looked at it intently while holding the bow with the arrow pointing vaguely at the ceiling. He muttered a few words like ‘allow for wind speed of, say, three knots’ and ‘adjust for temperature’ and then, with a rather disappointing movement, released the arrow. If the laws of action and reaction had anything to do with it, it should have flopped to the ground a few feet away. But no one was listening to them. With a sound that defies description, but which for the sake of completeness can be thought of basically as ‘spang!’ plus three days’ hard work in any decently equipped radiophonic workshop, the arrow vanished. Galder threw the bow aside and grinned. ‘Of course, it’ll take about an hour to get there,’ he said. ‘Then the Spell will simply follow the ionized path back here. To me. ’ ‘Remarkable,’ said Trymon, but any passing telepath would have read in letters ten yards high: if you, then why not me? He looked down at the cluttered workbench, where a long and very sharp knife looked tailormade for what he suddenly had in mind. Violence was not something he liked to be involved in except at one remove. But the Pyramid of Tsort had been quite clear about the rewards for whoever brought all eight spells together at the right time, and Trymon was not about to let years of painstaking work go for nothing because some old fool had a bright idea. ‘Would you like some cocoa while we’re waiting?’ said Galder, hobbling across the room to the servants’ bell. ‘Certainly,’ said Trymon. He picked up the knife, weighing it for balance and accuracy. ‘I must congratulate you, master. I can see that we must all get up very early in the morning to get the better of you. ’ Galder laughed. And the knife left Trymon’s hand at such speed that (because of the somewhat sluggish nature of Disc light) it actually grew a bit shorter and a little more massive as it plunged, with unerring aim, towards Galder’s neck. It didn’t reach it. Instead, it swerved to one side and began a fast orbit – so fast that Galder appeared suddenly to be wearing a metal collar. He turned around, and to Trymon it seemed that he had suddenly grown several feet taller and much more powerful. The knife broke away and shuddered into the door a mere shadow’s depth from Trymon’s ear. ‘Early in the morning?’ said Galder pleasantly. ‘My dear lad, you will need to stay up all night. ’ ‘Have a bit more table,’ said Rincewind. ‘No thanks, I don’t like marzipan,’ said Twoflower. ‘Anyway, I’m sure it’s not right to eat other people’s furniture. ’ ‘Don’t worry,’ said Swires. ‘The old witch hasn’t been seen for years. They say she was done up good and proper by a couple of young tearaways. ’ ‘Kids of today,’ commented Rincewind. ‘I blame the parents,’ said Twoflower. Once you had made the necessary mental adjustments, the gingerbread cottage was quite a pleasant place. Residual magic kept it standing and it was shunned by such local wild animals who hadn’t already died of terminal tooth decay. A bright fire of liquorice logs burned rather messily in the fireplace; Rincewind had tried gathering wood outside, but had given up. It’s hard to burn wood that talks to you. He belched. ‘This isn’t very healthy,’ he said. ‘I mean, why sweets? Why not crispbread and cheese? Or salami, now – I could just do with a nice salami sofa. ’ ‘Search me,’ said Swires. ‘Old Granny Whitlow just did sweets. You should have seen her meringues—’ ‘I have,’ said Rincewind, ‘I looked at the mattresses. . . ’ ‘Gingerbread is more traditional,’ said Twoflower. ‘What, for mattresses?’ ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Twoflower reasonably. ‘Whoever heard of a gingerbread mattress?’ Rincewind grunted. He was thinking of food – more accurately, of food in Ankh-Morpork. Funny how the old place seemed more attractive the further he got from it. He only had to close his eyes to picture, in dribbling detail, the food stalls of a hundred different cultures in the market places. You could eat squishi or shark’s fin soup so fresh that swimmers wouldn’t go near it, and— ‘Do you think I could buy this place?’ said Twoflower. Rincewind hesitated. He’d found it always paid to think very carefully before answering Twoflower’s more surprising questions. ‘What for?’ he said, cautiously. ‘Well, it just reeks of ambience. ’ ‘Oh. ’ ‘What’s ambience?’ said Swires, sniffing cautiously and wearing the kind of expression that said that he hadn’t done it, whatever it was. ‘I think it’s a kind of frog,’ said Rincewind. ‘Anyway, you can’t buy this place because there isn’t anyone to buy it from —’ ‘I think I could probably arrange that, on behalf of the forest council of course,’ interrupted Swires, trying to avoid Rincewind’s glare. ‘—and anyway you couldn’t take it with you, I mean, you could hardly pack it in the Luggage, could you?’ Rincewind indicated the Luggage, which was lying by the fire and managing in some quite impossible way to look like a contented but alert tiger, and then looked back at Twoflower. His face fell. ‘Could you?’ he repeated. He had never quite come to terms with the fact that the inside of the Luggage didn’t seem to inhabit quite the same world as the outside. Of course, this was simply a byproduct of its essential weirdness, but it was disconcerting to see Twoflower fill it full of dirty shirts and old socks and then open the lid again on a pile of nice crisp laundry, smelling faintly of lavender. Twoflower also bought a lot of quaint native artifacts or, as Rincewind would put it, junk, and even a seven-foot ceremonial pig tickling pole seemed to fit inside quite easily without sticking out anywhere. ‘I don’t know,’ said Twoflower. ‘You’re a wizard, you know about these things. ’ ‘Yes, well, of course, but baggage magic is a highly specialized art,’ said Rincewind. ‘Anyway, I’m sure the gnomes wouldn’t really want to sell it, it’s, it’s—,’ he groped through what he knew of Twoflower’s mad vocabulary – ‘it’s a tourist attraction. ’ ‘What’s that?’ said Swires, interestedly. ‘It means that lots of people like him will come and look at it,’ said Rincewind. ‘Why?’ ‘Because—’ Rincewind groped for words – ‘it’s quaint. Um, oldey worldey. Folkloresque. Er, a delightful example of a vanished folk art, steeped in the traditions of an age long gone. ’ ‘It is?’ said Swires, looking at the cottage in bewilderment. ‘Yes. ’ ‘All that?’ ‘ ’Fraid so. ’ ‘I’ll help you pack. ’ And the night wears on, under a blanket of lowering clouds which covers most of the Disc – which is fortuitous, because when it clears and the astrologers get a good view of the sky they are going to get angry and upset. And in various parts of the forest parties of wizards are getting lost, and going around in circles, and hiding from each other, and getting upset because whenever they bump into a tree it apologizes to them. But, unsteadily though it may be, many of them are getting quite close to the cottage. . . Which is a good time to get back to the rambling buildings of Unseen University and in particular the apartments of Greyhald Spold, currently the oldest wizard on the Disc and determined to keep it that way. He has just been extremely surprised and upset. For the last few hours he has been very busy.

He may be deaf and a little hard of thinking, but elderly wizards have very well-trained survival instincts, and they know that when a tall figure in a black robe and the latest in agricultural handtools starts looking thoughtfully at you it is time to act fast. The servants have been dismissed. The doorways have been sealed with a paste made from powdered mayflies, and protective octograms have been drawn on the windows. Rare and rather smelly oils have been poured in complex patterns on the floor, in designs which hurt the eyes and suggest the designer was drunk or from some other dimension or, possibly, both; in the very centre of the room is the eightfold octogram of Witholding, surrounded by red and green candles. And in the centre of that is a box made from wood of the curlyfern pine, which grows to a great age, and it is lined with red silk and yet more protective amulets. Because Greyhald Spold knows that Death is looking for him, and has spent many years designing an impregnable hiding place. He has just set the complicated clockwork of the lock and shut the lid, lying back in the knowledge that here at last is the perfect defence against the most ultimate of all his enemies, although as yet he has not considered the important part that airholes must play in an enterprise of this kind. And right beside him, very close to his ear, a voice has just said: D ARK IN HERE, ISN’T IT ? It began to snow. The barleysugar windows of the cottage showed bright and cheerful against the blackness. At one side of the clearing three tiny red points of light glowed momentarily and there was the sound of a chesty cough, abruptly silenced. ‘Shut up!’ hissed a third rank wizard. ‘They’ll hear us!’ ‘Who will? We gave the lads from the Brotherhood of the Hoodwink the slip in the swamp, and those idiots from the Venerable Council of Seers went off the wrong way anyway. ’ ‘Yeah,’ said the most junior wizard, ‘but who keeps talking to us? They say this is a magic wood, it’s full of goblins and wolves and—’ ‘Trees,’ said a voice out of the darkness, high above. It possessed what can only be described as timbre. ‘Yeah,’ said the youngest wizard. He sucked on his dogend, and shivered. The leader of the party peered over the rock and watched the cottage. ‘Right then,’ he said, knocking out his pipe on the heel of his seven league boot, who squeaked in protest. ‘We rush in, we grab them, we’re away. Okay?’ ‘You sure it’s just people?’ said the youngest wizard, nervously. ‘Of course I’m sure,’ snarled the leader. ‘What do you expect, three bears?’ ‘There could be monsters. This is the sort of wood that has monsters. ’ ‘And trees,’ said a friendly voice from the branches. ‘Yeah,’ said the leader, cautiously. Rincewind looked carefully at the bed. It was quite a nice little bed, in a sort of hard toffee inlaid with caramel, but he’d rather eat it than sleep in it and it looked as though someone already had. ‘Someone’s been eating my bed,’ he said. ‘I like toffee,’ said Twoflower defensively. ‘If you don’t watch out the fairy will come and take all your teeth away,’ said Rincewind. ‘No, that’s elves,’ said Swires from the dressing table. ‘Elves do that. Toenails, too. Very touchy at times, elves can be. ’ Twoflower sat down heavily on his bed. ‘You’ve got it wrong,’ he said. ‘Elves are noble and beautiful and wise and fair; I’m sure I read that somewhere. ’ Swires and Rincewind’s kneecap exchanged glances. ‘I think you must be thinking about different elves,’ the gnome said slowly. ‘We’ve just got the other sort around here. Not that you could call them quick-tempered,’ he added hastily. ‘Not if you didn’t want to take your teeth home in your hat, anyway. ’ There was the tiny, distinctive sound of a nougat door opening. At the same time, from the other side of the cottage, came the faintest of tinkles, like a rock smashing a barley sugar window as delicately as possible. ‘What was that?’ said Twoflower. ‘Which one?’ said Rincewind. There was the clonk of a heavy branch banging against the window sill. With a cry of ‘Elves!’ Swires scuttled across the floor to a mousehole and vanished. ‘What shall we do?’ said Twoflower. ‘Panic?’ said Rincewind hopefully. He always held that panic was the best means of survival; back in the olden days, his theory went, people faced with hungry sabre-toothed tigers could be divided very simply into those who panicked and those who stood there saying ‘What a magnificent brute!’ and ‘Here, pussy. ’ ‘There’s a cupboard,’ said Twoflower, pointing to a narrow door that was squeezed between the wall and the chimneybreast. They scrambled into sweet, musty darkness. There was the creak of a chocolate floorboard outside. Someone said ‘I heard voices. ’ Someone else said, ‘Yeah, downstairs. I think it’s the Hoodwinkers. ’ ‘I thought you said we’d given them the slip!’ ‘Hey, you two, you can eat this place! Here, look you can—’ ‘Shut up! ’ There was a lot more creaking, and a muffled scream from downstairs where a Venerable Seer, creeping carefully through the darkness from the broken window, had trodden on the fingers of a Hoodwinker who was hiding under the table. There was the sudden zip and zing of magic. ‘Bugger!’ said a voice outside. ‘They’ve got him! Let’s go!’ There was more creaking, and then silence. After a while Twoflower said, ‘Rincewind, I think there’s a broomstick in this cupboard. ’ ‘Well, what’s so unusual about that?’ ‘This one’s got handlebars. ’ There was a piercing shriek from below. In the darkness a wizard had tried to open the Luggage’s lid. A crash from the scullery indicated the sudden arrival of a party of Illuminated Mages of the Unbroken Circle. ‘What do you think they’re after?’ whispered Twoflower. ‘I don’t know, but I think it might be a good idea not to find out,’ said Rincewind thoughtfully. ‘You could be right. ’ Rincewind pushed open the door gingerly. The room was empty. He tiptoed across to the window, and looked down into the upturned faces of three Brothers of the Order of Midnight. ‘That’s him!’ He drew back hurriedly and rushed for the stairs. The scene below was indescribable but since that statement would earn the death penalty in the reign of Olaf Quimby II the attempt better be made. Firstly, most of the struggling wizards were trying to illuminate the scene by various flames, fireballs and magical glows, so the overall lighting gave the impression of a disco in a strobelight factory; each man was trying to find a position from which he could see the rest of the room without being attacked himself, and absolutely everyone was trying to keep out of the way of the Luggage, which had two Venerable Seers pinned in a corner and was snapping its lid at anyone who approached. But one wizard did happen to look up. ‘It’s him!’ Rincewind jerked back, and something bumped into him. He looked around hurriedly, and stared when he saw Twoflower sitting on the broomstick – which was floating in mid-air. ‘The witch must have left it behind!’ said Twoflower. ‘A genuine magic broomstick!’ Rincewind hesitated. Octarine sparks were spitting off the broomstick’s bristles and he hated heights almost more than anything else, but what he really hated more than anything at all was a dozen very angry and bad-tempered wizards rushing up the stairs towards him, and this was happening. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘but I’ll drive. ’ He lashed out with a boot at a wizard who was halfway through a Spell of Binding and jumped onto the broomstick, which bobbed down the stairwell and then turned upside down so that Rincewind was horribly eye to eye with a Brother of Midnight. He yelped and gave the handlebars a convulsive twist. Several things happened at once. The broomstick shot forward and broke through the wall in a shower of crumbs: the Luggage surged forward and bit the Brother in the leg: and with a strange whistling sound an arrow appeared from nowhere, missed Rincewind by inches, and struck the Luggage’s lid with a very solid thud. The Luggage vanished.

In a little village deep in the forest an ancient shaman threw a few more twigs on his fire and stared through the smoke at his shamefaced apprentice. ‘A box with legs on?’ he said. ‘Yes, master. It just appeared out of the sky and looked at me,’ said the apprentice. ‘It had eyes then, this box?’ ‘N—,’ began the apprentice and stopped, puzzled. The old man frowned. ‘Many have seen Topaxci, God of the Red Mushroom, and they earn the name of shaman,’ he said. ‘Some have seen Skelde, spirit of the smoke, and they are called sorcerers. A few have been privileged to see Umcherrel, the soul of the forest, and they are known as spirit masters. But none have seen a box with hundreds of legs that looked at them without eyes, and they are known as idio—’ The interruption was caused by a sudden screaming noise and a flurry of snow and sparks that blew the fire across the dark hut; there was a brief blurred vision and then the opposite wall was blasted aside and the apparition vanished. There was a long silence. Then a slightly shorter silence. Then the old shaman said carefully, ‘You didn’t just see two men go through upside down on a broomstick, shouting and screaming at each other, did you?’ The boy looked at him levelly. ‘Certainly not,’ he said. The old man heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Thank goodness for that,’ he said. ‘Neither did I. ’ The cottage was in turmoil, because not only did the wizards want to follow the broomstick, they also wanted to prevent each other from doing so, and this led to several regrettable incidents. The most spectacular, and certainly the most tragic, happened when one Seer attempted to use his seven league boots without the proper sequence of spells and preparations. Seven league boots, as has already been intimated, are a tricksy form of magic at best, and he remembered too late that the utmost caution must be taken in using a means of transport which, when all is said and done, relies for its effectiveness on trying to put one foot twenty-one miles in front of the other. The first snowstorms of winter were raging, and in fact there was a suspiciously heavy covering of cloud over most of the Disc. And yet, from far above and by the silver light of the Discworld’s tiny moon, it presented one of the most beautiful sights in the multiverse. Great streamers of cloud, hundreds of miles along, swirled from the waterfall at the Rim to the mountains of the Hub. In the cold crystal silence the huge white spiral glittered frostily under the stars, imperceptibly turning, very much as though God had stirred His coffee and then poured the cream in. Nothing disturbed the glowing scene, which— Something small and distant broke through the cloud layer, trailing shreds of vapour. In the stratospheric calm the sounds of bickering came sharp and clear. ‘You said you could fly one of these things!’ ‘No I didn’t; I just said you couldn’t!’ ‘But I’ve never been on one before!’ ‘What a coincidence!’ ‘Anyway, you said— look at the sky! ’ ‘No I didn’t!’ ‘What’s happened to the stars?’ And so it was that Rincewind and Twoflower became the first two people on the Disc to see what the future held. A thousand miles behind them the Hub mountain of Cori Celesti stabbed the sky and cast a knife-bright shadow across the broiling clouds, so that gods ought to have noticed too – but the gods don’t normally look at the sky and in any case were engaged in litigation with the Ice Giants, who had refused to turn their radio down. Rimwards, in the direction of Great A’Tuin’s travel, the sky had been swept of stars. In that circle of blackness there was just one star, a red and baleful star, a star like the glitter in the eye-socket of a rabid mink. It was small and horrible and uncompromising. And the Disc was being carried straight towards it. Rincewind knew precisely what to do in these circumstances. He screamed and pointed the broomstick straight down. Galder Weatherwax stood in the centre of the octogram and raised his hands. ‘Urshalo, dileptor, c’hula, do my bidding!’ A small mist formed over his head. He glanced sideways at Trymon, who was sulking at the edge of the magic circle. ‘This next bit’s quite impressive,’ he said. ‘Watch. Kot-b’hai! Kot-sham! To me, o spirits of small isolated rocks and worried mice not less than three inches long!’ ‘What?’ said Trymon. ‘That bit took quite a lot of research,’ agreed Galder, ‘especially the mice. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes. . . ’ He raised his arms again. Trymon watched him, and licked his lips distractedly. The old fool was really concentrating, bending his mind entirely to the Spell and hardly paying any attention to Trymon. Words of power rolled around the room, bouncing off the walls and scuttling out of sight behind shelves and jars. Trymon hesitated. Galder shut his eyes momentarily, his face a mask of ecstasy as he mouthed the final word. Trymon tensed, his fingers curling around the knife again. And Galder opened one eye, nodded at him and sent a sideways blast of power that picked the younger man up and sent him sprawling against the wall. Galder winked at him and raised his arms again. ‘To me, o spirits of—’ There was a thunderclap, an implosion of light and a moment of complete physical uncertainty during which even the walls seemed to turn in on themselves. Trymon heard a sharp intake of breath and then a dull, solid thump. The room was suddenly silent. After a few minutes Trymon crawled out from behind a chair and dusted himself off. He whistled a few bars of nothing much and turned towards the door with exaggerated care, looking at the ceiling as if he had never seen it before. He moved in a way that suggested he was attempting the world speed record for the nonchalant walk. The Luggage squatted in the centre of the circle and opened its lid. Trymon stopped. He turned very, very carefully, dreading what he might see. The Luggage seemed to contain some clean laundry, smelling slightly of lavender. Somehow it was quite the most terrifying thing the wizard had ever seen. ‘Well, er,’ he said. ‘You, um, wouldn’t have seen another wizard around here, by any chance?’ The Luggage contrived to look more menacing. ‘Oh,’ said Trymon. ‘Well, fine. It doesn’t matter. ’ He pulled vaguely at the hem of his robe and took a brief interest in the detail of its stitching. When he looked up the horrible box was still there. ‘Goodbye,’ he said, and ran. He managed to get through the door just in time. ‘Rincewind?’ Rincewind opened his eyes. Not that it helped much. It just meant that instead of seeing nothing but blackness he saw nothing but whiteness which, surprisingly, was worse. ‘Are you all right?’ ‘No. ’ ‘Ah. ’ Rincewind sat up. He appeared to be on a rock speckled with snow, but it didn’t seem to be everything a rock ought to be. For example, it shouldn’t be moving. Snow blew around him. Twoflower was a few feet away, a look of genuine concern on his face. Rincewind groaned. His bones were very angry at the treatment they had recently received and were queuing up to complain. ‘What now?’ he said. ‘You know when we were flying and I was worried we might hit something in the storm and you said the only thing we could possibly hit at this height was a cloud stuffed with rocks?’ ‘Well?’ ‘How did you know?’ Rincewind looked around, but for all the variety and interest in the scene around him they might as well have been in the inside of a pingpong ball. The rock underneath was – well, rocking. He ran his hands over it, and felt the scoring of chisels. When he put an ear to the cold wet stone he fancied he could hear a dull, slow thumping, like a heartbeat. He crawled forward until he came to an edge, and peered very cautiously over it. At that moment the rock must have been passing over a break in the clouds, because he caught a dim but horribly distant view of jagged-edged mountain peaks. They were a long way down. He gurgled incoherently and inched his way backwards. ‘This is ridiculous,’ he told Twoflower. ‘Rocks don’t fly. They’re noted for not doing it. ’ ‘Maybe they would if they could,’ said Twoflower.

‘Perhaps this one just found out how. ’ ‘Let’s just hope it doesn’t forget again,’ said Rincewind. He huddled up in his soaking robe and looked glumly at the cloud around him. He supposed there were some people somewhere who had some control over their lives; they got up in the morning, and went to bed at night in the reasonable certainty of not falling over the edge of the world or being attacked by lunatics or waking up on a rock with ideas above its station. He dimly remembered leading a life like that once. Rincewind sniffed. This rock smelt of frying. The smell seemed to be coming from up ahead, and appealed straight to his stomach. ‘Can you smell anything?’ he said. ‘I think it’s bacon,’ said Twoflower. ‘I hope it’s bacon,’ said Rincewind, ‘because I’m going to eat it. ’ He stood up on the trembling stone and tottered forward into the clouds, peering through the wet gloom. At the front or leading edge of the rock a small druid was sitting crosslegged in front of a small fire. A square of oilskin was tied across his head and knotted under his chin. He was poking at a pan of bacon with an ornamental sickle. ‘Um,’ said Rincewind. The druid looked up, and dropped the pan into the fire. He leapt to his feet and gripped the sickle aggressively, or at least as aggressively as anyone can look in a long wet white nightshirt and a dripping headscarf. ‘I warn you, I shall deal harshly with hijackers,’ he said, and sneezed violently. ‘We’ll help,’ said Rincewind, looking longingly at the burning bacon. This seemed to puzzle the druid who, to Rincewind’s mild surprise, was quite young; he supposed there had to be such things as young druids, theoretically, it was just that he had never imagined them. ‘You’re not trying to steal the rock?’ said the druid, lowering the sickle a fraction. ‘I didn’t even know you could steal rocks,’ said Rincewind wearily. ‘Excuse me,’ said Twoflower politely, ‘I think your breakfast is on fire. ’ The druid glanced down and flailed ineffectually at the flames. Rincewind hurried forward to help, there was a fair amount of smoke, ash and confusion, and the shared triumph of actually rescuing a few pieces of rather charred bacon did more good than a whole book on diplomacy. ‘How did you get here, actually?’ said the druid. ‘We’re five hundred feet up, unless I’ve got the runes wrong again. ’ Rincewind tried not to think about height. ‘We sort of dropped in as we were passing,’ he said. ‘On our way to the ground,’ Twoflower added. ‘Only your rock broke our fall,’ said Rincewind. His back complained. ‘Thanks,’ he added. ‘I thought we’d run into some turbulence a while back,’ said the druid, whose name turned out to be Belafon. ‘That must have been you. ’ He shivered. ‘It must be morning by now,’ he said. ‘Sod the rules, I’m taking us up. Hang on. ’ ‘What to?’ said Rincewind. ‘Well, just indicate a general unwillingness to fall off,’ said Belafon. He took a large iron pendulum out of his robe and swung it in a series of baffling sweeps over the fire. Clouds whipped around them, there was a horrible feeling of heaviness, and suddenly the rock burst into sunlight. It levelled off a few feet above the clouds, in a cold but bright blue sky. The clouds that had seemed chillingly distant last night and horribly clammy this morning were now a fleecy white carpet, stretching away in all directions; a few mountain peaks stood out like islands. Behind the rock the wind of its passage sculpted the clouds into transient whirls. The rock— It was about thirty feet long and ten feet wide, and blueish. ‘What an amazing panorama,’ said Twoflower, his eyes shining. ‘Um, what’s keeping us up?’ said Rincewind. ‘Persuasion,’ said Belafon, wringing out the hem of his robe. ‘Ah,’ said Rincewind sagely. ‘Keeping them up is easy,’ said the druid, holding up a thumb and squinting down the length of his arm at a distant mountain. ‘The hard part is landing. ’ ‘You wouldn’t think so, would you?’ said Twoflower. ‘Persuasion is what keeps the whole universe together,’ said Belafon. ‘It’s no good saying it’s all done by magic. ’ Rincewind happened to glance down through the thinning cloud to a snowy landscape a considerable distance below. He knew he was in the presence of a madman, but he was used to that; if listening to this madman meant he stayed up here, he was all ears. Belafon sat down with his feet dangling over the edge of the rock. ‘Look, don’t worry,’ he said. ‘If you keep thinking the rock shouldn’t be flying it might hear you and become persuaded and you will turn out to be right, okay? It’s obvious you aren’t up to date with modern thinking. ’ ‘So it would seem,’ said Rincewind weakly. He was trying not to think about rocks on the ground. He was trying to think about rocks swooping like swallows, bounding across landscapes in the sheer joy of levity, zooming skywards in a— He was horribly aware he wasn’t very good at it. The druids of the Disc prided themselves on their forward-looking approach to the discovery of the mysteries of the Universe. Of course, like druids everywhere they believed in the essential unity of all life, the healing power of plants, the natural rhythm of the seasons and the burning alive of anyone who didn’t approach all this in the right frame of mind, but they had also thought long and hard about the very basis of creation and had formulated the following theory: The universe, they said, depended for its operation on the balance of four forces which they identified as charm, persuasion, uncertainty and bloody-mindedness. Thus it was that the sun and moon orbited the Disc because they were persuaded not to fall down, but didn’t actually fly away because of uncertainty. Charm allowed trees to grow and bloody-mindedness kept them up, and so on. Some druids suggested that there were certain flaws in this theory, but senior druids explained very pointedly that there was indeed room for informed argument, the cut and thrust of exciting scientific debate, and basically it lay on top of the next solstice bonfire. ‘Ah, so you’re an astronomer?’ said Twoflower. ‘Oh no,’ said Belafon, as the rock drifted gently around the curve of a mountain, ‘I’m a computer hardware consultant. ’ ‘What’s a computer hardware?’ ‘Well, this is,’ said the druid, tapping the rock with a sandalled foot. ‘Part of one, anyway. It’s a replacement. I’m delivering it. They’re having trouble with the big circles up on the Vortex Plains. So they say, anyway; I wish I had a bronze torc for every user who didn’t read the manual. ’ He shrugged. ‘What use is it, then, exactly?’ asked Rincewind. Anything to keep his mind off the drop below. ‘You can use it to – to tell you what time of year it is,’ said Belafon. ‘Ah. You mean if it’s covered in snow then it must be winter?’ ‘Yes. I mean no. I mean, supposing you wanted to know when a particular star is going to rise—’ ‘Why?’ said Twoflower, radiating polite interest. ‘Well, maybe you want to know when to plant your crops,’ said Belafon, sweating a little, ‘or maybe—’ ‘I’ll lend you my almanac, if you like,’ said Twoflower. ‘Almanac?’ ‘It’s a book that tells you what day it is,’ said Rincewind wearily. ‘It’d be right up your leyline. ’ Belafon stiffened. ‘Book?’ he said. ‘Like, with paper?’ ‘Yes. ’ ‘That doesn’t sound very reliable to me ,’ said the druid nastily. ‘How can a book know what day it is? Paper can’t count. ’ He stamped off to the front of the rock, causing it to wallow alarmingly. Rincewind swallowed hard and beckoned Twoflower closer. ‘Have you ever heard of culture shock?’ he hissed.

‘What’s that?’ ‘It’s what happens when people spend five hundred years trying to get a stone circle to work properly and then someone comes up with a little book with a page for every day and little chatty bits saying things like “Now is a good time to plant broad beans” and “Early to rise, early to bed, makes a man healthy, wealthy and dead,” and do you know what the most important thing to remember about culture shock,’ Rincewind paused for breath, and moved his lips silently trying to remember where the sentence had got to, ‘is?’ he concluded. ‘What?’ ‘Don’t give it to a man flying a thousand ton rock. ’ ‘Has it gone?’ Trymon peered cautiously over the battlements of the Tower of Art, the great spire of crumbling masonry that loomed over Unseen University. The cluster of students and instructors of magic, far below, nodded. ‘Are you sure?’ The bursar cupped his hands and shouted. ‘It broke down the hubward door and escaped an hour ago, sir,’ he yelled. ‘Wrong,’ said Trymon. ‘It left, we escaped. Well, I’ll be getting down, then. Did it get anyone?’ The bursar swallowed. He was not a wizard, but a kind, good-natured man who should not have had to see the things he had witnessed in the past hour. Of course, it wasn’t unknown for small demons, coloured lights and various half-materialized imaginings to wander around the campus, but there had been something about the implacable onslaught of the Luggage that had unnerved him. Trying to stop it would have been like trying to wrestle a glacier. ‘It – it swallowed the Dean of Liberal Studies, sir,’ he shouted. Trymon brightened. ‘It’s an ill wind,’ he murmured. He started down the long spiral staircase. After a while he smiled, a thin, tight smile. The day was definitely improving. There was a lot of organizing to do. And if there was something Trymon really liked, it was organizing. The rock swooped across the high plains, whipping snow from the drifts a mere few feet below. Belafon scuttled about urgently, smearing a little mistletoe ointment here, chalking a rune there, while Rincewind cowered in terror and exhaustion and Twoflower worried about his Luggage. ‘Up ahead!’ screamed the druid above the noise of the slipstream. ‘Behold, the great computer of the skies!’ Rincewind peered between his fingers. On the distant skyline was an immense construction of grey and black slabs, arranged in concentric circles and mystic avenues, gaunt and forbidding against the snow. Surely men couldn’t have moved those nascent mountains – surely a troop of giants had been turned to stone by some. . . ‘It looks like a lot of rocks,’ said Twoflower. Belafon hesitated in mid-gesture. ‘What?’ he said. ‘It’s very nice,’ added the tourist hurriedly. He sought for a word. ‘Ethnic,’ he decided. The druid stiffened. ‘ Nice? ’ he said. ‘A triumph of the silicon chunk, a miracle of modern masonic technology – nice ?’ ‘Oh, yes,’ said Twoflower, to whom sarcasm was merely a seven letter word beginning with S. ‘What does ethnic mean?’ said the druid. ‘It means terribly impressive,’ said Rincewind hurriedly, ‘and we seem to be in danger of landing, if you don’t mind—’ Belafon turned around, only slightly mollified. He raised his arms wide and shouted a series of untranslatable words, ending with ‘ nice! ’ in a hurt whisper. The rock slowed, drifted sideways in a billow of snow, and hovered over the circle. Down below a druid waved two bunches of mistletoe in complicated patterns, and Belafon skilfully brought the massive slab to rest across two giant uprights with the faintest of clicks. Rincewind let his breath out in a long sigh. It hurried off to hide somewhere. A ladder banged against the side of the slab and the head of an elderly druid appeared over the edge. He gave the two passengers a puzzled glance, and then looked up at Belafon. ‘About bloody time,’ he said. ‘Seven weeks to Hogswatchnight and it’s gone down on us again. ’ ‘Hallo, Zakriah,’ said Belafon. ‘What happened this time?’ ‘It’s all totally fouled up. Today it predicted sunrise three minutes early. Talk about a klutz, boy, this is it. ’ Belafon clambered onto the ladder and disappeared from view. The passengers looked at each other, and then stared down into the vast open space between the inner circle of stones. ‘What shall we do now?’ said Twoflower. ‘We could go to sleep?’ suggested Rincewind. Twoflower ignored him, and climbed down the ladder. Around the circle druids were tapping the megaliths with little hammers and listening intently. Several of the huge stones were lying on their sides, and each was surrounded by another crowd of druids who were examining it carefully and arguing amongst themselves. Arcane phrases floated up to where Rincewind sat: ‘It can’t be software incompatibility – the Chant of the Trodden Spiral was designed for concentric rings, idiot. . . ’ ‘I say fire it up again and try a simple moon ceremony. . . ’ ‘. . . all right, all right, nothing’s wrong with the stones, it’s just that the universe has gone wrong, right?. . . ’ Through the mists of his exhausted mind Rincewind remembered the horrible star they’d seen in the sky. Something had gone wrong with the universe last night. How had he come to be back on the Disc? He had a feeling that the answers were somewhere inside his head. And an even more unpleasant feeling began to dawn on him that something else was watching the scene below – watching it from behind his eyes. The Spell had crept from its lair deep in the untrodden dirtroads of his mind, and was sitting bold as brass in his forebrain, watching the passing scene and doing the mental equivalent of eating popcorn. He tried to push it back – and the world vanished. . . He was in darkness; a warm, musty darkness, the darkness of the tomb, the velvet blackness of the mummy case. There was a strong smell of old leather and the sourness of ancient paper. The paper rustled. He felt that the darkness was full of unimaginable horrors – and the trouble with unimaginable horrors was that they were only too easy to imagine. . . ‘Rincewind,’ said a voice. Rincewind had never heard a lizard speak, but if one did it would have a voice like that. ‘Um,’ he said. ‘Yes?’ The voice chuckled – a strange sound, rather papery. ‘You ought to say “Where am I?” ’ it said. ‘Would I like it if I knew?’ said Rincewind. He stared hard at the darkness. Now that he was accustomed to it, he could see something. Something vague, hardly bright enough to be anything at all, just the merest tracery in the air. Something strangely familiar. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Where am I?’ ‘You’re dreaming. ’ ‘Can I wake up now, please?’ ‘No,’ said another voice, as old and dry as the first but still slightly different. ‘We have something very important to tell you,’ said a third voice, if anything more corpse-dry than the others. Rincewind nodded stupidly. In the back of his mind the Spell lurked and peered cautiously over his mental shoulder. ‘You’ve caused us a lot of trouble, young Rincewind,’ the voice went on. ‘All this dropping over the edge of the world with no thought for other people. We had to seriously distort reality, you know. ’ ‘Gosh. ’ ‘And now you have a very important task ahead of you. ’ ‘Oh. Good. ’ ‘Many years ago we arranged for one of our number to hide in your head, because we could foresee a time coming when you would need to play a very important role. ’ ‘Me? Why?’ ‘You run away a lot,’ said one of the voices. ‘That is good. You are a survivor. ’ ‘Survivor? I’ve nearly been killed dozens of times!’ ‘Exactly. ’ ‘Oh. ’ ‘But try not to fall off the Disc again. We really can’t have that. ’ ‘Who are we , exactly?’ said Rincewind. There was a rustling in the darkness. ‘In the beginning was the word,’ said a dry voice right behind him. ‘It was the Egg,’ corrected another voice. ‘I distinctly remember. The Great Egg of the Universe. Slightly rubbery. ’ ‘You’re both wrong, in fact. I’m sure it was the primordial slime. ’ A voice by Rincewind’s knee said: ‘No, that came afterwards. There was firmament first. Lots of firmament.

Rather sticky, like candyfloss. Very syrupy, in fact—’ ‘ In case anyone’s interested ,’ said a crackly voice on Rincewind’s left, ‘you’re all wrong. In the beginning was the Clearing of the Throat—’ ‘—then the word—’ ‘Pardon me, the slime—’ ‘Distinctly rubbery, I thought—’ There was a pause. Then a voice said carefully, ‘Anyway, whatever it was, we remember it distinctly. ’ ‘Quite so. ’ ‘Exactly. ’ ‘And our task is to see that nothing dreadful happens to it, Rincewind. ’ Rincewind squinted into the blackness. ‘Would you kindly explain what you’re talking about?’ There was a papery sigh. ‘So much for metaphor,’ said one of the voices. ‘Look, it is very important you safeguard the Spell in your head and bring it back to us at the right time, you understand, so that when the moment is precisely right we can be said. Do you understand?’ Rincewind thought: we can be said ? And it dawned on him what the tracery was, ahead of him. It was writing on a page, seen from underneath. ‘I’m in the Octavo?’ he said. ‘In certain metaphysical respects,’ said one of the voices in offhand tones. It came closer. He could feel the dry rustling right in front of his nose. . . He ran away. The single red dot glowed in its patch of darkness. Trymon, still wearing the ceremonial robes from his inauguration as head of the Order, couldn’t rid himself of the feeling that it had grown slightly while he watched. He turned away from the window with a shudder. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘It’s a star,’ said the Professor of Astrology, ‘I think. ’ ‘You think?’ The astrologer winced. They were standing in Unseen University’s observatory, and the tiny ruby pinpoint on the horizon wasn’t glaring at him any worse than his new master. ‘Well, you see, the point is that we’ve always believed stars to be pretty much the same as our sun—’ ‘You mean balls of fire about a mile across?’ ‘Yes. But this new one is, well – big. ’ ‘Bigger than the sun?’ said Trymon. He’d always considered a mile-wide ball of fire quite impressive, although he disapproved of stars on principle. They made the sky look untidy. ‘A lot bigger,’ said the astrologer slowly. ‘Bigger than Great A’Tuin’s head, perhaps?’ The astrologer looked wretched. ‘Bigger than Great A’Tuin and the Disc together,’ he said. ‘We’ve checked,’ he added hurriedly, ‘and we’re quite sure. ’ ‘That is big,’ agreed Trymon. ‘The word “huge” comes to mind. ’ ‘Massive,’ agreed the astrologer hurriedly. ‘Hmm. ’ Trymon paced the broad mosaic floor of the observatory, which was inlaid with the signs of the Disc zodiac. There were sixty-four of them, from Wezen the Double-headed Kangaroo to Gahoolie, the Vase of Tulips (a constellation of great religious significance whose meaning, alas, was now lost). He paused on the blue and gold tilework of Mubbo the Hyaena, and turned suddenly. ‘We’re going to hit it?’ he asked. ‘I am afraid so, sir,’ said the astrologer. ‘Hmm. ’ Trymon walked a few paces forward, stroking his beard thoughtfully. He paused on the cusp of Okjock the Salesman and The Celestial Parsnip. ‘I’m not an expert in these matters,’ he said, ‘but I imagine this would not be a good thing?’ ‘No, sir. ’ ‘Very hot, stars?’ The astrologer swallowed. ‘Yes, sir. ’ ‘We’d be burned up?’ ‘Eventually. Of course, before that there would be discquakes, tidal waves, gravitational disruption and probably the atmosphere would be stripped away. ’ ‘Ah. In a word, lack of decent organization. ’ The astrologer hesitated, and gave in. ‘You could say so, sir. ’ ‘People would panic?’ ‘Fairly briefly, I’m afraid. ’ ‘Hmm,’ said Trymon, who was just passing over The Perhaps Gate and orbiting smoothly towards the Cow of Heaven. He squinted up again at the red gleam on the horizon. He appeared to reach a decision. ‘We can’t find Rincewind,’ he said, ‘and if we can’t find Rincewind we can’t find the eighth spell of the Octavo. But we believe that the Octavo must be read to avert catastrophe – otherwise why did the Creator leave it behind?’ ‘Perhaps He was just forgetful,’ suggested the astrologer. Trymon glared at him. ‘The other Orders are searching all the lands between here and the Hub,’ he continued, counting the points on his fingers, ‘because it seems unreasonable that a man can fly into a cloud and not come out. . . ’ ‘Unless it was stuffed with rocks,’ said the astrologer, in a wretched and, as it turned out, entirely unsuccessful attempt to lighten the mood. ‘But come down he must – somewhere. Where? we ask ourselves. ’ ‘Where?’ said the astrologer loyally. ‘And immediately a course of action suggests itself to us. ’ ‘Ah,’ said the astrologer, running in an attempt to keep up as the wizard stalked across The Two Fat Cousins. ‘And that course is. . . ?’ The astrologer looked up into two eyes as grey and bland as steel. ‘Um. We stop looking?’ he ventured. ‘Precisely! We use the gifts the Creator has given us, to whit, we look down and what is it we see?’ The astrologer groaned inwardly. He looked down. ‘Tiles?’ he hazarded. ‘Tiles, yes, which together make up the. . . ?’ Trymon looked expectant. ‘Zodiac?’ ventured the astrologer, a desperate man. ‘Right! And therefore all we need do is cast Rincewind’s precise horoscope and we will know exactly where he is!’ The astrologer grinned like a man who, having tap-danced on quicksand, feels the press of solid rock under his feet. ‘I shall need to know his precise place and time of birth,’ he said. ‘Easily done. I copied them out of the University files before I came up here. ’ The astrologer looked at the notes, and his forehead wrinkled. He crossed the room and pulled out a wide drawer full of charts. He read the notes again. He picked up a complicated pair of compasses and made some passes across the charts. He picked up a small brass astrolobe and cranked it carefully. He whistled between his teeth. He picked up a piece of chalk and scribbled some numbers on a blackboard. Trymon, meanwhile, had been staring out at the new star. He thought: the legend in the Pyramid of Tsort says that whoever says the Eight Spells together when the Disc is in danger will obtain all that he truly desires. And it will be so soon! And he thought: I remember Rincewind, wasn’t he the scruffy boy who always came bottom of the class when we were training? Not a magical bone in his body. Let me get him in front of me, and we’ll see if we can’t get all eight— The astrologer said ‘Gosh’ under his breath. Trymon spun around. ‘Well?’ ‘Fascinating chart,’ said the astrologer, breathlessly. His forehead wrinkled. ‘Bit strange, really,’ he said. ‘How strange?’ ‘He was born under The Small Boring Group of Faint Stars which, as you know, lies between The Flying Moose and The Knotted String. It is said that even the ancients couldn’t find anything interesting to say about the sign, which—’ ‘Yes, yes, get on with it,’ said Trymon irritably. ‘It’s the sign traditionally associated with chess board makers, sellers of onions, manufacturers of plaster images of small religious significance, and people allergic to pewter. Not a wizard’s sign at all. And at the time of his birth the shadow of Cori Celesti—’ ‘I don’t want to know all the mechanical details,’ growled Trymon. ‘Just give me his horoscope. ’ The astrologer, who had been rather enjoying himself, sighed and made a few additional calculations. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘It reads as follows: “Today is a good time for making new friends. A good deed may have unforeseen consequences. Don’t upset any druids. You will soon be going on a very strange journey. Your lucky food is small cucumbers. People pointing knives at you are probably up to no good. PS, we really mean it about druids. ” ’ ‘Druids?’ said Trymon. ‘I wonder. . . ’ ‘Are you all right?’ said Twoflower. Rincewind opened his eyes. The wizard sat up hurriedly and grabbed Twoflower by the shirt. ‘I want to leave here!’ he said urgently.

‘Right now!’ ‘But there’s going to be an ancient and traditional ceremony!’ ‘I don’t care how ancient! I want the feel of honest cobbles under my feet, I want the old familiar smell of cesspits, I want to go where there’s lots of people and fires and roofs and walls and friendly things like that! I want to go home !’ He found that he had this sudden desperate longing for the fuming, smoky streets of Ankh-Morpork, which was always at its best in the spring, when the gummy sheen on the turbid waters of the Ankh River had a special iridescence and the eaves were full of birdsong, or at least birds coughing rhythmically. A tear sprang to his eye as he recalled the subtle play of light on the Temple of Small Gods, a noted local landmark, and a lump came to his throat when he remembered the fried fish stall on the junction of Midden Street and The Street of Cunning Artificers. He thought of the gherkins they sold there, great green things lurking at the bottom of their jar like drowned whales. They called to Rincewind across the miles, promising to introduce him to the pickled eggs in the next jar. He thought of the cosy livery stable lofts and warm gratings where he spent his nights. Foolishly, he had sometimes jibbed at this way of life. It seemed incredible now, but he had found it boring. Now he’d had enough. He was going home. Pickled gherkins, I hear you calling. . . He pushed Twoflower aside, gathered his tattered robe around him with great dignity, set his face towards that area of horizon he believed to contain the city of his birth, and with intense determination and considerable absent-mindedness stepped right off the top of a thirty-foot trilithon. Some ten minutes later, when a worried and rather contrite Twoflower dug him out of the large snowdrift at the base of the stones, his expression hadn’t changed. Twoflower peered at him. ‘Are you all right?’ he said. ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’ ‘I want to go home!’ ‘Okay. ’ ‘No, don’t try and talk me out of it, I’ve had enough, I’d like to say it’s been great fun but I can’t, and – what?’ ‘I said okay,’ said Twoflower. ‘I’d quite like to see Ankh-Morpork again. I expect they’ve rebuilt quite a lot of it by now. ’ It should be noted that the last time the two of them had seen the city it was burning quite fiercely, a fact which had a lot to do with Twoflower introducing the concept of fire insurance to a venial but ignorant populace. But devastating fires were a regular feature of Morporkian life and it had always been cheerfully and meticulously rebuilt, using the traditional local materials of tinder-dry wood and thatch waterproofed with tar. ‘Oh,’ said Rincewind, deflating a bit. ‘Oh, right. Right then. Good. Perhaps we’d better be off, then. ’ He scrambled up and brushed the snow off himself. ‘Only I think we should wait until morning,’ added Twoflower. ‘Why?’ ‘Well, because it’s freezing cold, we don’t really know where we are, the Luggage has gone missing, it’s getting dark—’ Rincewind paused. In the deep canyons of his mind he thought he heard the distant rustle of ancient paper. He had a horrible feeling that his dreams were going to be very repetitive from now on, and he had much better things to do than be lectured by a bunch of ancient spells who couldn’t even agree on how the Universe began— A tiny dry voice at the back of his brain said: What things ? ‘Oh, shut up,’ he said. ‘I only said it’s freezing cold and—’ Twoflower began. ‘I didn’t mean you, I meant me. ’ ‘What?’ ‘Oh, shut up,’ said Rincewind wearily. ‘I don’t suppose there’s anything to eat around here?’ The giant stones were black and menacing against the dying green light of sunset. The inner circle was full of druids, scurrying around by the light of several bonfires and tuning up all the necessary peripherals of a stone computer, like rams’ skulls on poles topped with mistletoe, banners embroidered with twisted snakes and so on. Beyond the circles of firelight a large number of plains people had gathered; druidic festivals were always popular, especially when things went wrong. Rincewind stared at them. ‘What’s going on?’ ‘Oh, well,’ said Twoflower enthusiastically, ‘apparently there’s this ceremony dating back for thousands of years to celebrate the, um, rebirth of the moon, or possibly the sun. No, I’m pretty certain it’s the moon. Apparently it’s very solemn and beautiful and invested with a quiet dignity. ’ Rincewind shivered. He always began to worry when Twoflower started to talk like that. At least he hadn’t said ‘picturesque’ or ‘quaint’ yet; Rincewind had never found a satisfactory translation for those words, but the nearest he had been able to come was ‘trouble’. ‘I wish the Luggage was here,’ said the tourist regretfully. ‘I could use my picture box. It sounds very quaint and picturesque. ’ The crowd stirred expectantly. Apparently things were about to start. ‘Look,’ said Rincewind urgently. ‘Druids are priests. You must remember that. Don’t do anything to upset them. ’ ‘But—’ ‘Don’t offer to buy the stones. ’ ‘But I—’ ‘Don’t start talking about quaint native folkways. ’ ‘I thought—’ ‘ Really don’t try to sell them insurance, that always upsets them. ’ ‘But they’re priests!’ wailed Twoflower. Rincewind paused. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s the whole point, isn’t it?’ At the far side of the outer circle some sort of procession was forming up. ‘But priests are good, kind men,’ said Twoflower. ‘At home they go around with begging bowls. It’s their only possession,’ he added. ‘Ah,’ said Rincewind, not certain he understood. ‘This would be for putting the blood in, right?’ ‘Blood?’ ‘Yes, from sacrifices. ’ Rincewind thought about the priests he had known at home. He was, of course, anxious not to make an enemy of any god and had attended any number of temple functions and, on the whole, he thought that the most accurate definition of any priest in the Circle Sea Regions was someone who spent quite a lot of time gory to the armpits. Twoflower looked horrified. ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘Where I come from priests are holy men who have dedicated themselves to lives of poverty, good works and the study of the nature of God. ’ Rincewind considered this novel proposition. ‘No sacrifices?’ he said. ‘Absolutely not. ’ Rincewind gave up. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘they don’t sound very holy to me. ’ There was a loud blarting noise from a band of bronze trumpets. Rincewind looked around. A line of druids marched slowly past, their long sickles hung with sprays of mistletoe. Various junior druids and apprentices followed them, playing a variety of percussion instruments that were traditionally supposed to drive away evil spirits and quite probably succeeded. Torchlight made excitingly dramatic patterns on the stones, which stood ominously against the green-lit sky. Hubwards, the shimmering curtains of the aurora coriolis began to wink and glitter among the stars as a million ice crystals danced in the Disc’s magical field. ‘Belafon explained it all to me,’ whispered Twoflower. ‘We’re going to see a time-honoured ceremony that celebrates the Oneness of Man with the Universe, that was what he said. ’ Rincewind looked sourly at the procession. As the druids spread out around a great flat stone that dominated the centre of the circle he couldn’t help noticing the attractive if rather pale young lady in their midst. She wore a long white robe, a gold torc around her neck, and an expression of vague apprehension. ‘Is she a druidess?’ said Twoflower. ‘I don’t think so,’ said Rincewind slowly. The druids began to chant. It was, Rincewind felt, a particularly nasty and rather dull chant which sounded very much as if it was going to build up to an abrupt crescendo. The sight of the young woman lying down on the big stone didn’t do anything to derail his train of thought. ‘I want to stay,’ said Twoflower. ‘I think ceremonies like this hark back to a primitive simplicity which—’ ‘Yes, yes,’ said Rincewind, ‘but they’re going to sacrifice her, if you must know. ’ Twoflower looked at him in astonishment. ‘What, kill her?’ ‘Yes. ’ ‘Why?’ ‘Don’t ask me.

To make the crops grow or the moon rise or something. Or maybe they’re just keen on killing people. That’s religion for you. ’ He became aware of a low humming sound, not so much heard as felt. It seemed to be coming from the stone next to them. Little points of light flickered under its surface, like mica specks. Twoflower was opening and shutting his mouth. ‘Can’t they just use flowers and berries and things?’ he said. ‘Sort of symbolic?’ ‘Nope. ’ ‘Has anyone ever tried?’ Rincewind sighed. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘No self-respecting High Priest is going to go through all the business with the trumpets and the processions and the banners and everything, and then shove his knife into a daffodil and a couple of plums. You’ve got to face it, all this stuff about golden boughs and the cycles of nature and stuff just boils down to sex and violence, usually at the same time. ’ To his amazement Twoflower’s lip was trembling. Twoflower didn’t just look at the world through rose-tinted spectacles, Rincewind knew – he looked at it through a rose-tinted brain, too, and heard it through rose-tinted ears. The chant was rising inexorably to a crescendo. The head druid was testing the edge of his sickle and all eyes were turned to the finger of stone on the snowy hills beyond the circle where the moon was due to make a guest appearance. ‘It’s no use you—’ But Rincewind was talking to himself. However, the chilly landscape outside the circle was not entirely devoid of life. For one thing a party of wizards was even now drawing near, alerted by Trymon. But a small and solitary figure was also watching from the cover of a handy fallen stone. One of the Disc’s greatest legends watched the events in the stone circle with considerable interest. He saw the druids circle and chant, saw the chief druid raise his sickle. . . Heard the voice. ‘I say! Excuse me! Can I have a word?’ Rincewind looked around desperately for a way of escape. There wasn’t one. Twoflower was standing by the altar stone with one finger in the air and an attitude of polite determination. Rincewind remembered one day when Twoflower had thought a passing drover was beating his cattle too hard, and the case he had made for decency towards animals had left Rincewind severely trampled and lightly gored. The druids were looking at Twoflower with the kind of expression normally reserved for mad sheep or the sudden appearance of a rain of frogs. Rincewind couldn’t quite hear what Twoflower was saying, but a few phrases like ‘ethnic folkways’ and ‘nuts and flowers’ floated acoss the hushed circle. Then fingers like a bunch of cheese straws clamped over the wizard’s mouth and an extremely sharp cutting edge pinked his Adam’s apple and a damp voice right by his ear said, ‘Not a shound, or you ish a dead man. ’ Rincewind’s eyes swivelled in their sockets as if trying to find a way out. ‘If you don’t want me to say anything, how will you know I understand what you just said?’ he hissed. ‘Shut up and tell me what that other idiot ish doing!’ ‘No, but look, if I’ve got to shut up, how can I—’ The knife at his throat became a hot streak of pain and Rincewind decided to give logic a miss. ‘His name’s Twoflower. He isn’t from these parts. ’ ‘Doeshn’t look like it. Friend of yoursh?’ ‘We’ve got this sort of hate-hate relationship, yes. ’ Rincewind couldn’t see his captor, but by the feel of it he had a body made of coathangers. He also smelt strongly of peppermints. ‘He hash got guts, I’ll give him that. Do exshactly what I shay and it ish just poshible he won’t end up with them wrapped around a shtone. ’ ‘Urrr. ’ ‘They’re not very ecumenical around here, you shee. ’ It was at that moment that the moon, in due obedience to the laws of persuasion, rose, although in deference to the laws of computing it wasn’t anywhere near where the stones said it should be. But what was there, peeking through ragged clouds, was a glaring red star. It hung exactly over the circle’s holiest stone, glittering away like the sparkle in the eyesocket of Death. It was sullen and awful and, Rincewind couldn’t help noticing, just a little bit bigger than it was last night. A cry of horror went up from the assembled priests. The crowd on the surrounding banks pressed forward; this looked quite promising. Rincewind felt a knife handle slip into his hand, and the squelchy voice behind him said, ‘You ever done this short of thing before?’ ‘What sort of thing?’ ‘Rushed into a temple, killed the prieshts, shtolen the gold and reshcued the girl. ’ ‘No, not in so many words. ’ ‘You do it like thish. ’ Two inches from Rincewind’s left ear a voice broke into a sound like a baboon with its foot trapped in an echo canyon, and a small but wiry shape rushed past him. By the light of the torches he saw that it was a very old man, the skinny variety that generally gets called ‘spry’, with a totally bald head, a beard almost down to his knees, and a pair of matchstick legs on which varicose veins had traced the street map of quite a large city. Despite the snow he wore nothing more than a studded leather holdall and a pair of boots that could have easily accommodated a second pair of feet. The two druids closest to him exchanged glances and hefted their sickles. There was a brief blur and they collapsed into tight balls of agony, making rattling noises. In the excitement that followed Rincewind sidled along towards the altar stone, holding his knife gingerly so as not to attract any unwelcome comment. In fact no one was paying a great deal of attention to him; the druids that hadn’t fled the circle, generally the younger and more muscular ones, had congregated around the old man in order to discuss the whole subject of sacrilege as it pertained to stone circles, but judging by the cackling and sounds of gristle he was carrying the debate. Twoflower was watching the fight with interest. Rincewind grabbed him by the shoulder. ‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t we help?’ ‘I’m sure we’d only get in the way,’ said Rincewind hurriedly. ‘You know what it’s like to have people looking over your shoulder when you’re busy. ’ ‘At least we must rescue the young lady,’ said Twoflower firmly. ‘All right, but get a move on!’ Twoflower took the knife and hurried up to the altar stone. After several inept slashes he managed to cut the ropes that bound the girl, who sat up and burst into tears. ‘It’s all right—’ he began. ‘It bloody well isn’t!’ she snapped, glaring at him through two red-rimmed eyes. ‘Why do people always go and spoil things?’ She blew her nose resentfully on the edge of her robe. Twoflower looked up at Rincewind in embarrassment. ‘Um, I don’t think you quite understand,’ he said. ‘I mean, we just saved you from absolutely certain death. ’ ‘It’s not easy around here,’ she said. ‘I mean, keeping yourself—’ she blushed, and twisted the hem of her robe wretchedly. ‘I mean, staying. . . not letting yourself. . . not losing your qualifications. . . ’ ‘Qualifications?’ said Twoflower, earning the Rincewind Cup for the slowest person on the uptake in the entire multiverse. The girl’s eyes narrowed. ‘I could have been up there with the Moon Goddess by now, drinking mead out of a silver bowl,’ she said petulantly. ‘Eight years of staying home on Saturday nights right down the drain!’ She looked up at Rincewind and scowled. Then he sensed something. Perhaps it was a barely heard footstep behind him, perhaps it was movement reflected in her eyes – but he ducked. Something whistled through the air where his neck had been and glanced off Twoflower’s bald head. Rincewind spun round to see the archdruid readying his sickle for another swing and, in the absence of any hope of running away, lashed out desperately with a foot. It caught the druid squarely on the kneecap. As the man screamed and dropped his weapon there was a nasty little fleshy sound and he fell forward. Behind him the little man with the long beard pulled his sword from the body, wiped it with a handful of snow, and said, ‘My lumbago is giving me gyp. You can carry the treashure.

’ ‘Treasure?’ said Rincewind weakly. ‘All the necklashes and shtuff. All the gold collarsh. They’ve got lotsh of them. Thatsh prieshts for you,’ said the old man wetly. ‘Nothing but torc, torc, torc. Who’she the girl?’ ‘She won’t let us rescue her,’ said Rincewind. The girl looked at the old man defiantly through her smudged eyeshadow. ‘Bugger that,’ he said, and with one movement picked her up, staggered a little, screamed at his arthritis and fell over. After a moment he said, from his prone position, ‘Don’t just shtand there, you daft bitcsh – help me up. ’ Much to Rincewind’s amazement, and almost certainly to hers as well, she did so. Rincewind, meanwhile, was trying to rouse Twoflower. There was a graze across his temple which didn’t look too deep, but the little man was unconscious with a faintly worried smile plastered across his face. His breathing was shallow and – strange. And he felt light. Not simply underweight, but weightless. The wizard might as well have been holding a shadow. Rincewind remembered that it was said that druids used strange and terrible poisons. Of course, it was often said, usually by the same people, that crooks always had close-set eyes, lightning never struck twice in the same place and if the gods had wanted men to fly they’d have given them an airline ticket. But something about Twoflower’s lightness frightened Rincewind. Frightened him horribly. He looked up at the girl. She had the old man slung over one shoulder, and gave Rincewind an apologetic half-smile. From somewhere around the small of her back a voice said, ‘Got everything? Letsh get out of here before they come back. ’ Rincewind tucked Twoflower under one arm and jogged along after them. It seemed the only thing to do. The old man had a large white horse tethered to a withered tree in a snow-filled gully some way from the circles. It was sleek, glossy and the general effect of a superb battle charger was only very slightly spoiled by the haemorrhoid ring tied to the saddle. ‘Okay, put me down. There’sh a bottle of shome linament shtuff in the shaddle bag, if you wouldn’t mind. . . ’ Rincewind propped Twoflower as nicely as possible against the tree, and by moonlight – and, he realized, by the faint red light of the menacing new star – took the first real look at his rescuer. The man had only one eye; the other was covered by a black patch. His thin body was a network of scars and, currently, twanging white-hot with tendonitis. His teeth had obviously decided to quit long ago. ‘Who are you?’ he said. ‘Bethan,’ said the girl, rubbing a handful of nasty-smelling green ointment into the old man’s back. She wore the air of one who, if asked to consider what sort of events might occur after being rescued from virgin sacrifice by a hero with a white charger, would probably not have mentioned linament, but who, now linament was apparently what did happen to you after all, was determined to be good at it. ‘I meant him,’ said Rincewind. One star-bright eye looked up at him. ‘Cohen ish my name, boy. ’ Bethan’s hands stopped moving. ‘Cohen?’ she said. ‘Cohen the Barbarian?’ ‘The very shame. ’ ‘Hang on, hang on,’ said Rincewind. ‘Cohen’s a great big chap, neck like a bull, got chest muscles like a sack of footballs. I mean, he’s the Disc’s greatest warrior, a legend in his own lifetime. I remember my grandad telling me he saw him. . . my grandad telling me he. . . my grandad. . . ’ He faltered under the gimlet gaze. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Oh. Of course. Sorry. ’ ‘Yesh,’ said Cohen, and sighed. ‘Thatsh right, boy. I’m a lifetime in my own legend. ’ ‘Gosh,’ said Rincewind. ‘How old are you, exactly?’ ‘Eighty-sheven. ’ ‘But you were the greatest!’ said Bethan. ‘Bards still sing songs about you. ’ Cohen shrugged, and gave a little yelp of pain. ‘I never get any royaltiesh,’ he said. He looked moodily at the snow. ‘That’sh the shaga of my life. Eighty yearsh in the bushiness and what have I got to show for it? Backache, pilesh, bad digeshtion and a hundred different recipesh for shoop. Shoop! I hate shoop!’ Bethan’s forehead wrinkled. ‘Shoop?’ ‘Soup,’ explained Rincewind. ‘Yeah, shoop,’ said Cohen, miserably. ‘It’sh my teeths, you shee. No one takes you sheriously when you’ve got no teeths, they shay “Shit down by the fire, grandad, and have shome shoo—” ’ Cohen looked sharply at Rincewind. ‘That’sh a nashty cough you have there, boy. ’ Rincewind looked away, unable to look Bethan in the face. Then his heart sank. Twoflower was still leaning against the tree, peacefully unconscious, and looking as reproachful as was possible in the circumstances. Cohen appeared to remember him, too. He got unsteadily to his feet and shuffled over to the tourist. He thumbed both eyes open, examined the graze, felt the pulse. ‘He’sh gone,’ he said. ‘Dead?’ said Rincewind. In the debating chamber of his mind a dozen emotions got to their feet and started shouting. Relief was in full spate when Shock cut in on a point of order and then Bewilderment, Terror and Loss started a fight which was ended only when Shame slunk in from next door to see what all the row was about. ‘No,’ said Cohen thoughtfully, ‘not exshactly. Just – gone. ’ ‘Gone where?’ ‘I don’t know,’ said Cohen, ‘but I think I know shomeone who might have a map. ’ Far out on the snowfield half a dozen pinpoints of red light glowed in the shadows. ‘He’s not far away,’ said the leading wizard, peering into a small crystal sphere. There was general mutter from the ranks behind him which roughly meant that however far away Rincewind was he couldn’t be further than a nice hot bath, a good meal and a warm bed. Then the wizard who was tramping along in the rear stopped and said, ‘Listen!’ They listened. There were the subtle sounds of winter beginning to close its grip on the land, the creak of rocks, the muted scuffling of small creatures in their tunnels under the blanket of snow. In a distant forest a wolf howled, felt embarrassed when no one joined in, and stopped. There was the silver sleeting sound of moonlight. There was also the wheezing noise of half a dozen wizards trying to breathe quietly. ‘I can’t hear a thing—’ one began. ‘Ssshh!’ ‘All right, all right—’ Then they all heard it; a tiny distant crunching, like something moving very quickly over the snow crust. ‘Wolves?’ said a wizard. They all thought about hundreds of lean, hungry bodies leaping through the night. ‘N-no,’ said the leader. ‘It’s too regular. Perhaps it’s a messenger?’ It was louder now, a crisp rhythm like someone eating celery very fast. ‘I’ll send up a flare,’ said the leader. He picked up a handful of snow, rolled it into a ball, threw it up into the air and ignited it with a stream of octarine fire from his fingertips. There was a brief, fierce blue glare. There was silence. Then another wizard said, ‘You daft bugger, I can’t see a thing now. ’ That was the last thing they heard before something fast, hard and noisy cannoned into them out of the darkness and vanished into the night. When they dug one another out of the snow all they could find was a tight pressed trail of little footprints. Hundreds of little footprints, all very close together and heading across the snow as straight as a searchlight. ‘A necromancer!’ said Rincewind. The old woman across the fire shrugged and pulled a pack of greasy cards from some unseen pocket. Despite the deep frost outside, the atmosphere inside the yurt was like a blacksmith’s armpit and the wizard was already sweating heavily. Horse dung made a good fuel, but the Horse People had a lot to learn about air conditioning, starting with what it meant. Bethan leaned sideways. ‘What’s neck romance?’ she whispered. ‘Necromancy. Talking to the dead,’ he explained. ‘Oh,’ she said, vaguely disappointed. They had dined on horse meat, horse cheese, horse black pudding, horse d’oeuvres and a thin beer that Rincewind didn’t want to speculate about.

Cohen (who’d had horse soup) explained that the Horse Tribes of the Hubland steppes were born in the saddle, which Rincewind considered was a gynaecological impossibility, and they were particularly adept at natural magic, since life on the open steppe makes you realize how neatly the sky fits the land all around the edges and this naturally inspires the mind to deep thoughts like ‘Why?’, ‘When?’ and ‘Why don’t we try beef for a change?’ The chieftain’s grandmother nodded at Rincewind and spread the cards in front of her. Rincewind, as it has already been noted, was the worst wizard on the Disc: no other spells would stay in his mind once the Spell had lodged in there, in much the same way that fish don’t hang around in a pike pool. But he still had his pride, and wizards don’t like to see women perform even simple magic. Unseen University had never admitted women, muttering something about problems with the plumbing, but the real reason was an unspoken dread that if women were allowed to mess around with magic they would probably be embarrassingly good at it. . . ‘Anyway, I don’t believe in Caroc cards,’ he muttered. ‘All that stuff about it being the distilled wisdom of the universe is a load of rubbish. ’ The first card, smoke-yellowed and age-crinkled, was. . . It should have been The Star. But instead of the familar round disc with crude little rays, it had become a tiny red dot. The old woman muttered and scratched at the card with a fingernail, then looked sharply at Rincewind. ‘Nothing to do with me,’ he said. She turned up the Importance of Washing the Hands, the Eight of Octograms, the Dome of the Sky, the Pool of Night, the Four of Elephants, the Ace of Turtles, and – Rincewind had been expecting it – Death. And something was wrong with Death, too. It should have been a fairly realistic drawing of Death on his white horse, and indeed He was still there. But the sky was red lit, and coming over a distant hill was a tiny figure, barely visible by the light of the horsefat lamps. Rincewind didn’t have to identify it, because behind it was a box on hundreds of little legs. The Luggage would follow its owner anywhere. Rincewind looked across the tent to Twoflower, a pale shape on a pile of horsehides. ‘He’s really dead?’ he said. Cohen translated for the old woman, who shook her head. She reached down to a small wooden chest beside her and rummaged around in a collection of bags and bottles until she found a tiny green bottle which she tipped into Rincewind’s beer. He looked at it suspiciously. ‘She shays it’s sort of medicine,’ said Cohen. ‘I should drink it if I were you, theshe people get a bit upshet if you don’t accshept hoshpitality. ’ ‘It’s not going to blow my head off?’ said Rincewind. ‘She shays it’s esshential you drink it. ’ ‘Well, if you’re sure it’s okay. It can’t make the beer taste any worse. ’ He took a swig, aware of all eyes on him. ‘Um,’ he said. ‘Actually, it’s not at all ba—’ Something picked him up and threw him into the air. Except that in another sense he was still sitting by the fire – he could see himself there, a dwindling figure in the circle of firelight that was rapidly getting smaller. The toy figures around it were looking intently at his body. Except for the old woman. She was looking right up at him , and grinning. The Circle Sea’s senior wizards were not grinning at all. They were becoming aware that they were confronted with something entirely new and fearsome: a young man on the make. Actually none of them was quite sure how old Trymon really was, but his sparse hair was still black and his skin had a waxy look to it that could be taken, in a poor light, to be the bloom of youth. The six surviving heads of the Eight Orders sat at the long, shiny and new table in what had been Galder Weatherwax’s study and each one wondered precisely what it was about Trymon that made them want to kick him. It wasn’t that he was ambitious and cruel. Cruel men were stupid; they all knew how to use cruel men, and they certainly knew how to bend other men’s ambitions. You didn’t stay an Eighth Level magus for long unless you were adept at a kind of mental judo. It wasn’t that he was bloodthirsty, power-hungry or especially wicked. These things were not necessarily drawbacks in a wizard. The wizards were, on the whole, no more wicked than, say, the committee of the average Rotary Club, and each had risen to preeminence in his chosen profession not so much by skill at magic but by never neglecting to capitalize on the weaknesses of opponents. It wasn’t that he was particularly wise. Every wizard considered himself a fairly hot property, wisewise; it went with the job. It wasn’t even that he had charisma. They all knew charisma when they encountered it, and Trymon had all the charisma of a duck egg. That was it, in fact. . . He wasn’t good or evil or cruel or extreme in any way but one, which was that he had elevated greyness to the status of a fine art and cultivated a mind that was as bleak and pitiless and logical as the slopes of Hell. And what was so strange was that each of the wizards, who had in the course of their work encountered many a fire-spitting, bat-winged, tiger-taloned entity in the privacy of a magical octogram, had never before had quite the same uncomfortable feeling as they had when, ten minutes late, Trymon strode into the room. ‘Sorry I’m late, gentlemen,’ he lied, rubbing his hands briskly. ‘So many things to do, so much to organize, I’m sure you know how it is. ’ The wizards looked sidelong at one another as Trymon sat down at the head of the table and shuffled busily through some papers. ‘What happened to old Galder’s chair, the one with the lion arms and the chicken feet?’ said Jiglad Wert. It had gone, along with most of the other familiar furniture, and in its place were a number of low leather chairs that appeared to be incredibly comfortable until you’d sat in them for five minutes. ‘That? Oh, I had it burnt,’ said Trymon, not looking up. ‘Burnt? But it was a priceless magical artifact, a genuine—’ ‘Just a piece of junk, I’m afraid,’ said Trymon, treating him to a fleeting smile. ‘I’m sure real wizards don’t really need that sort of thing. Now if I may draw your attention to the business of the day—’ ‘What’s this paper?’ said Jiglad Wert, of the Hoodwinkers, waving the document that had been left in front of him, and waving it all the more forcefully because his own chair, back in his cluttered and comfortable tower, was if anything more ornate than Galder’s had been. ‘It’s an agenda, Jiglad,’ said Trymon, patiently. ‘And what does a gender do?’ ‘It’s just a list of the things we’ve got to discuss. It’s very simple, I’m sorry if you feel that—’ ‘We’ve never needed one before!’ ‘I think perhaps you have needed one, you just haven’t used one,’ said Trymon, his voice resonant with reasonableness. Wert hesitated. ‘Well, all right,’ he said sullenly, looking around the table for support, ‘but what’s this here where it says—’ he peered closely at the writing, ‘ “Successor to Greyhald Spold”. It’s going to be old Rhunlet Vard, isn’t it? He’s been waiting for years. ’ ‘Yes, but is he sound?’ said Trymon. ‘What?’ ‘I’m sure we all realize the importance of proper leadership,’ said Trymon. ‘Now, Vard is – well, worthy, of course, in his way, but—’ ‘It’s not our business,’ said one of the other wizards. ‘No, but it could be,’ said Trymon. There was silence. ‘Interfere with the affairs of another Order?’ said Wert. ‘Of course not,’ said Trymon. ‘I merely suggest that we could offer. . . advice. But let us discuss this later. . . ’ The wizards had never heard of the words ‘power base’, otherwise Trymon would never have been able to get away with all this. But the plain fact was that helping others to achieve power, even to strengthen your own hand, was quite alien to them. As far as they were concerned, every wizard stood alone. Never mind about hostile paranormal entities, an ambitious wizard had quite enough to do fighting his enemies in his own Order.

‘I think we should now consider the matter of Rincewind,’ said Trymon. ‘And the star,’ said Wert. ‘People are noticing, you know. ’ ‘Yes, they say we should be doing something,’ said Lumuel Panter, of the Order of Midnight. ‘What, I should like to know?’ ‘Oh, that’s easy,’ said Wert. ‘They say we should read the Octavo. That’s what they always say. Crops bad? Read the Octavo. Cows ill? Read the Octavo. The Spells will make everything all right. ’ ‘There could be something in that,’ said Trymon. ‘My, er, late predecessor made quite a study of the Octavo. ’ ‘We all have,’ said Panter, sharply, ‘but what’s the use? The Eight Spells have to work together. Oh, I agree, if all else fails maybe we should risk it, but the Eight have to be said together or not at all – and one of them is inside this Rincewind’s head. ’ ‘And we cannot find him,’ said Trymon. ‘That is the case, isn’t it? I’m sure we’ve all tried, privately. ’ The wizards looked at one another, embarrassed. Eventually Wert said, ‘Yes. All right. Cards on the table. I can’t seem to locate him. ’ ‘I’ve tried scrying,’ said another. ‘Nothing. ’ ‘I’ve sent familiars,’ said a third. The others sat up. If confessing failure was the order of the day, then they were damn well going to make it clear that they had failed heroically. ‘Is that all? I’ve sent demons. ’ ‘ I’ve looked into the Mirror of Oversight. ’ ‘Last night I sought him out in the Runes of M’haw. ’ ‘I’d like to make it clear that I tried both the Runes and the Mirror and the entrails of a manicreach. ’ ‘ I’ve spoken to the beasts of the field and the birds of the air. ’ ‘Any good?’ ‘Nah. ’ ‘Well, I’ve questioned the very bones of the country, yea, and the deep stones and the mountains thereof. ’ There was a sudden chilly silence. Everyone looked at the wizard who had spoken. It was Ganmack Treehallet, of the Venerable Seers, who shifted uneasily in his seat. ‘Yes, with bells on, I expect,’ said someone. ‘I never said they answered, did I?’ Trymon looked along the table. ‘ I’ve sent someone to find him,’ he said. Wert snorted. ‘That didn’t work out so well the last two times, did it?’ ‘That was because we relied on magic, but it is obvious that Rincewind is somehow hidden from magic. But he can’t hide his footprints. ’ ‘You’ve set a tracker?’ ‘In a manner of speaking. ’ ‘A hero ?’ Wert managed to pack a lot of meaning into the one word. In such a tone of voice, in another universe, would a Southerner say ‘damnyankee’. The wizards looked at Trymon, open-mouthed. ‘Yes,’ he said calmly. ‘On whose authority?’ demanded Wert. Trymon turned his grey eyes on him. ‘Mine. I needed no other. ’ ‘It’s – it’s highly irregular! Since when have wizards needed to hire heroes to do their work for them?’ ‘Ever since wizards found their magic wouldn’t work,’ said Trymon. ‘A temporary setback, nothing more. ’ Trymon shrugged. ‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘but we haven’t the time to find out. Prove me wrong. Find Rincewind by scrying or talking to birds. But as for me, I know I’m meant to be wise. And wise men do what the times demand. ’ It is a well known fact that warriors and wizards do not get along, because one side considers the other side to be a collection of bloodthirsty idiots who can’t walk and think at the same time, while the other side is naturally suspicious of a body of men who mumble a lot and wear long dresses. Oh, say the wizards, if we’re going to be like that, then, what about all those studded collars and oiled muscles down at the Young Men’s Pagan Association? To which the heroes reply, that’s a pretty good allegation coming from a bunch of wimpsoes who won’t go near a woman on account, can you believe it, of their mystical power being sort of drained out. Right, say the wizards, that just about does it, you and your leather posing pouches. Oh yeah, say the heroes, why don’t you. . . And so on. This sort of thing has been going on for centuries, and caused a number of major battles which have left large tracts of land uninhabitable because of magical harmonics. In fact, the hero, even at this moment galloping towards the Vortex Plains, didn’t get involved in this kind of argument because they didn’t take it seriously but mainly because this particular hero was a heroine. A red-headed one. Now, there is a tendency at a point like this to look over one’s shoulder at the cover artist and start going on at length about leather, thighboots and naked blades. Words like ‘full’, ‘round’ and even ‘pert’ creep into the narrative, until the writer has to go and have a cold shower and a lie down. Which is all rather silly, because any woman setting out to make a living by the sword isn’t about to go around looking like something off the cover of the more advanced kind of lingerie catalogue for the specialized buyer. Oh well, all right. The point that must be made is that although Herrena the Henna-Haired Harridan would look quite stunning after a good bath, a heavy-duty manicure, and the pick of the leather racks in Woo Hun Ling’s Oriental Exotica and Martial Aids on Heroes Street, she was currently quite sensibly dressed in light chain mail, soft boots, and a short sword. All right, maybe the boots were leather. But not black. Riding with her were a number of swarthy men that will certainly be killed before too long anyway, so a description is probably not essential. There was absolutely nothing pert about any of them. Look, they can wear leather if you like. Herrena wasn’t too happy about them, but they were all that was available for hire in Morpork. Many of the citizens were moving out and heading for the hills, out of fear of the new star. But Herrena was heading for the hills for a different reason. Just turnwise and rimwards of the Plains were the bare Trollbone Mountains. Herrena, who had for many years availed herself of the uniquely equal opportunities available to any woman who could make a sword sing, was trusting to her instincts. This Rincewind, as Trymon had described him, was a rat, and rats like cover. Anyway, the mountains were a long way from Trymon and, for all that he was currently her employer, Herrena was very happy about that. There was something about his manner that made her fists itch. Rincewind knew he ought to be panicking, but that was difficult because, although he wasn’t aware of it, emotions like panic and terror and anger are all to do with stuff sloshing around in glands and all Rincewind’s glands were still in his body. It was difficult to be certain where his real body was, but when he looked down he could see a fine blue line trailing from what for the sake of sanity he would still call his ankle into the blackness around him, and it seemed reasonable to assume that his body was on the other end. It was not a particularly good body, he’d be the first to admit, but one or two bits of it had sentimental value and it dawned on him that if the little blue line snapped he’d have to spend the rest of his li— his existence hanging around ouija boards pretending to be people’s dead aunties and all the other things lost souls do to pass the time. The sheer horror of this so appalled him he hardly felt his feet touch the ground. Some ground, anyway; he decided that it almost certainly wasn’t the ground, which as far as he could remember wasn’t black and didn’t swirl in such a disconcerting way. He took a look around. Sheer sharp mountains speared up around him into a frosty sky hung with cruel stars, stars which appeared on no celestial chart in the multiverse, but right in there amongst them was a malevolent red disc. Rincewind shivered, and looked away. The land ahead of him sloped down sharply, and a dry wind whispered across the frost-cracked rocks. It really did whisper. As grey eddies caught at his robe and tugged at his hair Rincewind thought he could hear voices, faint and far off, saying things like ‘Are you sure those were mushrooms in the stew? I feel a bit—,’ and ‘There’s a lovely view if you lean over this—,’ and ‘Don’t fuss, it’s only a scratch—,’ and ‘Watch where you’re pointing that bow, you nearly—’ and so on.

He stumbled down the slope, with his fingers in his ears, until he saw a sight seen by very few living men. The ground dipped sharply until it became a vast funnel, fully a mile across, into which the whispering wind of the souls of the dead blew with a vast, echoing susurration, as though the Disc itself was breathing. But a narrow spur of rock arched out and over the hole, ending in an outcrop perhaps a hundred feet across. There was a garden up there, with orchards and flower-beds, and a quite small black cottage. A little path led up to it. Rincewind looked behind him. The shiny blue line was still there. So was the Luggage. It squatted on the path, watching him. Rincewind had never got on with the Luggage, it had always given him the impression that it thoroughly disapproved of him. But just for once it wasn’t glaring at him. It had a rather pathetic look, like a dog that’s just come home after a pleasant roll in the cowpats to find that the family has moved to the next continent. ‘All right,’ said Rincewind. ‘Come on. ’ It extended its legs and followed him up the path. Somehow Rincewind had expected the garden on the outcrop to be full of dead flowers, but it was in fact well kept and had obviously been planted by someone with an eye for colour, always provided the colour was deep purple, night black or shroud white. Huge lilies perfumed the air. There was a sundial without a gnomon in the middle of a freshly-scythed lawn. With the Luggage trailing behind him Rincewind crept along a path of marble chippings until he was at the rear of the cottage, and pushed open a door. Four horses looked at him over the top of their nosebags. They were warm and alive, and some of the best kept beasts Rincewind had ever seen. A big white one had a stall all to itself, and a silver and black harness hung over the door. The other three were tethered in front of a hay rack on the opposite wall, as if visitors had just dropped by. They regarded Rincewind with vague animal curiosity. The Luggage bumped into his ankle. He spun around and hissed, ‘Push off, you!’ The Luggage backed away. It looked abashed. Rincewind tiptoed to the far door and cautiously pushed it open. It gave onto a stone-flagged passageway, which in turn opened onto a wide entrance hall. He crept forward with his back pressed tightly against a wall. Behind him the Luggage rose up on tiptoes and skittered along nervously. The hall itself. . . Well, it wasn’t the fact that it was considerably bigger than the whole cottage had appeared from the outside that worried Rincewind; the way things were these days, he’d have laughed sarcastically if anyone had said you couldn’t get a quart into a pint pot. And it wasn’t the decor, which was Early Crypt and ran heavily to black drapes. It was the clock. It was very big, and occupied a space between two curving wooden staircases covered with carvings of things that normal men only see after a heavy session on something illegal. It had a very long pendulum, and the pendulum swung with a slow tick-tock that set his teeth on edge, because it was the kind of deliberate, annoying ticking that wanted to make it abundantly clear that every tick and every tock was stripping another second off your life. It was the kind of sound that suggested very pointedly that in some hypothetical hourglass, somewhere, another few grains of sand had dropped out from under you. Needless to say, the weight on the pendulum was knife-edged and razor sharp. Something tapped him in the small of the back. He turned angrily. ‘Look, you son of a suitcase, I told you—’ It wasn’t the Luggage. It was a young woman – silver haired, silver eyed, rather taken aback. ‘Oh,’ said Rincewind. ‘Um. Hallo?’ ‘Are you alive?’ she said. It was the kind of voice associated with beach umbrellas, suntan oil and long cool drinks. ‘Well, I hope so,’ said Rincewind, wondering if his glands were having a good time wherever they were. ‘Sometimes I’m not so sure. What is this place?’ ‘This is the house of Death,’ she said. ‘Ah,’ said Rincewind. He ran a tongue over his dry lips. ‘Well, nice to meet you. I think I ought to be getting along—’ She clapped her hands. ‘Oh, you mustn’t go!’ she said. ‘We don’t often have living people here. Dead people are so boring, don’t you think?’ ‘Uh, yes,’ Rincewind agreed fervently, eyeing the doorway. ‘Not much conversation, I imagine. ’ ‘It’s always “When I was alive—” and “We really knew how to breathe in my day—”,’ she said, laying a small white hand on his arm and smiling at him. ‘They’re always so set in their ways, too. No fun at all. So formal. ’ ‘Stiff?’ suggested Rincewind. She was propelling him towards an archway. ‘Absolutely. What’s your name? My name is Ysabell. ’ ‘Um, Rincewind. Excuse me, but if this is the house of Death, what are you doing here? You don’t look dead to me. ’ ‘Oh, I live here. ’ She looked intently at him. ‘I say, you haven’t come to rescue your lost love, have you? That always annoys Daddy, he says it’s a good job he never sleeps because if he did he’d be kept awake by the tramp, tramp, tramp of young heroes coming down here to carry back a lot of silly girls, he says. ’ ‘Goes on a lot, does it?’ said Rincewind weakly, as they walked along a black-hung corridor. ‘All the time. I think it’s very romantic. Only when you leave, it’s very important not to look back. ’ ‘Why not?’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps the view isn’t very good. Are you a hero, actually?’ ‘Um, no. Not as such. Not at all, really. Even less than that, in fact. I just came to look for a friend of mine,’ he said wretchedly. ‘I suppose you haven’t seen him? Little fat man, talks a lot, wears eyeglasses, funny sort of clothes?’ As he spoke he was aware that he may have missed something vital. He shut his eyes and tried to recall the last few minutes of conversation. Then it hit him like a sandbag. ‘ Daddy? ’ She looked down demurely. ‘Adopted, actually,’ she said. ‘He found me when I was a little girl, he says. It was all rather sad. ’ She brightened. ‘But come and meet him – he’s got his friends in tonight, I’m sure he’ll be interested to see you. He doesn’t meet many people socially. Nor do I, actually,’ she added. ‘Sorry,’ said Rincewind. ‘Have I got it right? We’re talking about Death, yes? Tall, thin, empty eye-sockets, handy in the scythe department?’ She sighed. ‘Yes. His looks are against him, I’m afraid. ’ While it was true that, as has already been indicated, Rincewind was to magic what a bicycle is to a bumblebee, he nevertheless retained one privilege available to practitioners of the art, which was that at the point of death it would be Death himself who turned up to claim him (instead of delegating the job to a lesser mythological anthropomorphic personification, as is usually the case). Owing largely to inefficiency Rincewind had consistently failed to die at the right time, and if there is one thing that Death does not like it is unpunctuality. ‘Look, I expect my friend has just wandered off somewhere,’ he said. ‘He’s always doing that, story of his life, nice to have met you, must be going—’ But she had already stopped in front of a tall door padded with purple velvet. There were voices on the other side – eldritch voices, the sort of voices that mere typography will remain totally unable to convey until someone can make a linotype machine with echo-reverb and, possibly, a typeface that looks like something said by a slug. This is what the voices were saying: W OULD YOU KIND EXPLAINING THAT AGAIN ? ‘Well, if you return anything except a trump, South will be able to get in his two ruffs, losing only one Turtle, one Elephant and one Major Arcana, then—’ ‘That’s Twoflower!’ hissed Rincewind. ‘I’d know that voice anywhere!’ J UST A MINUTE – PESTILENCE IS SOUTH ? ‘ Oh, come on, Mort. He explained that. What if Famine had played a – what was it – a trump return? ’ It was a breathy, wet voice, practically contagious all by itself. ‘Ah, then you’d only be able to ruff one Turtle instead of two,’ said Twoflower enthusiastically.

‘But if War had chosen a trump lead originally, then the contract would have gone two down?’ ‘Exactly!’ I DIDN’T QUITE FOLLOW THAT. T ELL ME ABOUT PSYCHIC BIDS AGAIN , I THOUGHT I WAS GETTING THE HANG OF THAT. It was a heavy, hollow voice, like two large lumps of lead smashing together. ‘That’s when you make a bid primarily to deceive your opponents, but of course it might cause problems for your partner—’ Twoflower’s voice rambled on in its enthusiastic way. Rincewind looked blankly at Ysabell as words like ‘rebiddable suit’, ‘double finesse’ and ‘grand slam’ floated through the velvet. ‘Do you understand any of that?’ she asked. ‘Not a word,’ he said. ‘It sounds awfully complicated. ’ On the other side of the door the heavy voice said: D ID YOU SAY HUMANS PLAY THIS FOR FUN ? ‘Some of them get to be very good at it, yes. I’m only an amateur, I’m afraid. ’ B UT THEY ONLY LIVE EIGHTY OR NINETY YEARS ! ‘You should know, Mort,’ said a voice that Rincewind hadn’t heard before and certainly never wanted to hear again, especially after dark. ‘ It’s certainly very – intriguing. ’ D EAL AGAIN AND LET’S SEE IF I’ VE GOT THE HANG OF IT. ‘Do you think perhaps we should go in?’ said Ysabell. A voice behind the door said, I BID. . . THE KNAVE OF TERRAPINS. ‘No, sorry, I’m sure you’re wrong, let’s have a look at your—’ Ysabell pushed the door open. It was, in fact, a rather pleasant study, perhaps a little on the sombre side, possibly created on a bad day by an interior designer who had a headache and a craving for putting large hourglasses on every flat surface and also a lot of large, fat, yellow and extremely runny candles he wanted to get rid of. The Death of the Disc was a traditionalist who prided himself on his personal service and spent most of the time being depressed because this was not appreciated. He would point out that no one feared death itself, just pain and separation and oblivion, and that it was quite unreasonable to take against someone just because he had empty eye-sockets and a quiet pride in his work. He still used a scythe, he’d point out, while the Deaths of other worlds had long ago invested in combine harvesters. Death sat at one side of a black baize table in the centre of the room, arguing with Famine, War and Pestilence. Twoflower was the only one to look up and notice Rincewind. ‘Hey, how did you get here?’ he said. ‘Well, some say the Creator took a handful – oh, I see, well, it’s hard to explain but I—’ ‘Have you got the Luggage?’ The wooden box pushed past Rincewind and settled down in front of its owner, who opened its lid and rummaged around inside until he came up with a small, leatherbound book which he handed to War, who was hammering the table with a mailed fist. ‘It’s “Nosehinger on the Laws of Contract”,’ he said. ‘It’s quite good, there’s a lot in it about double finessing and how to—’ Death snatched the book with a bony hand and flipped through the pages, quite oblivious to the presence of the two men. R IGHT , he said, PESTILENCE, OPEN ANOTHER PACK OF CARDS. I’ M GOING TO GET TO THE BOTTOM OF THIS IF IT KILLS ME, FIGURATIVELY SPEAKING OF COURSE. Rincewind grabbed Twoflower and pulled him out of the room. As they jogged down the corridor with the Luggage galloping behind them he said: ‘What was all that about?’ ‘Well, they’ve got lots of time and I thought they might enjoy it,’ panted Twoflower. ‘What, playing with cards?’ ‘It’s a special kind of playing,’ said Twoflower. ‘It’s called—’ he hesitated. Language wasn’t his strong point. ‘In your language it’s called a thing you put across a river, for example,’ he concluded, ‘I think. ’ ‘Aqueduct?’ hazarded Rincewind. ‘Fishing line? Weir? Dam?’ ‘Yes, possibly. ’ They reached the hallway, where the big clock still shaved the seconds off the lives of the world. ‘And how long do you think that’ll keep them occupied?’ Twoflower paused. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Probably until the last trump – what an amazing clock. . . ’ ‘Don’t try to buy it,’ Rincewind advised. ‘I don’t think they’d appreciate it around here. ’ ‘Where is here, exactly?’ said Twoflower, beckoning the Luggage and opening its lid. Rincewind looked around. The hall was dark and deserted, its tall narrow windows whorled with ice. He looked down. There was the faint blue line stretching away from his ankle. Now he could see that Twoflower had one too. ‘We’re sort of informally dead,’ he said. It was the best he could manage. ‘Oh. ’ Twoflower continued to rummage. ‘Doesn’t that worry you?’ ‘Well, things tend to work out in the end, don’t you think? Anyway, I’m a firm believer in reincarnation. What would you like to come back as?’ ‘I don’t want to go,’ said Rincewind firmly. ‘Come on, let’s get out of— oh, no. Not that. ’ Twoflower had produced a box from the depths of the Luggage. It was large and black and had a handle on one side and a little round window in front and a strap so that Twoflower could put it around his neck, which he did. There was a time when Rincewind had quite liked the iconoscope. He believed, against all experience, that the world was fundamentally understandable, and that if he could only equip himself with the right mental toolbox he could take the back off and see how it worked. He was, of course, dead wrong. The iconoscope didn’t take pictures by letting light fall onto specially treated paper, as he had surmised, but by the far simpler method of imprisoning a small demon with a good eye for colour and a speedy hand with a paintbrush. He had been very upset to find that out. ‘You haven’t got time to take pictures!’ he hissed. ‘It won’t take long,’ said Twoflower firmly, and rapped on the side of the box. A tiny door flew open and the imp poked his head out. ‘Bloody hell,’ it said. ‘Where are we?’ ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Twoflower. ‘The clock first, I think. ’ The demon squinted. ‘Poor light,’ he said. ‘Three bloody years at f8, if you ask me. ’ He slammed the door shut. A second later there was the tiny scraping noise of his stool being dragged up to his easel. Rincewind gritted his teeth. ‘You don’t need to take pictures, you can just remember it!’ he shouted. ‘It’s not the same,’ said Twoflower calmly. ‘It’s better! It’s more real!’ ‘It isn’t really. In years to come, when I’m sitting by the fire—’ ‘You’ll be sitting by the fire forever if we don’t get out of here!’ ‘Oh, I do hope you’re not going. ’ They both turned. Ysabell was standing in the archway, smiling faintly. She held a scythe in one hand, a scythe with a blade of proverbial sharpness. Rincewind tried not to look down at his blue lifeline; a girl holding a scythe shouldn’t smile in that unpleasant, knowing and slightly deranged way. ‘Daddy seems a little preoccupied at the moment but I’m sure he wouldn’t dream of letting you go off just like that,’ she added. ‘Besides, I’d have no one to talk to. ’ ‘Who’s this?’ said Twoflower. ‘She sort of lives here,’ mumbled Rincewind. ‘She’s a sort of girl,’ he added. He grabbed Twoflower’s shoulder and tried to shuffle imperceptibly towards the door into the dark, cold garden. It didn’t work, largely because Twoflower wasn’t the sort of person who went in for nuances of expression and somehow never assumed that anything bad might apply to him. ‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ he said. ‘Very nice place, you have here. Interesting baroque effect with the bones and skulls. ’ Ysabell smiled. Rincewind thought: if Death ever does hand over the family business, she’ll be better at it than he is – she’s bonkers. ‘Yes, but we must be going,’ he said. ‘I really won’t hear of it,’ she said. ‘You must stay and tell me all about yourselves. There’s plenty of time and it’s so boring here. ’ She darted sideways and swung the scythe at the shining threads. It screamed through the air like a neutered tomcat – and stopped sharply. There was the creak of wood. The Luggage had snapped its lid shut on the blade. Twoflower looked up at Rincewind in astonishment. And the wizard, with great deliberation and a certain amount of satisfaction, hit him smartly on the chin.

As the little man fell backwards Rincewind caught him, threw him over a shoulder and ran. Branches whipped at him in the starlit garden, and small, furry and probably horrible things scampered away as he pounded desperately along the faint lifeline that shone eerily on the freezing grass. From the building behind him came a shrill scream of disappointment and rage. He cannoned off a tree and sped on. Somewhere there was a path, he remembered. But in this maze of silver light and shadows, tinted now with red as the terrible new star made its presence felt even in the netherworld, nothing looked right. Anyway, the lifeline appeared to be going in quite the wrong direction. There was the sound of feet behind him. Rincewind wheezed with effort; it sounded like the Luggage, and at the moment he didn’t want to meet the Luggage, because it might have got the wrong idea about him hitting its master, and generally the Luggage bit people it didn’t like. Rincewind had never had the nerve to ask where it was they actually went when the heavy lid slammed shut on them, but they certainly weren’t there when it opened again. In fact he needn’t have worried. The Luggage overtook him easily, its little legs a blur of movement. It seemed to Rincewind to be concentrating very heavily on running, as if it had some inkling of what was coming up behind it and didn’t like the idea at all. Don’t look back, he remembered. The view probably isn’t very nice. The Luggage crashed through a bush and vanished. A moment later Rincewind saw why. It had careened over the edge of the outcrop and was dropping towards the great hole underneath, which he could now see was faintly red lit at the bottom. Stretching from Rincewind, out over the edge of the rocks and down into the hole, were two shimmering blue lines. He paused uncertainly, although that isn’t precisely true because he was totally certain of several things, for example that he didn’t want to jump, and that he certainly didn’t want to face whatever it was coming up behind him, and that in the spirit world Twoflower was quite heavy, and that there were worse things than being dead. ‘Name two,’ he muttered, and jumped. A few seconds later the horsemen arrived and didn’t stop when they reached the edge of the rock but simply rode into the air and reined their horses over nothingness. Death looked down. T HAT ALWAYS ANNOYS ME , he said. I MIGHT AS WELL INSTALL A REVOLVING DOOR. ‘ I wonder what they wanted? ’ said Pestilence. ‘Search me,’ said War. ‘Nice game, though. ’ ‘Right,’ agreed Famine. ‘Compelling, I thought. ’ W E’VE GOT TIME FOR ANOTHER FONDLE , said Death. ‘Rubber,’ corrected War. R UBBER WHAT ? ‘You call them rubbers,’ said War. R IGHT, RUBBERS , said Death. He looked up at the new star, puzzled as to what it might mean. I THINK WE’VE GOT TIME , he repeated, a trifle uncertainly. Mention has already been made of an attempt to inject a little honesty into reporting on the Disc, and how poets and bards were banned on pain of – well, pain – from going on about babbling brooks and rosy-fingered dawn and could only say, for example, that a face had launched a thousand ships if they were able to produce certified dockyard accounts. And therefore, out of a passing respect for this tradition, it will not be said of Rincewind and Twoflower that they became an ice-blue sinewave arcing through the dark dimensions, or that there was a sound like the twanging of a monstrous tusk, or that their lives passed in front of their eyes (Rincewind had in any case seen his past life flash in front of his eyes so many times that he could sleep through the boring bits) or that the universe dropped on them like a large jelly. It will be said, because experiment has proven it to be true, that there was a noise like a wooden ruler being struck heavily with a C sharp tuning fork, possibly B flat, and a sudden sensation of absolute stillness. This was because they were absolutely still, and it was absolutely dark. It occurred to Rincewind that something had gone wrong. Then he saw the faint blue tracery in front of him. He was inside the Octavo again. He wondered what would happen if anyone opened the book; would he and Twoflower appear like a colour plate? Probably not, he decided. The Octavo they were in was something a bit different from the mere book chained to its lectern deep in Unseen University, which was merely a three-dimensional representation of a multidimensional reality, and— Hold on, he thought. I don’t think like this. Who’s thinking for me? ‘Rincewind,’ said a voice like the rustle of old pages. ‘Who? Me?’ ‘Of course you, you daft sod. ’ A flicker of defiance flared very briefly in Rincewind’s battered heart. ‘Have you managed to recall how the Universe started yet?’ he said nastily. ‘The Clearing of the Throat, wasn’t it, or the Drawing of the Breath, or the Scratching of the Head and Trying to Remember It, It was On the Tip of the Tongue?’ Another voice, dry as tinder, hissed, ‘You would do well to remember where you are. ’ It should be impossible to hiss a sentence with no sibilants in it, but the voice made a very good attempt. ‘Remember where I am? Remember where I am?’ shouted Rincewind. ‘Of course I remember where I am, I’m inside a bloody book talking to a load of voices I can’t see. Why do you think I’m screaming?’ ‘I expect you’re wondering why we brought you here again,’ said a voice by his ear. ‘No. ’ ‘No?’ ‘What did he say?’ said another disembodied voice. ‘He said no. ’ ‘He really said no?’ ‘Yes. ’ ‘Oh. ’ ‘Why?’ ‘This sort of thing happens to me all the time,’ said Rincewind. ‘One minute I’m falling off the world, then I’m inside a book, then I’m on a flying rock, then I’m watching Death learn how to play Weir or Dam or whatever it was, why should I wonder about anything?’ ‘Well, we imagine you will be wondering why we don’t want anyone to say us,’ said the first voice, aware that it was losing the initiative. Rincewind hesitated. The thought had crossed his mind, only very fast and looking nervously from side to side in case it got knocked over. ‘Why should anyone want to say you?’ ‘It’s the star,’ said the Spell. ‘The red star. Wizards are already looking for you; when they find you they want to say all eight Spells together to change the future. They think the Disc is going to collide with the star. ’ Rincewind thought about this. ‘Is it?’ ‘Not exactly, but in a – what’s that ?’ Rincewind looked down. The Luggage padded out of the darkness. There was a long sliver of scytheblade in its lid. ‘It’s just the Luggage,’ he said. ‘But we didn’t summon it here!’ ‘No one summons it anywhere,’ said Rincewind. ‘It just turns up. Don’t worry about it. ’ ‘Oh. What were we talking about?’ ‘This red star thing. ’ ‘Right. It’s very important that you—’ ‘Hallo? Hallo? Anyone out there?’ It was a small and squeaky voice and came from the picture box still slung around Twoflower’s inert neck. The picture imp opened his hatch and squinted up at Rincewind. ‘Where’s this, squire?’ it said. ‘I’m not sure. ’ ‘We still dead?’ ‘Maybe. ’ ‘Well, let’s hope we go somewhere where we don’t need too much black, because I’ve run out. ’ The hatch slammed shut. Rincewind had a fleeting vision of Twoflower handing around his pictures and saying things like ‘This is me being tormented by a million demons’ and ‘This is me with that funny couple we met on the freezing slopes of the Underworld. ’ Rincewind wasn’t certain about what happened to you after you really died, the authorities were a little unclear on the subject; a swarthy sailor from the Rimward lands had said that he was confident of going to a paradise where there was sherbet and houris. Rincewind wasn’t certain what a houri was, but after some thought he came to the conclusion that it was a little liquorice tube for sucking up the sherbet. Anyway, sherbet made him sneeze. ‘Now that interruption is over,’ said a dry voice firmly, ‘perhaps we can get on. It is most important that you don’t let the wizards take the Spell from you.

Terrible things will happen if all eight spells are said too soon. ’ ‘I just want to be left in peace,’ said Rincewind. ‘Good, good. We knew we could trust you from the day you first opened the Octavo. ’ Rincewind hesitated. ‘Hang on a minute,’ he said. ‘You want me to run around keeping the wizards from getting all the spells together?’ ‘Exactly. ’ ‘That’s why one of you got into my head?’ ‘Precisely. ’ ‘You totally ruined my life, you know that?’ said Rincewind hotly. ‘I could have really made it as a wizard if you hadn’t decided to use me as a sort of portable spellbook. I can’t remember any other spells, they’re too frightened to stay in the same head as you!’ ‘We’re sorry. ’ ‘I just want to go home! I want to go back to where—’ a trace of moisture appeared in Rincewind’s eye – ‘to where there’s cobbles under your feet and some of the beer isn’t too bad and you can get quite a good piece of fried fish of an evening, with maybe a couple of big green gherkins, and even an eel pie and a dish of whelks, and there’s always a warm stable somewhere to sleep in and in the morning you are always in the same place as you were the night before and there wasn’t all this weather all over the place. I mean, I don’t mind about the magic, I’m probably not, you know, the right sort of material for a wizard, I just want to go home !—’ ‘But you must—’ one of the spells began. It was too late. Homesickness, the little elastic band in the subconscious that can wind up a salmon and propel it three thousand miles through strange seas, or send a million lemmings running joyfully back to an ancestral homeland which, owing to a slight kink in the continental drift, isn’t there any more – homesickness rose up inside Rincewind like a late-night prawn biriani, flowed along the tenuous thread linking his tortured soul to his body, dug its heels in and tugged. . . The spells were alone inside their Octavo. Alone, at any rate, apart from the Luggage. They looked at it, not with eyes, but with consciousness as old as the Discworld itself. ‘And you can bugger off too,’ they said. ‘—bad. ’ Rincewind knew it was himself speaking, he recognized the voice. For a moment he was looking out through his eyes not in any normal way, but as a spy might peer through the cut-out eyes of a picture. Then he was back. ‘You okay, Rinshwind?’ said Cohen. ‘You looked a bit gone there. ’ ‘You did look a bit white,’ agreed Bethan. ‘Like someone had walked over your grave. ’ ‘Uh, yes, it was probably me,’ he said. He held up his fingers and counted them. There appeared to be the normal amount. ‘Um, have I moved at all?’ he said. ‘You just looked at the fire as if you had seen a ghost,’ said Bethan. There was a groan behind them. Twoflower was sitting up, holding his head in his hands. His eyes focused on them. His lips moved soundlessly. ‘That was a really strange. . . dream,’ he said. ‘What’s this place? Why am I here?’ ‘Well,’ said Cohen, ‘shome shay the Creator of the Univershe took a handful of clay and—’ ‘No, I mean here ,’ said Twoflower. ‘Is that you, Rincewind?’ ‘Yes,’ said Rincewind, giving it the benefit of the doubt. ‘There was this. . . a clock that. . . and these people who. . . ’ said Twoflower. He shook his head. ‘Why does everything smell of horses?’ ‘You’ve been ill,’ said Rincewind. ‘Hallucinating. ’ ‘Yes. . . I suppose I was. ’ Twoflower looked down at his chest. ‘But in that case, why have I—’ Rincewind jumped to his feet. ‘Sorry, very close in here, got to have a breath of fresh air,’ he said. He removed the picture box’s strap from Twoflower’s neck, and dashed for the tent flap. ‘I didn’t notice that when he came in,’ said Bethan. Cohen shrugged. Rincewind managed to get a few yards from the yurt before the ratchet of the picture box began to click. Very slowly, the box extruded the last picture that the imp had taken. Rincewind snatched at it. What it showed would have been quite horrible even in broad daylight. By freezing starlight, tinted red with the fires of the evil new star, it was a lot worse. ‘No,’ said Rincewind softly. ‘No, it wasn’t like that, there was a house, and this girl, and. . . ’ ‘You see what you see and I paint what I see,’ said the imp from its hatch. ‘What I see is real. I was bred for it. I only see what’s really there. ’ A dark shape crunched over the snowcrust towards Rincewind. It was the Luggage. Rincewind, who normally hated and distrusted it, suddenly felt it was the most refreshingly normal thing he had ever seen. ‘I see you made it, then,’ said Rincewind. The Luggage rattled its lid. ‘Okay, but what did you see?’ said Rincewind. ‘Did you look behind?’ The Luggage said nothing. For a moment they were silent, like two warriors who have fled the field of carnage and have paused for a return of breath and sanity. Then Rincewind said, ‘Come on, there’s a fire inside. ’ He reached out to pat the Luggage’s lid. It snapped irritably at him, nearly catching his fingers. Life was back to normal again. The next day dawned bright and clear and cold. The sky became a blue dome stuck on the white sheet of the world, and the whole effect would have been as fresh and clean as a toothpaste advert if it wasn’t for the pink dot on the horizon. ‘You can shee it in daylight now,’ said Cohen. ‘What is it?’ He looked hard at Rincewind, who reddened. ‘Why does everyone look at me?’ he said. ‘I don’t know what it is, maybe it’s a comet or something. ’ ‘Will we all be burned up?’ said Bethan. ‘How should I know? I’ve never been hit by a comet before. ’ They were riding in single file across the brilliant snowfield. The Horse people, who seemed to hold Cohen in high regard, had given them their mounts and directions to the River Smarl, a hundred miles rimward, where Cohen reckoned Rincewind and Twoflower could find a boat to take them to the Circle Sea. He had announced that he was coming with them, on account of his chilblains. Bethan had promptly announced that she was going to come too, in case Cohen wanted anything rubbed. Rincewind was vaguely aware of some sort of chemistry bubbling away. For one thing, Cohen had made an effort to comb his beard. ‘I think she’s rather taken with you,’ he said. Cohen sighed. ‘If I wash twenty yearsh younger,’ he said wistfully. ‘Yes?’ ‘I’d be shixty-sheven. ’ ‘What’s that got to do with it?’ ‘Well – how can I put it? When I wash a young man, carving my name in the world, well, then I liked my women red-haired and fiery. ’ ‘Ah. ’ ‘And then I grew a little older and for preference I looked for a woman with blonde hair and the glint of the world in her eye. ’ ‘Oh? Yes?’ ‘But then I grew a little older again and I came to see the point of dark women of a sultry nature. ’ He paused. Rincewind waited. ‘And?’ he said. ‘Then what? What is it that you look for in a woman now?’ Cohen turned one rheumy blue eye on him. ‘Patience,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe it!’ said a voice behind them. ‘Me riding with Cohen the Barbarian!’ It was Twoflower. Since early morning he had been like a monkey with the key to the banana plantation after discovering he was breathing the same air as the greatest hero of all time. ‘Is he perhapsh being sharcashtic?’ said Cohen to Rincewind. ‘No. He’s always like that. ’ Cohen turned in his saddle. Twoflower beamed at him, and waved proudly. Cohen turned back, and grunted. ‘He’s got eyesh, hashn’t he?’ ‘Yes, but they don’t work like other people’s. Take it from me. I mean – well, you know the Horse people’s yurt, where we were last night?’ ‘Yesh. ’ ‘Would you say it was a bit dark and greasy and smelt like a very ill horse?’ ‘Very accurate deshcription, I’d shay. ’ ‘He wouldn’t agree. He’d say it was a magnificent barbarian tent, hung with the pelts of the great beasts hunted by the lean-eyed warriors from the edge of civilization, and smelt of the rare and curious resins plundered from the caravans as they crossed the trackless – well, and so on. I mean it,’ he added. ‘He’sh mad?’ ‘Sort of mad. But mad with lots of money. ’ ‘Ah, then he can’t be mad.

I’ve been around; if a man hash lotsh of money he’sh just ecshentric. ’ Cohen turned in his saddle again. Twoflower was telling Bethan how Cohen had single-handedly defeated the snake warriors of the witch lord of S’belinde and stolen the sacred diamond from the giant statue of Offler the Crocodile God. A weird smile formed among the wrinkles of Cohen’s face. ‘I could tell him to shut up, if you like,’ said Rincewind. ‘Would he?’ ‘No, not really. ’ ‘Let him babble,’ said Cohen. His hand fell to the handle of his sword, polished smooth by the grip of decades. ‘Anyway, I like his eyes,’ he said. ‘They can see for fifty years. ’ A hundred yards behind them, hopping rather awkwardly through the soft snow, came the Luggage. No one ever asked its opinion about anything. By evening they had come to the edge of the high plains, and rode down through gloomy pine forests that had only been lightly dusted by the snowstorm. It was a landscape of huge cracked rocks, and valleys so narrow and deep that the days only lasted about twenty minutes. A wild, windy country, the sort where you might expect to find— ‘Trollsh,’ said Cohen, sniffing the air. Rincewind stared around him in the red evening light. Suddenly rocks that had seemed perfectly normal looked suspiciously alive. Shadows that he wouldn’t have looked at twice now began to look horribly occupied. ‘I like trolls,’ said Twoflower. ‘No you don’t,’ said Rincewind firmly. ‘You can’t. They’re big and knobbly and they eat people. ’ ‘No they don’t,’ said Cohen, sliding awkwardly off his horse and massaging his knees. ‘Well-known mishapprehenshion, that ish. Trolls never ate anybody. ’ ‘No?’ ‘No, they alwaysh spit the bitsh out. Can’t digesht people, see? Your average troll don’t want any more out of life than a nice lump of granite, maybe, with perhapsh a nice slab of limeshtone for aftersh. I heard someone shay it’s becosh they’re a shilicashe – a shillycaysheou—’ Cohen paused, and wiped his beard, ‘made out of rocks. ’ Rincewind nodded. Trolls were not unknown in Ankh-Morpork, of course, where they often got employment as bodyguards. They tended to be a bit expensive to keep until they learned about doors and didn’t simply leave the house by walking aimlessly through the nearest wall. As they gathered firewood Cohen went on, ‘Trollsh teeth, that’sh the thingsh. ’ ‘Why?’ said Bethan. ‘Diamonds. Got to be, you shee. Only thing that can shtand the rocksh, and they shtill have to grow a new shet every year. ’ ‘Talking of teeth—’ said Twoflower. ‘Yesh?’ ‘I can’t help noticing—’ ‘Yesh?’ ‘Oh, nothing,’ said Twoflower. ‘Yesh? Oh. Let’sh get thish fire going before we loshe the light. And then,’ Cohen’s face fell, ‘I supposhe we’d better make some shoop. ’ ‘Rincewind’s good at that,’ said Twoflower enthusiastically. ‘He knows all about herbs and roots and things. ’ Cohen gave Rincewind a look which suggested that he, Cohen, didn’t believe that. ‘Well, the Horshe people gave us shome horse jerky,’ he said. ‘If you can find shome wild onionsh and stuff, it might make it tashte better. ’ ‘But I—’ Rincewind began, and gave up. Anyway, he reasoned, I know what an onion looks like, it’s a sort of saggy white thing with a green bit sticking out of the top, should be fairly conspicuous. ‘I’ll just go and have a look, shall I?’ he said. ‘Yesh. ’ ‘Over there in all that thick, shadowy undergrowth?’ ‘Very good playshe, yesh. ’ ‘Where all the deep gullies and things are, you mean?’ ‘Ideal shpot, I’d shay. ’ ‘Yes, I thought so,’ said Rincewind bitterly. He set off, wondering how you attracted onions. After all, he thought, although you see them hanging in ropes on market stalls they probably don’t grow like that, perhaps peasants or whatever use onion hounds or something, or sing songs to attract onions. There were a few early stars out as he started to poke aimlessly among the leaves and grass. Luminous fungi, unpleasantly organic and looking like marital aids for gnomes, squished under his feet. Small flying things bit him. Other things, fortunately invisible, hopped or slithered away under the bushes and croaked reproachfully at him. ‘Onions?’ whispered Rincewind. ‘Any onions here?’ ‘There’s a patch of them by that old yew tree,’ said a voice beside him. ‘Ah,’ said Rincewind. ‘Good. ’ There was a long silence, except for the buzzing of the mosquitoes around Rincewind’s ears. He was standing perfectly still. He hadn’t even moved his eyes. Eventually he said, ‘Excuse me. ’ ‘Yes?’ ‘Which one’s the yew?’ ‘Small gnarly one with the little dark green needles. ’ ‘Oh, yes. I see it. Thanks again. ’ He didn’t move. Eventually the voice said conversationally, ‘Anything more I can do for you?’ ‘You’re not a tree, are you?’ said Rincewind, still staring straight ahead. ‘Don’t be silly. Trees can’t talk. ’ ‘Sorry. It’s just that I’ve been having a bit of difficulty with trees lately, you know how it is. ’ ‘Not really. I’m a rock. ’ Rincewind’s voice hardly changed. ‘Fine, fine,’ he said slowly. ‘Well, I’ll just be getting those onions, then. ’ ‘Enjoy them. ’ He walked forward in a careful and dignified fashion, spotted a clump of stringy white things huddling in the undergrowth, uprooted them carefully, and turned around. There was a rock a little way away. But there were rocks everywhere, the very bones of the Disc were near the surface here. He looked hard at the yew tree, just in case it had been speaking. But the yew, being a fairly solitary tree, hadn’t heard about Rincewind the arborial saviour, and in any case was asleep. ‘If that was you, Twoflower, I knew it was you all along,’ said Rincewind. His voice sounded suddenly clear and very alone in the gathering dusk. Rincewind remembered the only fact he knew for sure about trolls, which was that they turned to stone when exposed to sunlight, so that anyone who employed trolls to work during daylight had to spend a fortune on barrier cream. But now that he came to think about it, it didn’t say anywhere what happened to them after the sun had gone down again. . . The last of the daylight trickled out of the landscape. And there suddenly seemed to be a great many rocks about. ‘He’s an awful long time with those onions,’ said Twoflower. ‘Do you think we’d better go and look for him?’ ‘Wishards know how to look after themselves,’ said Cohen. ‘Don’t worry. ’ He winced. Bethan was cutting his toenails. ‘He’s not a terribly good wizard, actually,’ said Twoflower, drawing nearer the fire. ‘I wouldn’t say this to his face, but’ – he leaned towards Cohen – ‘I’ve never actually seen him do any magic. ’ ‘Right, let’s have the other one,’ said Bethan. ‘Thish is very kind of you. ’ ‘You’d have quite nice feet if only you’d look after them. ’ ‘Can’t sheem to bend down like I used to,’ said Cohen, sheepishly. ‘Of courshe, you don’t get to meet many chiropodishts in my line of work. Funny, really. I’ve met any amount of snake prieshts, mad godsh, warlordsh, never any chiropodishts. I shupposhe it wouldn’t look right, really – Cohen Against the Chiropodishts. . . ’ ‘Or Cohen And The Chiropractors of Doom,’ suggested Bethan. Cohen cackled ‘Or Cohen And The Mad Dentists!’ laughed Twoflower. Cohen’s mouth snapped shut. ‘What’sh sho funny about that?’ he asked, and his voice had knuckles in it. ‘Oh, er, well,’ said Twoflower. ‘Your teeth, you see. . . ’ ‘What about them?’ snapped Cohen. Twoflower swallowed. ‘I can’t help noticing that they’re, um, not in the same geographical location as your mouth. ’ Cohen glared at him. Then he sagged, and looked very small and old. ‘True, of corsh,’ he muttered. ‘I don’t blame you. It’sh hard to be a hero with no teethsh. It don’t matter what elsh you loosh, you can get by with one eye even, but you show ’em a mouth full of gumsh and no one hash any reshpect. ’ ‘I do,’ said Bethan loyally. ‘Why don’t you get some more?’ said Twoflower brightly. ‘Yesh, well, if I wash a shark or something, yesh, I’d grow shome,’ said Cohen sarcastically. ‘Oh, no, you buy them,’ said Twoflower.

‘Look, I’ll show you – er, Bethan, do you mind looking the other way?’ He waited until she had turned around and then put his hand to his mouth. ‘You shee?’ he said. Bethan heard Cohen gasp. ‘You can take yoursh out?’ ‘Oh yesh. I’ve got sheveral shets. Excushe me—’ There was a swallowing noise, and then in a more normal voice Twoflower said, ‘It’s very convenient, of course. ’ Cohen’s very voice radiated awe, or as much awe as is possible without teeth, which is about the same amount as with teeth but sounds a great deal less impressive. ‘I should think show,’ he said. ‘When they ache, you jusht take them out and let them get on with it, yesh? Teach the little buggersh a lesshon, shee how they like being left to ache all by themshelvesh!’ ‘That’s not quite right,’ said Twoflower carefully. ‘They’re not mine, they just belong to me. ’ ‘You put shomeone elshe’s teethsh in your mouth?’ ‘No, someone made them, lots of people wear them where I come from, it’s a—’ But Twoflower’s lecture on dental appliances went ungiven, because somebody hit him. The Disc’s little moon toiled across the sky. It shone by its own light, owing to the cramped and rather inefficient astronomical arrangements made by the Creator, and was quite crowded with assorted lunar goddesses who were not, at this particular time, paying much attention to what went on in the Disc but were getting up a petition about the Ice Giants. Had they looked down, they would have seen Rincewind talking urgently to a bunch of rocks. Trolls are one of the oldest lifeforms in the multiverse, dating from an early attempt to get the whole life thing on the road without all that squashy protoplasm. Individual trolls live for a long time, hibernating during the summertime and sleeping during the day, since heat affects them and makes them slow. They have a fascinating geology. One could talk about tribology, one could mention the semiconductor effects of impure silicon, one could talk about the giant trolls of prehistory who make up most of the Disc’s major mountain ranges and will cause some real problems if they ever awake, but the plain fact is that without the Disc’s powerful and pervasive magical field trolls would have died out a long time ago. Psychiatry hadn’t been invented on the Disc. No one had ever shoved an inkblot under Rincewind’s nose to see if he had any loose toys in the attic. So the only way he’d have been able to describe the rocks turning back into trolls was by gabbling vaguely about how pictures suddenly form when you look at the fire, or clouds. One minute there’d be a perfectly ordinary rock, and suddenly a few cracks that had been there all along took on the definite appearance of a mouth or a pointed ear. A moment later, and without anything actually changing at all, a troll would be sitting there, grinning at him with a mouth full of diamonds. They wouldn’t be able to digest me, he told himself. I’d make them awfully ill. It wasn’t much of a comfort. ‘So you’re Rincewind the wizard,’ said the nearest one. It sounded like someone running over gravel. ‘I dunno. I thought you’d be taller. ’ ‘Perhaps he’s eroded a bit,’ said another one. ‘The legend is awfully old. ’ Rincewind shifted awkwardly. He was pretty certain the rock he was sitting on was changing shape, and a tiny troll – hardly any more than a pebble – was sitting companionably on his foot and watching him with extreme interest. ‘Legend?’ he said. ‘What legend?’ ‘It’s been handed down from mountain to gravel since the sunset 3 of time,’ said the first troll. ‘ “When the red star lights the sky Rincewind the wizard will come looking for onions. Do not bite him. It is very important that you help him stay alive. ” ’ There was a pause. ‘That’s it?’ said Rincewind. ‘Yes,’ said the troll. ‘We’ve always been puzzled about it. Most of our legends are much more exciting. It was more interesting being a rock in the old days. ’ ‘It was?’ said Rincewind weakly. ‘Oh yes. No end of fun. Volcanoes all over the place. It really meant something, being a rock then. There was none of this sedimentary nonsense, you were igneous or nothing. Of course, that’s all gone now. People call themselves trolls today, well, sometimes they’re hardly more than slate. Chalk even. I wouldn’t give myself airs if you could use me to draw with, would you?’ ‘No,’ said Rincewind quickly. ‘Absolutely not, no. This, er, this legend thing. It said you shouldn’t bite me?’ ‘That’s right!’ said the little troll on his foot. ‘And it was me who told you where the onions were!’ ‘We’re rather glad you came along,’ said the first troll, which Rincewind couldn’t help noticing was the biggest one there. ‘We’re a bit worried about this new star. What does it mean?’ ‘I don’t know,’ said Rincewind. ‘Everyone seems to think I know about it, but I don’t—’ ‘It’s not that we would mind being melted down,’ said the big troll. ‘That’s how we all started, anyway. But we thought, maybe, it might mean the end of everything and that doesn’t seem a very good thing. ’ ‘It’s getting bigger,’ said another troll. ‘Look at it now. Bigger than last night. ’ Rincewind looked. It was definitely bigger than last night. ‘So we thought you might have some suggestions?’ said the head troll, as meekly as it is possible to sound with a voice like a granite gargle. ‘You could jump over the Edge,’ said Rincewind. ‘There must be lots of places in the universe that could do with some extra rocks. ’ ‘We’ve heard about that,’ said the troll. ‘We’ve met rocks that tried it. They say you float about for millions of years and then you get very hot and burn away and end up at the bottom of a big hole in the scenery. That doesn’t sound very bright. ’ It stood up with a noise like coal rattling down a chute, and stretched its thick, knobbly arms. ‘Well, we’re supposed to help you,’ it said. ‘Anything you want doing?’ ‘I was supposed to be making some soup,’ said Rincewind. He waved the onions vaguely. It was probably not the most heroic or purposeful gesture ever made. ‘Soup?’ said the troll. ‘Is that all?’ ‘Well, maybe some biscuits too. ’ The trolls looked at one another, exposing enough mouth jewellery to buy a medium-sized city. Eventually the biggest troll said, ‘Soup it is, then. ’ It shrugged grittily. ‘It’s just that we imagined that the legend would, well, be a little more – I don’t know, somehow I thought – still, I expect it doesn’t matter. ’ It extended a hand like a bunch of fossil bananas. ‘I’m Kwartz,’ it said. ‘That’s Krysoprase over there, and Breccia, and Jasper, and my wife Beryl – she’s a bit metamorphic, but who isn’t these days? Jasper, get off his foot. ’ Rincewind took the hand gingerly, bracing himself for the crunch of crushed bone. It didn’t come. The troll’s hand was rough and a bit lichenous around the fingernails. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Rincewind. ‘I never really met trolls before. ’ ‘We’re a dying race,’ said Kwartz sadly, as the party set off under the stars. ‘Young Jasper’s the only pebble in our tribe. We suffer from philosophy, you know. ’ ‘Yes?’ said Rincewind, trying to keep up. The troll band moved very quickly, but also very quietly, big round shapes moving like wraiths through the night. Only the occasional flat squeak of a night creature who hadn’t heard them approaching marked their passage. ‘Oh, yes. Martyrs to it. It comes to all of us in the end. One evening, they say, you start to wake up and then you think “Why bother?” and you just don’t. See those boulders over there?’ Rincewind saw some huge shapes lying in the grass. ‘The one on the end’s my aunt. I don’t know what she’s thinking about, but she hasn’t moved for two hundred years. ‘ ‘Gosh, I’m sorry. ’ ‘Oh, it’s no problem with us around to look after them,’ said Kwartz. ‘Not many humans around here, you see. I know it’s not your fault, but you don’t seem to be able to spot the difference between a thinking troll and an ordinary rock. My great-uncle was actually quarried , you know. ’ ‘That’s terrible!’ ‘Yes, one minute he was a troll, the next he was an ornamental fireplace.

’ They paused in front of a familiar-looking cliff. The scuffed remains of a fire smouldered in the darkness. ‘It looks like there’s been a fight,’ said Beryl. ‘They’re all gone!’ said Rincewind. He ran to the end of the clearing. ‘The horses, too! Even the Luggage!’ ‘One of them’s leaked,’ said Kwartz, kneeling down. ‘That red watery stuff you have in your insides. Look. ’ ‘Blood!’ ‘Is that what it’s called? I’ve never really seen the point of it. ’ Rincewind scuttled about in the manner of one totally at his wits’ end, peering behind bushes in case anyone was hiding there. That was why he tripped over a small green bottle. ‘Cohen’s linament!’ he moaned. ‘He never goes anywhere without it!’ ‘Well,’ said Kwartz, ‘you humans have something you can do, I mean like when we slow right down and catch philosophy, only you just fall to bits—’ ‘Dying, it’s called!’ screamed Rincewind. ‘That’s it. They haven’t done that, because they’re not here. ’ ‘Unless they were eaten!’ suggested Jasper excitedly. ‘Hmm,’ said Kwartz, and, ‘Wolves?’ said Rincewind. ‘We flattened all the wolves around here years ago,’ said the troll. ‘Old Grandad did, anyway. ’ ‘He didn’t like them?’ ‘No, he just didn’t used to look where he was going. Hmm. ’ The trolls looked at the ground again. ‘There’s a trail,’ he said. ‘Quite a lot of horses. ’ He looked up at the nearby hills, where sheer cliffs and dangerous crags loomed over the moonlit forests. ‘Old Grandad lives up there,’ he said quietly. There was something about the way he said it that made Rincewind decide that he didn’t ever want to meet Old Grandad. ‘Dangerous, is he?’ he ventured. ‘He’s very old and big and mean. We haven’t seen him about for years,’ said Kwartz. ‘Centuries,’ corrected Beryl. ‘He’ll squash them all flat!’ added Jasper, jumping up and down on Rincewind’s toes. ‘It just happens sometimes that a really old and big troll will go off by himself into the hills, and – um – the rock takes over, if you follow me. ’ ‘No?’ Kwartz sighed. ‘People sometimes act like animals, don’t they? And sometimes a troll will start thinking like a rock, and rocks don’t like people much. ’ Breccia, a skinny troll with a sandstone finish, rapped on Kwartz’s shoulder. ‘Are we going to follow them, then?’ he said. ‘The legend says we should help this Rincewind squashy. ’ Kwartz stood up, thought for a moment, then picked Rincewind up by the scruff of his neck and with a big gritty movement placed him on his shoulders. ‘We go,’ he said firmly. ‘If we meet Old Grandad I’ll try to explain. . . ’ Two miles away a string of horses trotted through the night. Three of them carried captives, expertly gagged and bound. A fourth pulled a rough travois on which the Luggage lay trussed and netted and silent. Herrena softly called the column to a halt and beckoned one of her men to her. ‘Are you quite sure?’ she said. ‘I can’t hear anything. ’ ‘I saw troll shapes,’ he said flatly. She looked around. The trees had thinned out here, there was a lot of scree, and ahead of them the track led towards a bald, rocky hill that looked especially unpleasant by red starlight. She was worried about that track. It was extremely old, but something had made it, and trolls took a lot of killing. She sighed. Suddenly it looked as though that secretarial career was not such a bad option, at that. Not for the first time she reflected that there were many drawbacks to being a swordswoman, not least of which was that men didn’t take you seriously until you’d actually killed them, by which time it didn’t really matter anyway. Then there was all the leather, which brought her out in a rash but seemed to be unbreakably traditional. And then there was the ale. It was all right for the likes of Hrun the Barbarian or Cimbar the Assassin to carouse all night in low bars, but Herrena drew the line at it unless they sold proper drinks in small glasses, preferably with a cherry in. As for the toilet facilities. . . But she was too big to be a thief, too honest to be an assassin, too intelligent to be a wife, and too proud to enter the only other female profession generally available. So she’d become a swordswoman and had been a good one, amassing a modest fortune that she was carefully husbanding for a future that she hadn’t quite worked out yet but which would certainly include a bidet if she had anything to say about it. There was a distant sound of splintering timber. Trolls had never seen the point of walking around trees. She looked up at the hill again. Two arms of high ground swept away to right and left, and up ahead was a large outcrop with – she squinted – some caves in it? Troll caves. But maybe a better option than blundering around at night. And come sunup, there’d be no problem. She leaned across to Gancia, leader of the gang of Morpork mercenaries. She wasn’t very happy about him. It was true that he had the muscles of an ox and the stamina of an ox, the trouble was that he seemed to have the brains of an ox. And the viciousness of a ferret. Like most of the lads in downtown Morpork he’d have cheerfully sold his granny for glue, and probably had. ‘We’ll head for the caves and light a big fire in the entrance,’ she said. ‘Trolls don’t like fire. ’ He gave her a look which suggested he had his own ideas about who should be giving the orders, but his lips said, ‘You’re the boss. ’ ‘Right. ’ Herrena looked back at the three captives. That was the box all right – Trymon’s description had been absolutely accurate. But neither of the men looked like a wizard. Not even a failed wizard. ‘Oh, dear,’ said Kwartz The trolls halted. The night closed in like velvet. An owl hooted eerily – at least Rincewind assumed it was an owl, he was a little hazy on ornithology. Perhaps a nightingale hooted, unless it was a thrush. A bat flittered overhead. He was quite confident about that. He was also very tired and quite bruised. ‘Why oh dear?’ he said. He peered into the gloom. There was a distant speck in the hills that might have been a fire. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘You don’t like fires, do you?’ Kwartz nodded. ‘It destroys the superconductivity of our brains,’ he said, ‘but a fire that small wouldn’t have much effect on Old Grandad. ’ Rincewind looked around cautiously, listening for the sound of a rogue troll. He’d seen what normal trolls could do to a forest. They weren’t naturally destructive, they just treated organic matter as a sort of inconvenient fog. ‘Let’s hope he doesn’t find it then,’ he said fervently. Kwartz sighed. ‘Not much chance of that,’ he said. ‘They’ve lit it in his mouth. ’ ‘It’sh a judgeshment on me!’ moaned Cohen. He tugged ineffectually at his bonds. Twoflower peered at him muzzily. Gancia’s slingshot had raised quite a lump on the back of his head and he was a little uncertain about things, starting with his name and working upwards. ‘I should have been lisshening out,’ said Cohen. ‘I should have been paying attenshion and not being shwayed by all this talk about your wosshnames, your din-chewers. I mussht be getting shoft. ’ He levered himself up by his elbows. Herrena and the rest of the gang were standing around the fire in the cave mouth. The Luggage was still and silent under its net in a corner. ‘There’s something funny about this cave,’ said Bethan. ‘What?’ said Cohen. ‘Well, look at it. Have you ever seen rocks like those before?’ Cohen had to agree that the semi-circle of stones around the cave entrance was unusual; each one was higher than a man, heavily worn, and surprisingly shiny. There was a matching semi-circle on the ceiling. The whole effect was that of a stone computer built by a druid with a vague idea of geometry and no sense of gravity. ‘Look at the walls, too. ’ Cohen squinted at the wall next to him. There were veins of red crystal in it. He couldn’t be quite certain, but it was almost as if little points of light kept flashing on and off deep within the rock itself. It was also extremely drafty. A steady breeze blew out of the black depths of the cave. ‘I’m sure it was blowing the other way when we came in,’ whispered Bethan.

‘What do you think, Twoflower?’ ‘Well, I’m not a cave expert,’ he said, ‘but I was just thinking, that’s a very interesting stalag-thingy hanging from the ceiling up there. Sort of bulbous, isn’t it?’ They looked at it. ‘I can’t quite put my finger on why,’ said Twoflower, ‘but I think it might be a rather good idea to get out of here. ’ ‘Oh yesh,’ said Cohen sarcastically, ‘I shupposhe we’d jusht better ashk theesh people to untie ush and let us go, eh?’ Cohen hadn’t spent much time in Twoflower’s company, otherwise he would not have been surprised when the little man nodded brightly and said, in the loud, slow and careful voice he employed as an alternative to actually speaking other people’s languages: ‘Excuse me? Could you please untie us and let us go? It’s rather damp and drafty here. Sorry. ’ Bethan looked sidelong at Cohen. ‘Was he supposed to say that?’ ‘It’sh novel, I’ll grant you. ’ And, indeed, three people detached themselves from the group around the fire and came towards them. They did not look as if they intended to untie anyone. The two men, in fact, looked the sort of people who, when they see other people tied up, start playing around with knives and making greasy suggestions and leering a lot. Herrena introduced herself by drawing her sword and pointing it at Twoflower’s heart. ‘Which one of you is Rincewind the wizard?’ she said. ‘There were four horses. Is he here?’ ‘Um, I don’t know where he is,’ said Twoflower. ‘He was looking for some onions. ’ ‘Then you are his friends and he will come looking for you,’ said Herrena. She glanced at Cohen and Bethan, then looked closely at the Luggage. Trymon had been emphatic that they shouldn’t touch the Luggage. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but Herrena’s curiosity could have massacred a pride of lions. She slit the netting and grasped the lid of the box. Twoflower winced. ‘Locked,’ she said eventually. ‘Where is the key, fat one?’ ‘It – it hasn’t got a key,’ said Twoflower. ‘There is a keyhole,’ she pointed out. ‘Well, yes, but if it wants to stay locked, it stays locked,’ said Twoflower uncomfortably. Herrena was aware of Gancia’s grin. She snarled. ‘I want it open,’ she said. ‘Gancia, see to it. ’ She strode back to the fire. Gancia drew a long thin knife and leaned down close to Twoflower’s face. ‘She wants it open,’ he said. He looked up at the other man and grinned. ‘She wants it open, Weems. ’ ‘Yah. ’ Gancia waved the knife slowly in front of Twoflower’s face. ‘Look,’ said Twoflower patiently, ‘I don’t think you understand. No one can open the Luggage if it’s feeling in a locked mood. ’ ‘Oh yes, I forgot,’ said Gancia thoughtfully. ‘Of course, it’s a magic box, isn’t that right? With little legs, they say. I say, Weems, any legs your side? No?’ He held his knife to Twoflower’s throat. ‘I’m really upset about that,’ he said. ‘So’s Weems. He doesn’t say much but what he does is, he tears bits off people. So open – the – box!’ He turned and planted a kick on the side of the box, leaving a nasty gash in the wood. There was a tiny little click. Gancia grinned. The lid swung up slowly, ponderously. The distant firelight gleamed off gold – lots of gold, in plate, chain, and coin, heavy and glistening in the flickering shadows. ‘All right,’ said Gancia softly. He looked back at the unheeding men around the fire, who seemed to be shouting at someone outside the cave. Then he looked speculatively at Weems. His lips moved soundlessly with the unaccustomed effort of mental arithmetic. He looked down at his knife. Then the floor moved. ‘I heard someone,’ said one of the men. ‘Down there. Among the – uh – rocks. ’ Rincewind’s voice floated up out of the darkness. ‘I say,’ he said. ‘Well?’ said Herrena. ‘You’re in great danger!’ shouted Rincewind. ‘You must put the fire out!’ ‘No, no,’ said Herrena. ‘You’ve got it wrong, you’re in great danger. And the fire stays. ’ ‘There’s this big old troll—’ ‘Everyone knows trolls keep away from fire,’ said Herrena. She nodded. A couple of men drew their swords and slipped out into the darkness. ‘Absolutely true!’ shouted Rincewind desperately. ‘Only this specific troll can’t, you see. ’ ‘Can’t?’ Herrena hesitated. Something of the terror in Rincewind’s voice hit her. ‘Yes, because, you see, you’ve lit it on his tongue. ’ Then the floor moved. Old Grandad awoke very slowly from his centuries-old slumber. He nearly didn’t awake at all, in fact a few decades later none of this could have happened. When a troll gets old and starts to think seriously about the universe it normally finds a quiet spot and gets down to some hard philosophizing, and after a while starts to forget about its extremities. It begins to crystallize around the edges until nothing remains except a tiny flicker of life inside quite a large hill with some unusual rock strata. Old Grandad hadn’t quite got that far. He awoke from considering quite a promising line of enquiry about the meaning of truth and found a hot ashy taste in what, after a certain amount of thought, he remembered as being his mouth. He began to get angry. Commands skittered along neural pathways of impure silicon. Deep within his silicaceous body stone slipped smoothly along special fracture lines. Trees toppled, turf split, as fingers the size of ships unfolded and gripped the ground. Two enormous rockslides high on his cliff face marked the opening of eyes like great crusted opals. Rincewind couldn’t see all this, of course, since his own eyes were daylight issue only, but he did see the whole dark landscape shake itself slowly and then begin to rise impossibly against the stars. The sun rose. However, the sunlight didn’t. What did happen was that the famous Discworld sunlight which, as has already been indicated, travels very slowly through the Disc’s powerful magical field, sloshed gently over the lands around the Rim and began its soft, silent battle against the retreating armies of the night. It poured like molten gold 4 across the sleeping landscape – bright, clean and, above all, slow. Herrena didn’t hesitate. With great presence of mind she ran to the edge of Old Grandad’s bottom lip and jumped, rolling as she hit the earth. The men followed her, cursing as they landed among the debris. Like a fat man trying to do press-ups the old troll pushed himself upwards. This wasn’t apparent from where the prisoners were lying. All they knew was that the floor kept rolling under them and that there was a lot of noise going on, most of it unpleasant. Weems grabbed Gancia’s arm. ‘It’s a herthquake,’ he said. ‘Let’s get out of here!’ ‘Not without that gold,’ said Gancia. ‘What?’ ‘The gold, the gold. Man, we could be as rich as Creosote!’ Weems might have had a room-temperature IQ, but he knew idiocy when he saw it. Gancia’s eyes gleamed more than gold, and he appeared to be staring at Weems’s left ear. Weems looked desperately at the Luggage. It was still open invitingly, which was odd – you’d have thought all this shaking would have slammed the lid shut. ‘We’d never carry it,’ he suggested. ‘It’s too heavy,’ he added. ‘We’ll damn well carry some of it!’ shouted Gancia, and leapt towards the chest as the floor shook again. The lid snapped shut. Gancia vanished. And just in case Weems thought it was accidental the Luggage’s lid snapped open again, just for a second, and a large tongue as red as mahogany licked across broad teeth as white as sycamore. Then it slammed shut again. To Weems’s further horror hundreds of little legs extruded from the underside of the box. It rose very deliberately and, carefully arranging its feet, shuffled around to face him. There was a particularly malevolent look about its keyhole, the sort of look that says ‘Go on – make my day. . . ’ He backed away and looked imploringly at Twoflower. ‘I think it might be a good idea if you untied us,’ suggested Twoflower. ‘It’s really quite friendly once it gets to know you. ’ Licking his lips nervously, Weems drew his knife. The Luggage gave a warning creak. He slashed through their bonds and stood back quickly. ‘Thank you,’ said Twoflower.

‘I think my back’sh gone again,’ complained Cohen, as Bethan helped him to his feet. ‘What do we do with this man?’ said Bethan. ‘We take hish knife and tell him to bugger off,’ said Cohen. ‘Right?’ ‘Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!’ said Weems, and bolted towards the cavemouth. For a moment he was outlined against the grey pre-dawn sky, and then he vanished. There was a distant cry of ‘aaargh’. The sunlight roared silently across the land like surf. Here and there, where the magic field was slightly weaker, tongues of morning raced ahead of the day, leaving isolated islands of night that contracted and vanished as the bright ocean flowed onwards. The uplands around the Vortex Plains stood out ahead of the advancing tide like a great grey ship. It is possible to stab a troll, but the technique takes practice and no one ever gets a chance to practise more than once. Herrena’s men saw the trolls loom out of the darkness like very solid ghosts. Blades shattered as they hit silica skins, there were one or two brief, flat screams, and then nothing more but shouts far away in the forest as they put as much distance as they could between themselves and the avenging earth. Rincewind crept out from behind a tree and looked around. He was alone, but the bushes behind him rustled as the trolls lumbered after the gang. He looked up. High above him two great crystalline eyes focused in hatred of everything soft and squelchy and, above all, warm. Rincewind cowered in horror as a hand the size of a house rose, curled into a fist, and dropped towards him. Day came with a silent explosion of light. For a moment the huge terrifying bulk of Old Grandad was a breakwater of shadow as the daylight streamed past. There was a brief grinding noise. There was silence. Several minutes passed. Nothing happened. A few birds started singing. A bumble-bee buzzed over the boulder that was Old Grandad’s fist and alighted on a patch of thyme that had grown under a stone fingernail. There was a scuffling down below. Rincewind slid awkwardly out of the narrow gap between the fist and the ground like a snake leaving a burrow. He lay on his back, staring up at the sky past the frozen shape of the troll. It hadn’t changed in any way, apart from the stillness, but already the eye started to play tricks. Last night Rincewind had looked at cracks in stone and seen them become mouths and eyes; now he looked at the great cliff face and saw the features become, like magic, mere blemishes in the rock. ‘Wow!’ he said. That didn’t seem to help. He stood up, dusted himself off, and looked around. Apart from the bumble-bee, he was completely alone. After poking around for a bit he found a rock that, from certain angles, looked like Beryl. He was lost and lonely and a long way from home. He— There was a crunch high above him, and shards of rock spattered into the earth. High up on the face of Old Grandad a hole appeared; there was a brief sight of the Luggage’s backside as it struggled to regain its footing, and then Twoflower’s head poked out of the mouth cave. ‘Anyone down there? I say?’ ‘Hey!’ shouted the wizard. ‘Am I glad to see you!’ ‘I don’t know. Are you?’ said Twoflower. ‘Am I what?’ ‘Gosh, there’s a wonderful view from up here!’ It took them half an hour to get down. Fortunately Old Grandad had been quite craggy with plenty of handholds, but his nose would have presented a tricky obstacle if it hadn’t been for the luxuriant oak tree that flourished in one nostril. The Luggage didn’t bother to climb. It just jumped, and bounced its way down with no apparent harm. Cohen sat in the shade, trying to catch his breath and waiting for his sanity to catch up with him. He eyed the Luggage thoughtfully. ‘The horses have all gone,’ said Twoflower. ‘We’ll find ’em,’ said Cohen. His eyes bored into the Luggage, which began to look embarrassed. ‘They were carrying all our food,’ said Rincewind. ‘Plenty of food in the foreshts. ’ ‘I have some nourishing biscuits in the Luggage,’ said Twoflower. ‘Traveller’s Digestives. Always a comfort in a tight spot. ’ ‘I’ve tried them,’ said Rincewind. ‘They’ve got a mean edge on them, and—’ Cohen stood up, wincing. ‘Excushe me,’ he said flatly. ‘There’sh shomething I’ve got to know. ’ He walked over to the Luggage and gripped its lid. The box backed away hurriedly, but Cohen stuck out a skinny foot and tripped up half its legs. As it twisted to snap at him he gritted his teeth and heaved, jerking the Luggage onto its curved lid where it rocked angrily like a maddened tortoise. ‘Hey, that’s my Luggage!’ said Twoflower. ‘Why’s he attacking my Luggage?’ ‘I think I know,’ said Bethan quietly. ‘I think it’s because he’s scared of it. ’ Twoflower turned to Rincewind, open-mouthed. Rincewind shrugged. ‘Search me,’ he said. ‘I run away from things I’m scared of, myself. ’ With a snap of its lid the Luggage jerked into the air and came down running, catching Cohen a crack on the shins with one of its brass corners. As it wheeled around he got a grip on it just long enough to send it galloping full tilt into a rock. ‘Not bad,’ said Rincewind, admiringly. The Luggage staggered back, paused for a moment, then came at Cohen waving its lid menacingly. He jumped and landed on it, with both his hands and feet caught in the gap between the box and the lid. This severely puzzled the Luggage. It was even more astonished when Cohen took a deep breath and heaved, muscles standing out on his skinny arms like a sock full of coconuts. They stood locked there for some time, tendon versus hinge. Occasionally one or other would creak. Bethan elbowed Twoflower in the ribs. ‘Do something,’ she said. ‘Um,’ said Twoflower. ‘Yes. That’s about enough, I think. Put him down, please. ’ The Luggage gave a creak of betrayal at the sound of its master’s voice. Its lid flew up with such force that Cohen tumbled backwards, but he scrambled to his feet and flung himself towards the box. Its contents lay open to the skies. Cohen reached inside. The Luggage creaked a bit, but had obviously weighed up the chances of being sent to the top of that Great Wardrobe in the Sky. When Rincewind dared to peek through his fingers Cohen was peering into the Luggage and cursing under his breath. ‘Laundry?’ he shouted. ‘Is that it? Just laundry?’ He was shaking with rage. ‘I think there’s some biscuits too,’ said Twoflower in a small voice. ‘But there wash gold! And I shaw it eat shomebody!’ Cohen looked imploringly at Rincewind. The wizard sighed. ‘Don’t ask me,’ he said. ‘I don’t own the bloody thing. ’ ‘I bought it in a shop,’ said Twoflower defensively. ‘I said I wanted a travelling trunk. ’ ‘That’s what you got, all right,’ said Rincewind. ‘It’s very loyal,’ said Twoflower. ‘Oh yes,’ agreed Rincewind. ‘If loyalty is what you look for in a suitcase. ’ ‘Hold on,’ said Cohen, who had sagged onto a rock. ‘Wash it one of thoshe shopsh – I mean, I bet you hadn’t noticed it before and when you went back again it washn’t there?’ Twoflower brightened. ‘That’s right!’ ‘Shopkeeper a little wizened old guy? Shop full of strange shtuff?’ ‘Exactly! Never could find it again, I thought I must have got the wrong street, nothing but a brick wall where I thought it was. I remember thinking at the time it was rather—’ Cohen shrugged. ‘One of those shops 5 ,’ he said. ‘That explainsh it, then. ’ He felt his back, and grimaced. ‘Bloody horshe ran off with my linament!’ Rincewind remembered something, and fumbled in the depths of his torn and now very grubby robe. He held up a green bottle. ‘That’sh the shtuff!’ said Cohen. ‘You’re a marvel. ’ He looked sideways at Twoflower. ‘I would have beaten it,’ he said quietly, ‘even if you hadn’t called it off, I would have beaten it in the end. ’ ‘That’s right,’ said Bethan. ‘You two can make yourshelf usheful,’ he added. ‘That Luggage broke through a troll tooth to get ush out. That wash diamond. Shee if you can find the bitsh. I’ve had an idea about them. ’ As Bethan rolled up her sleeves and uncorked the bottle Rincewind took Twoflower to one side.

When they were safely hidden behind a shrub he said, ‘He’s gone barmy. ’ ‘That’s Cohen the Barbarian you’re talking about!’ said Twoflower, genuinely shocked. ‘He is the greatest warrior that—’ ‘ Was ,’ said Rincewind urgently. ‘All that stuff with the warrior priests and man-eating zombies was years ago. All he’s got now is memories and so many scars you could play noughts-and-crosses on him. ’ ‘He is rather more elderly than I imagined, yes,’ said Twoflower. He picked up a fragment of diamond. ‘So we ought to leave them and find our horses and move on,’ said Rincewind. ‘That’s a bit of a mean trick, isn’t it?’ ‘They’ll be all right,’ said Rincewind heartily. ‘The point is, would you feel happy in the company of someone who would attack the Luggage with his bare hands ?’ ‘That is a point,’ said Twoflower. ‘They’ll probably be better off without us anyway. ’ ‘Are you sure?’ ‘Positive,’ said Rincewind. They found the horses wandering aimlessly in the scrub, breakfasted on badly-dried horse jerky, and set off in what Rincewind believed was the right direction. A few minutes later the Luggage emerged from the bushes and followed them. The sun rose higher in the sky, but still failed to blot out the light of the star. ‘It’s got bigger overnight,’ said Twoflower. ‘Why isn’t anybody doing something?’ ‘Such as what?’ Twoflower thought. ‘Couldn’t somebody tell Great A’Tuin to avoid it?’ he said. ‘Sort of go around it?’ ‘That sort of thing has been tried before,’ said Rincewind. ‘Wizards tried to tune in to Great A’Tuin’s mind. ’ ‘It didn’t work?’ ‘Oh, it worked all right,’ said Rincewind. ‘Only. . . ’ Only there had been certain unforeseen risks in reading a mind as great as the World Turtle’s, he explained. The wizards had trained up on tortoises and giant sea turtles first, to get the hang of the chelonian frame of mind, but although they knew that Great A’Tuin’s mind would be big they hadn’t realized that it would be slow. ‘There’s a bunch of wizards that have been reading it in shifts for thirty years,’ said Rincewind. ‘All they’ve found out is that Great A’Tuin is looking forward to something. ’ ‘What?’ ‘Who knows?’ They rode in silence for a while through a rough country where huge limestone blocks lined the track. Eventually Twoflower said, ‘We ought to go back, you know. ’ ‘Look, we’ll reach the Smarl tomorrow,’ said Rincewind. ‘Nothing will happen to them out here, I don’t see why—’ He was talking to himself. Twoflower had wheeled his horse and was trotting back, demonstrating all the horsemanship of a sack of potatoes. Rincewind looked down. The Luggage regarded him owlishly. ‘What are you looking at?’ said the wizard. ‘He can go back if he wants, why should I bother?’ The Luggage said nothing. ‘Look, he’s not my responsibility,’ said Rincewind. ‘Let’s be absolutely clear about that. ’ The Luggage said nothing, but louder this time. ‘Go on – follow him. You’re nothing to do with me. ’ The Luggage retracted its little legs and settled down on the track. ‘Well, I’m going,’ said Rincewind. ‘I mean it,’ he added. He turned the horse’s head back towards the new horizon, and glanced down. The Luggage sat there. ‘It’s no good trying to appeal to my better nature. You can stay there all day for all I care. I’m just going to ride off, okay?’ He glared at the Luggage. The Luggage looked back. ‘I thought you’d come back,’ said Twoflower. ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ said Rincewind. ‘Shall we talk about something else?’ ‘Yeah, well, discussing how to get these ropes off would be favourite,’ said Rincewind. He wrenched at the bonds around his wrists. ‘I can’t imagine why you’re so important,’ said Herrena. She sat on a rock opposite them, sword across her knees. Most of the gang lay among the rocks high above, watching the road. Rincewind and Twoflower had been a pathetically easy ambush. ‘Weems told me what your box did to Gancia,’ she added. ‘I can’t say that’s a great loss, but I hope it understands that if it comes within a mile of us I will personally cut both your throats, yes?’ Rincewind nodded violently. ‘Good,’ said Herrena. ‘You’re wanted dead or alive, I’m not really bothered which, but some of the lads might want to have a little discussion with you about those trolls. If the sun hadn’t come up when it did—’ She left the words hanging, and walked away. ‘Well, here’s another fine mess,’ said Rincewind. He had another pull at the ropes that bound him. There was a rock behind him, and if he could bring his wrists up – yes, as he thought, it lacerated him while at the same time being too blunt to have any effect on the rope. ‘But why us?’ said Twoflower. ‘It’s to do with that star, isn’t it?’ ‘I don’t know anything about the star,’ said Rincewind. ‘I never even attended astrology lessons at the University!’ ‘I expect everything will turn out all right in the end,’ said Twoflower. Rincewind looked at him. Remarks like that always threw him. ‘Do you really believe that?’ he said. ‘I mean, really?’ ‘Well, things generally do work out satisfactorily, when you come to think about it. ’ ‘If you think the total disruption of my life for the last year is satisfactory then you might be right. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve nearly been killed—’ ‘Twenty-seven,’ said Twoflower. ‘What?’ ‘Twenty-seven times,’ said Twoflower helpfully. ‘I worked it out. But you never actually have. ’ ‘What? Worked it out?’ said Rincewind, who was beginning to have the familiar feeling that the conversation had been mugged. ‘No. Been killed. Doesn’t that seem a bit suspicious?’ ‘I’ve never objected to it, if that’s what you mean,’ said Rincewind. He glared at his feet. Twoflower was right, of course. The Spell was keeping him alive, it was obvious. No doubt if he jumped over a cliff a passing cloud would cushion his fall. The trouble with that theory, he decided, was that it only worked if he didn’t believe it was true. The moment he thought he was invulnerable he’d be dead. So, on the whole it was wisest not to think about it at all. Anyway, he might be wrong. The only thing he could be certain of was that he was getting a headache. He hoped that the Spell was somewhere in the area of the headache and really suffering. When they rode out of the hollow both Rincewind and Twoflower were sharing a horse with one of their captors. Rincewind perched uncomfortably in front of Weems, who had sprained an ankle and was not in a good mood. Twoflower sat in front of Herrena which, since he was fairly short, meant that at least he kept his ears warm. She rode with a drawn knife and a sharp eye out for any walking boxes; Herrena hadn’t quite worked out what the Luggage was, but she was bright enough to know that it wouldn’t let Twoflower be killed. After about ten minutes they saw it in the middle of the road. Its lid lay open invitingly. It was full of gold. ‘Go round it,’ said Herrena. ‘But—’ ‘It’s a trap. ’ ‘That’s right,’ said Weems, white-faced. ‘You take it from me. ’ Reluctantly they reined their horses around the glittering temptation and trotted on along the track. Weems glanced back fearfully, dreading to see the chest coming after him. What he saw was almost worse. It had gone. Far off to one side of the path the long grass moved mysteriously and was still. Rincewind wasn’t much of a wizard and even less of a fighter, but he was an expert at cowardice and he knew fear when he smelt it. He said, quietly, ‘It’ll follow you, you know. ’ ‘What?’ said Weems, distractedly. He was still peering at the grass. ‘It’s very patient and it never gives up. That’s sapient pearwood you’re dealing with. It’ll let you think it’s forgotten you, then one day you’ll be walking along a dark street and you’ll hear these little footsteps behind you – shlup, shlup, they’ll go, then you’ll start running and they’ll speed up, shlupshlupSHLUP—’ ‘Shut up!’ shouted Weems. ‘It’s probably already recognized you, so—’ ‘I said shut up!’ Herrena turned around in her saddle and glared at them.

Weems scowled and pulled Rincewind’s ear until it was right in front of his mouth, and said hoarsely, ‘I’m afraid of nothing, understand? This wizard stuff, I spit on it. ’ ‘They all say that until they hear the footsteps,’ said Rincewind. He stopped. A knifepoint was pricking his ribs. Nothing happened for the rest of the day but, to Rincewind’s satisfaction and Weems’s mounting paranoia, the Luggage showed itself several times. Here it would be perched incongruously on a crag, there it would be half-hidden in a ditch with moss growing over it. By late afternoon they came to the crest of a hill and looked down on the broad valley of the upper Smarl, the longest river on the Disc. It was already half a mile across, and heavy with the silt that made the lower valley the most fertile area on the continent. A few wisps of early mist wreathed its banks. ‘Shlup,’ said Rincewind. He felt Weems jerk upright in the saddle. ‘Eh?’ ‘Just clearing my throat,’ said Rincewind, and grinned. He had put a lot of thought into that grin. It was the sort of grin people use when they stare at your left ear and tell you in an urgent tone of voice that they are being spied on by secret agents from the next galaxy. It was not a grin to inspire confidence. More horrible grins had probably been seen, but only on the sort of grinner that is orange with black stripes, has a long tail and hangs around in jungles looking for victims to grin at. ‘Wipe that off,’ said Herrena, trotting up. Where the track led down to the river bank there was a crude jetty and a big bronze gong. ‘It’ll summon the ferryman,’ said Herrena. ‘If we cross here we can cut off a big bend in the river. Might even make it to a town tonight. ’ Weems looked doubtful. The sun was getting fat and red, and the mists were beginning to thicken. ‘Or maybe you want to spend the night this side of the water?’ Weems picked up the hammer and hit the gong so hard that it spun right around on its hanger and fell off. They waited in silence. Then with a wet clinking sound a chain sprang out of the water and pulled taut against an iron peg set into the bank. Eventually the slow flat shape of the ferry emerged from the mist, its hooded ferryman heaving on a big wheel set in its centre as he winched his way towards the shore The ferry’s flat bottom grated on the gravel, and the hooded figure leaned against the wheel, panting. ‘Two at a time,’ it muttered. ‘That’sh all. Jusht two, with horshesh. ’ Rincewind swallowed, and tried not to look at Twoflower. The man would probably be grinning and mugging like an idiot. He risked a sideways glance. Twoflower was sitting with his mouth open. ‘You’re not the usual ferryman,’ said Herrena. ‘I’ve been here before, the usual man is a big fellow, sort of—’ ‘It’sh hish day off. ‘Well, okay,’ she said doubtfully. ‘In that case – what’s he laughing at ?’ Twoflower’s shoulders were shaking, his face had gone red, and he was emitting muffled snorts. Herrena glared at him, then looked hard at the ferryman. ‘Two of you – grab him!’ There was a pause. Then one of the men said, ‘What, the ferryman?’ ‘Yes!’ ‘Why?’ Herrena looked blank. This sort of thing wasn’t supposed to happen. It was accepted that when someone yelled something like ‘Get him!’ or ‘Guards!’ people jumped to it, they weren’t supposed to sit around discussing things. ‘Because I said so!’ was the best she could manage. The two men nearest to the bowed figure looked at each other, shrugged, dismounted, and each took a shoulder. The ferryman was about half their size. ‘Like this?’ said one of them. Twoflower was choking for breath. ‘Now I want to see what he’s got under that robe. ’ The two men exchanged glances. ‘I’m not sure that—’ said one. He got no further because a knobbly elbow jerked into his stomach like a piston. His companion looked down incredulously and got the other elbow in the kidneys. Cohen cursed as he struggled to untangle his sword from his robe while hopping crabwise towards Herrena. Rincewind groaned, gritted his teeth, and jerked his head backwards hard. There was a scream from Weems and Rincewind rolled sideways, landed heavily in the mud, scrambled up madly and looked around for somewhere to hide. With a cry of triumph Cohen managed to free his sword and waved it triumphantly, severely wounding a man who had been creeping up behind him. Herrena pushed Twoflower off her horse and fumbled for her own blade. Twoflower tried to stand up and caused the horse of another man to rear, throwing him off and bringing his head down to the right level for Rincewind to kick it as hard as possible. Rincewind would be the first to call himself a rat, but even rats fight in a corner. Weems’s hands dropped onto his shoulder and a fist like a medium-sized rock slammed into his head. As he went down he heard Herrena say, quite quietly, ‘Kill them both. I’ll deal with this old fool. ’ ‘Roight!’ said Weems, and turned towards Twoflower with his sword drawn. Rincewind saw him hesitate. There was a moment of silence, and then even Herrena could hear the splashing as the Luggage surged ashore, water pouring from it. Weems stared at it in horror. His sword fell from his hand. He turned and ran into the mists. A moment later the Luggage bounded over Rincewind and followed him. Herrena lunged at Cohen, who parried the thrust and grunted as his arm twinged. The blades clanged wetly, and then Herrena was forced to back away as a cunning upward sweep from Cohen nearly disarmed her. Rincewind staggered towards Twoflower and tugged at him ineffectually. ‘Time to be going,’ he muttered. ‘This is great!’ said Twoflower. ‘Did you see the way he—’ ‘Yes, yes, come on. ’ ‘But I want – I say, well done!’ Herrena’s sword spun out of her hand and stood quivering in the dirt. With a snort of satisfaction Cohen brought his own sword back, went momentarily crosseyed, gave a little yelp of pain, and stood absolutely motionless. Herrena looked at him, puzzled. She made an experimental move in the direction of her own sword and when nothing happened she grasped it, tested its balance, and stared at Cohen. Only his agonized eyes moved to follow her as she circled him cautiously. ‘His back’s gone again!’ whispered Twoflower. ‘What can we do?’ ‘We can see if we can catch the horses?’ ‘Well,’ said Herrena, ‘I don’t know who you are or why you’re here, and there’s nothing personal about this, you understand. ’ She raised her sword in both hands. There was a sudden movement in the mists and the dull thud of a heavy piece of wood hitting a head. Herrena looked bewildered for a moment, and then fell forward. Bethan dropped the branch she had been holding and looked at Cohen. Then she grabbed him by the shoulders, stuck her knee in the small of his back, gave a businesslike twist and let him go. An expression of bliss passed across his face. He gave an experimental bend. ‘It’s gone!’ he said. ‘The back! Gone!’ Twoflower turned to Rincewind. ‘My father used to recommend hanging from the top of a door,’ he said conversationally. Weems crept very cautiously through the scrubby, mist-laden trees. The pale damp air muffled all sounds, but he was certain that there had been nothing to hear for the past ten minutes. He turned around very slowly, and then allowed himself the luxury of a long, heartfelt sigh. He stepped back into the cover of the bushes. Something nudged the back of his knees, very gently. Something angular. He looked down. There seemed to be more feet down there than there ought to be. There was a short, sharp snap. The fire was a tiny dot of light in a dark landscape. The moon wasn’t up yet, but the star was a lurking glow on the horizon. ‘It’s circular now,’ said Bethan. ‘It looks like a tiny sun. I’m sure it’s getting hotter, too. ’ ‘Don’t,’ said Rincewind. ‘As if I hadn’t got enough to worry about. ’ ‘What I don’t undershtand,’ said Cohen, who was having his back massaged, ‘ish how they captured you without ush hearing it. We wouldn’t have known at all if your Luggage hadn’t kept jumping up and down. ’ ‘And whining,’ said Bethan.

They all looked at her. ‘Well, it looked as if it was whining,’ she said. ‘I think it’s rather sweet, really. ’ Four pairs of eyes turned towards the Luggage, which was squatting on the other side of the fire. It got up, and very pointedly moved back into the shadows. ‘Eashy to feed,’ said Cohen. ‘Hard to lose’ agreed Rincewind. ‘Loyal,’ suggested Twoflower. ‘Roomy,’ said Cohen. ‘But I wouldn’t say sweet,’ said Rincewind. ‘I shuppose you wouldn’t want to shell it?’ said Cohen. Twoflower shook his head. ‘I don’t think it would understand,’ he said. ‘No, I shupposhe not,’ said Cohen. He sat up, and bit his lip. ‘I wash looking for a preshent for Bethan, you shee. We’re getting married. ’ ‘We thought you ought to be the first to know,’ said Bethan, and blushed. Rincewind didn’t catch Twoflower’s eye. ‘Well, that’s very, er—’ ‘Just as soon as we find a town where there’s a priest,’ said Bethan. ‘I want it done properly. ’ ‘That’s very important,’ said Twoflower seriously. ‘If there were more morals about we wouldn’t be crashing into stars. ’ They considered this for a moment. Then Twoflower said brightly, ‘This calls for a celebration. I’ve got some biscuits and water, if you’ve still got some of that jerky. ’ ‘Oh, good,’ said Rincewind weakly. He beckoned Cohen to one side. With his beard trimmed the old man could easily have passed for seventy on a dark night. ‘This is, uh, serious?’ he said. ‘You’re really going to marry her?’ ‘Shure thing. Any objections?’ ‘Well, no, of course not, but – I mean, she’s seventeen and you’re, you’re how can I put it, you’re of the elderly persuasion. ’ ‘Time I shettled down, you mean?’ Rincewind groped for words. ‘You’re seventy years older than her, Cohen. Are you sure that—’ ‘I have been married before, you know. I’ve got quite a good memory,’ said Cohen reproachfully. ‘No, what I mean is, well, I mean physically, the point is, what about, you know, the age difference and everything. It’s a matter of health, isn’t it, and—’ ‘Ah,’ said Cohen slowly, ‘I shee what you mean. The strain. I hadn’t looked at it like that. ’ ‘No,’ said Rincewind, straightening up. ‘No, well, that’s only to be expected. ’ ‘You’ve given me something to think about and no mishtake,’ said Cohen. ‘I hope I haven’t upset anything. ’ ‘No, no,’ said Cohen vaguely. ‘Don’t apologishe. You were right to point it out. ’ He turned and looked at Bethan, who waved at him, and then he looked up at the star that glared through the mists. Eventually he said, ‘Dangerous times, these. ’ ‘That’s a fact. ’ ‘Who knows what tomorrow may bring?’ ‘Not me. ’ Cohen clapped Rincewind on the shoulder. ‘Shometimesh we jusht have to take rishks,’ he said. ‘Don’t be offended, but I think we’ll go ahead with the wedding anyway and, well,’ he looked at Bethan and sighed, ‘we’ll just have to hope she’s shtrong enough. ’ Around noon the following day they rode into a small, mud-walled city surrounded by fields still lush and green. There seemed to be a lot of traffic going the other way, though. Huge carts rumbled past them. Herds of livestock ambled along the crown of the road. Old ladies stomped past carrying entire households and haystacks on their backs. ‘Plague?’ said Rincewind, stopping a man pushing a handcart full of children. He shook his head. ‘It’s the star, friend,’ he said. ‘Haven’t you seen it in the sky?’ ‘We couldn’t help noticing it, yes. ’ ‘They say that it’ll hit us on Hogswatchnight and the seas will boil and the countries of the Disc will be broken and kings will be brought down and the cities will be as lakes of glass,’ said the man. ‘I’m off to the mountains. ’ ‘That’ll help, will it?’ said Rincewind doubtfully. ‘No, but the view will be better. ’ Rincewind rode back to the others. ‘Everyone’s worried about the star,’ he said. ‘Apparently there’s hardly anyone left in the cities, they’re all frightened of it. ’ ‘I don’t want to worry anyone,’ said Bethan, ‘but hasn’t it struck you as unseasonably hot?’ ‘That’s what I said last night,’ said Twoflower. ‘Very warm, I thought. ’ ‘I shuspect it’ll get a lot hotter,’ said Cohen. ‘Let’sh get on into the city. ’ They rode through echoing streets that were practically deserted. Cohen kept peering at merchants’ signs until he reined his horse and said, ‘Thish ish what I’ve been looking for. You find a temple and a priesht, I’ll join you shortly. ’ ‘A jeweller?’ said Rincewind. ‘It’s a shuprishe. ’ ‘I could do with a new dress, too,’ said Bethan. ‘I’ll shteal you one. ’ There was something very oppressive about the city, Rincewind decided. There was also something very odd. Almost every door was painted with a large red star. ‘It’s creepy,’ said Bethan. ‘As if people wanted to bring the star here. ’ ‘Or keep it away,’ said Twoflower. ‘That won’t work. It’s too big,’ said Rincewind. He saw their faces turned towards him. ‘Well, it stands to reason, doesn’t it?’ he said lamely. ‘No,’ said Bethan. ‘Stars are small lights in the sky,’ said Twoflower. ‘One fell down near my home once – big white thing, size of a house, glowed for weeks before it went out. ’ ‘This star is different,’ said a voice. ‘Great A’Tuin has climbed the beach of the universe. This is the great ocean of space. ’ ‘How do you know?’ said Twoflower. ‘Know what?’ said Rincewind. ‘What you just said. About beaches and oceans. ’ ‘I didn’t say anything!’ ‘Yes you did, you silly man!’ yelled Bethan. ‘We saw your lips going up and down and everything!’ Rincewind shut his eyes. Inside his mind he could feel the Spell scuttling off to hide behind his conscience, and muttering to itself. ‘All right, all right,’ he said. ‘No need to shout. I – I don’t know how I know, I just know —’ ‘Well, I wish you’d tell us. ’ They turned the corner. All the cities around the Circle Sea had a special area set aside for the gods, of which the Disc had an elegant sufficiency. Usually they were crowded and not very attractive from an architectural point of view. The most senior gods, of course, had large and splendid temples, but the trouble was that later gods demanded equality and soon the holy areas were sprawling with lean-to’s, annexes, loft conversions, sub-basements, bijou flatlets, ecclesiastical infilling and trans-temporal timesharing, since no god would dream of living outside the holy quarter or, as it had become, three-eighths. There were usually three hundred different types of incense being burned and the noise was normally at pain threshold because of all the priests vying with each other to call their share of the faithful to prayer. But this street was deathly quiet, that particularly unpleasant quiet that comes when hundreds of frightened and angry people are standing very still. A man at the edge of the crowd turned around and scowled at the newcomers. He had a red star painted on his forehead. ‘What’s—’ Rincewind began, and stopped as his voice seemed far too loud, ‘what’s this?’ ‘You’re strangers?’ said the man. ‘Actually we know one another quite—’ Twoflower began, and fell silent. Bethan pointed up the street. Every temple had a star painted on it. There was a particularly big one daubed across the stone eye outside the temple of Blind Io, leader of the gods. ‘Urgh,’ said Rincewind. ‘Io is going to be really pissed when he sees that. I don’t think we ought to hang around here, friends. ’ The crowd was facing a crude platform that had been built in the centre of the wide street. A big banner had been draped across the front of it. ‘I always heard that Blind Io can see everything that happens everywhere,’ said Bethan quietly. ‘Why hasn’t—’ ‘Quiet!’ said the man beside them. ‘Dahoney speaks!’ A figure had stepped up on the platform, a tall thin man with hair like a dandelion. There was no cheer from the crowd, just a collective sigh. He began to speak. Rincewind listened in mounting horror. Where were the gods? said the man. They had gone. Perhaps they had never been.

Who, actually, could remember seeing them? And now the star had been sent— It went on and on, a quiet, clear voice that used words like ‘cleanse’ and ‘scouring’ and ‘purify’ and drilled into the brain like a hot sword. Where were the wizards? Where was magic? Had it ever really worked, or had it all been a dream? Rincewind began to be really afraid that the gods might get to hear about this and be so angry that they’d take it out on anyone who happened to have been around at the time. But somehow even the wrath of the gods would have been better than the sound of that voice. The star was coming, it seemed to say, and its fearful fire could only be averted by – by – Rincewind couldn’t be certain, but he had visions of swords and banners and blank-eyed warriors. The voice didn’t believe in gods, which in Rincewind’s book was fair enough, but it didn’t believe in people either. A tall hooded stranger on Rincewind’s left jostled him. He turned – and looked up into a grinning skull under a black hood. Wizards, like cats, can see Death. Compared to the sound of that voice, Death seemed almost pleasant. He leaned against a wall, his scythe propped up beside him. He nodded at Rincewind. ‘Come to gloat?’ whispered Rincewind. Death shrugged. I HAVE COME TO SEE THE FUTURE , he said. ‘This is the future?’ A FUTURE , said Death. ‘It’s horrible,’ said Rincewind. I’ M INCLINED TO AGREE , said Death. ‘I would have thought you’d be all for it!’ N OT LIKE THIS. T HE DEATH OF THE WARRIOR OR THE OLD MAN OR THE LITTLE CHILD, THIS I UNDERSTAND, AND I TAKE AWAY THE PAIN AND END THE SUFFERING. I DO NOT UNDERSTAND THIS DEATH-OF-THE-MIND. ‘Who are you talking to?’ said Twoflower. Several members of the congregation had turned around and were looking suspiciously at Rincewind. ‘Nobody,’ said Rincewind. ‘Can we go away? I’ve got a headache. ’ Now a group of people at the edge of the crowd were muttering and pointing to them. Rincewind grabbed the other two and hurried them around the corner. ‘Mount up and let’s go,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a bad feeling that—’ A hand landed on his shoulder. He turned around. A pair of cloudy grey eyes set in a round bald head on top of a large muscular body were staring hard at his left ear. The man had a star painted on his forehead. ‘You look like a wizard,’ he said, in a tone of voice that suggested this was very unwise and quite possibly fatal. ‘Who, me? No, I’m – a clerk. Yes. A clerk. That’s right,’ said Rincewind. He gave a little laugh. The man paused, his lips moving soundlessly, as though he was listening to a voice in his head. Several other star people had joined him. Rincewind’s left ear began to be widely regarded. ‘I think you’re a wizard,’ said the man. ‘Look,’ said Rincewind, ‘if I was a wizard I’d be able to do magic, right? I’d just turn you into something, and I haven’t, so I’m not. ’ ‘We killed all our wizards,’ said one of the men. ‘Some ran away, but we killed quite a lot. They waved their hands and nothing came out. ’ Rincewind stared at him. ‘And we think you’re a wizard too,’ said the man holding Rincewind in an ever-tightening grip. ‘You’ve got the box on legs and you look like a wizard. ’ Rincewind became aware that the three of them and the Luggage had somehow become separated from their horses, and that they were now in a contracting circle of grey-faced, solemn people. Bethan had gone pale. Even Twoflower, whose ability to recognize danger was as good as Rincewind’s ability to fly, was looking worried. Rincewind took a deep breath. He raised his hands in the classic pose he’d learned years before, and rasped, ‘Stand back! Or I’ll fill you full of magic!’ ‘The magic has faded,’ said the man. ‘The star has taken it away. All the false wizards said their funny words and then nothing happened and they looked at their hands in horror and very few of them, in fact, had the sense to run away. ’ ‘I mean it!’ said Rincewind. He’s going to kill me, he thought. That’s it. I can’t even bluff any more. No good at magic, no good at bluffing, I’m just a— The Spell stirred in his mind. He felt it trickle into his brain like iced water and brace itself. A cold tingle coursed down his arm. His arm raised of its own volition, and he felt his own mouth opening and shutting and his own tongue moving as a voice that wasn’t his, a voice that sounded old and dry, said syllables that puffed into the air like steam clouds. Octarine fire flashed from under his fingernails. It wrapped itself around the horrified man until he was lost in a cold, spitting cloud that rose above the street, hung there for a long moment, and then exploded into nothingness. There wasn’t even a wisp of greasy smoke. Rincewind stared at his hand in horror. Twoflower and Bethan each grabbed him by an arm and hustled him through the shocked crowd until they reached the open street. There was a painful moment as they each chose to run down a different alley, but they hurried on with Rincewind’s feet barely touching the cobbles. ‘Magic,’ he mumbled excitedly, drunk with power. ‘I did magic. . . ’ ‘That’s right,’ said Twoflower soothingly. ‘Would you like me to do a spell?’ said Rincewind. He pointed a finger at a passing dog and said ‘Wheeee!’ It gave him a hurt look. ‘Making your feet run a lot faster’d be favourite,’ said Bethan grimly. ‘Sure!’ slurred Rincewind. ‘Feet! Run faster! Hey, look, they’re doing it!’ ‘They’ve got more sense than you,’ said Bethan. ‘Which way now?’ Twoflower peered at the maze of alleyways around them. There was a lot of shouting going on, some way off. Rincewind lurched out of their grasp, and tottered uncertainly down the nearest alley. ‘I can do it!’ he shouted wildly. ‘Just you all watch out—’ ‘He’s in shock,’ said Twoflower. ‘Why?’ ‘He’s never done a spell before. ’ ‘But he’s a wizard!’ ‘It’s all a bit complicated,’ said Twoflower, running after Rincewind. ‘Anyway, I’m not sure that was actually him. It certainly didn’t sound like him. Come along, old fellow. ’ Rincewind looked at him with wild, unseeing eyes. ‘I’ll turn you into a rosebush,’ he said. ‘Yes, yes, jolly good. Just come along,’ said Twoflower soothingly, pulling gently at his arm. There was a pattering of feet from several alleyways and suddenly a dozen star people were advancing on them. Bethan grabbed Rincewind’s limp hand and held it up threateningly. ‘That’s far enough!’ she screamed. ‘Right!’ shouted Twoflower. ‘We’ve got a wizard and we’re not afraid to use him!’ ‘I mean it!’ screamed Bethan, spinning Rincewind around by his arm, like a capstan. ‘Right! We’re heavily armed! What?’ said Twoflower. ‘I said, where’s the Luggage?’ hissed Bethan behind Rincewind’s back. Twoflower looked around. The Luggage was missing. Rincewind was having the desired effect on the star people, though. As his hand waved vaguely around they treated it like a rotary scythe and tried to hide behind one another. ‘Well, where’s it gone?’ ‘How should I know?’ said Twoflower. ‘It’s your Luggage!’ ‘I often don’t know where my Luggage is, that’s what being a tourist is all about,’ said Twoflower. ‘Anyway, it often wanders off by itself. It’s probably best not to ask why. ’ It began to dawn on the mob that nothing was actually happening, and that Rincewind was in no condition to hurl insults, let alone magical fire. They advanced, watching his hands cautiously. Twoflower and Bethan backed away. Twoflower looked around. ‘Bethan?’ ‘What?’ said Bethan, not taking her eyes off the advancing figures. ‘This is a dead end. ’ ‘Are you sure?’ ‘I think I know a brick wall when I see one,’ said Twoflower reproachfully. ‘That’s about it, then,’ said Bethan. ‘Do you think perhaps if I explain—?’ ‘No. ’ ‘Oh. ’ ‘I don’t think these are the sort of people who listen to explanations,’ Bethan added. Twoflower stared at them. He was, as has been mentioned, usually oblivious to personal danger.

Against the whole of human experience Twoflower believed that if only people would talk to each other, have a few drinks, exchange pictures of their grandchildren, maybe take in a show or something, then everything could be sorted out. He also believed that people were basically good but sometimes had their bad days. What was coming down the street was having about the same effect on him as a gorilla in a glass factory. There was the faintest of sounds behind him, not so much a sound in fact as a change in the texture of the air. The faces in front of him gaped open, turned, and disappeared rapidly down the alley. ‘Eh?’ said Bethan, still propping up the now unconscious Rincewind. Twoflower was looking the other way, at a big glass window full of strange wares, and a beaded doorway, and a large sign above it all which now said, after its characters had finished writhing into position: ‘Skillet, Wang, Yrxle!yt, Bunglestiff, Cwmlad and Patel’ ‘Estblshd: various’ PURVEYORS The jeweller turned the gold slowly over the tiny anvil, tapping the last strangely-cut diamond into place. ‘From a troll’s tooth, you say?’ he muttered, squinting closely at his work. ‘Yesh,’ said Cohen, ‘and as I shay, you can have all the resht. ’ He was fingering a tray of gold rings. ‘Very generous,’ murmured the jeweller, who was dwarvish and knew a good deal when he saw one. He sighed. ‘Not much work lately?’ said Cohen. He looked out through the tiny window and watched a group of empty-eyed people gathered on the other side of the narrow street. ‘Times are hard, yes. ’ ‘Who are all theshe guysh with the starsh painted on?’ said Cohen. The dwarf jeweller didn’t look up. ‘Madmen,’ he said. ‘They say I should do no work because the star comes. I tell them stars have never hurt me, I wish I could say the same about people. ’ Cohen nodded thoughtfully as six men detached themselves from the group and came towards the shop. They were carrying an assortment of weapons, and had a driven, determined look about them. ‘Strange,’ said Cohen. ‘I am, as you can see, of the dwarvish persuasion,’ said the jeweller. ‘One of the magical races, it is said. The star people believe that the star will not destroy the Disc if we turn aside from magic. They’re probably going to beat me up a bit. So it goes. ’ He held up his latest work in a pair of tweezers. ‘The strangest thing I have ever made,’ he said, ‘but practical, I can see that. What did you say they were called again?’ ‘Din-chewersh,’ said Cohen. He looked at the horseshoe shapes nestling in the wrinkled palm of his hand, then opened his mouth and made a series of painful grunting noises. The door burst open. The men strode in and took up positions around the walls. They were sweating and uncertain, but their leader pushed Cohen aside disdainfully and picked up the dwarf by his shirt. ‘We tole you yesterday, small stuff,’ he said. ‘You go out feet down or feet up, we don’t mind. So now we gonna get really—’ Cohen tapped him on the shoulder. The man looked around irritably. ‘What do you want, grandad?’ he snarled. Cohen paused until he had the man’s full attention, and then he smiled. It was a slow, lazy smile, unveiling about 300 carats of mouth jewellery that seemed to light up the room. ‘I will count to three,’ he said, in a friendly tone of voice. ‘One. Two. ’ His bony knee came up and buried itself in the man’s groin with a satisfyingly meaty noise, and he half-turned to bring the full force of an elbow into the kidneys as the leader collapsed around his private universe of pain. ‘Three,’ he told the ball of agony on the floor. Cohen had heard of fighting fair, and had long ago decided he wanted no part of it. He looked up at the other men, and flashed his incredible smile. They ought to have rushed him. Instead one of them, secure in the knowledge that he had a broadsword and Cohen didn’t, sidled crabwise towards him. ‘Oh, no,’ said Cohen, waving his hands. ‘Oh, come on, lad, not like that. ’ The man looked sideways at him. ‘Not like what?’ he asked suspiciously. ‘You never held a sword before?’ The man half-turned to his colleagues for reassurance. ‘Not a lot, no,’ he said. ‘Not often. ’ He waved his sword menacingly. Cohen shrugged. ‘I may be going to die, but I should hope I could be killed by a man who could hold his sword like a warrior,’ he said. The man looked at his hands. ‘Looks all right,’ he said, doubtfully. ‘Look, lad, I know a little about these things. I mean, come here a minute and – do you mind? – right, your left hand goes here , around the pommel, and your right hand goes – that’s right, just here – and the blade goes right into your leg. ’ As the man screamed and clutched at his foot Cohen kicked his remaining leg away and turned to the room at large. ‘This is getting fiddly,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you rush me?’ ‘That’s right,’ said a voice by his waist. The jeweller had produced a very large and dirty axe, guaranteed to add tetanus to all the other terrors of warfare. The four men gave these odds some consideration, and backed towards the door. ‘And wipe those silly stars off,’ said Cohen. ‘You can tell everyone that Cohen the Barbarian will be very angry if he sees stars like that again, right?’ The door slammed shut. A moment later the axe thumped into it, bounced off, and took a sliver of leather off the toe of Cohen’s sandal. ‘Sorry,’ said the dwarf. ‘It belonged to my grandad. I only use it for splitting firewood. ’ Cohen felt his jaw experimentally. The dine chewers seemed to be settling in quite well. ‘If I was you, I’d be getting out of here anyway,’ he said. But the dwarf was already scuttling around the room, tipping trays of precious metal and gems into a leather sack. A roll of tools went into one pocket, a packet of finished jewellery went into another, and with a grunt the dwarf stuck his arms through handles on either side of his little forge and heaved it bodily onto his back. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’m ready. ’ ‘You’re coming with me?’ ‘As far as the city gates, if you don’t mind,’ he said. ‘You can’t blame me, can you?’ ‘No. But leave the axe behind. ’ They stepped out into the afternoon sun and a deserted street. When Cohen opened his mouth little pinpoints of bright light illuminated all the shadows. ‘I’ve got some friends around here to pick up,’ he said, and added, ‘I hope they’re all right. What’s your name?’ ‘Lackjaw. ’ ‘Is there anywhere around here where I can—’ Cohen paused lovingly, savouring the words, ‘where I can get a steak?’ ‘The star people have closed all the inns. They said it’s wrong to be eating and drinking when—’ ‘I know, I know,’ said Cohen. ‘I think I’m beginning to get the hang of it. Don’t they approve of anything?’ Lackjaw was lost in thought for a moment. ‘Setting fire to things,’ he said at last. ‘They’re quite good at that. Books and stuff. They have these great big bonfires. ’ Cohen was shocked. ‘Bonfires of books?’ ‘Yes. Horrible, isn’t it?’ ‘Right,’ said Cohen. He thought it was appalling. Someone who spent his life living rough under the sky knew the value of a good thick book, which ought to outlast at least a season of cooking fires if you were careful how you tore the pages out. Many a life had been saved on a snowy night by a handful of sodden kindling and a really dry book. If you felt like a smoke and couldn’t find a pipe, a book was your man every time. Cohen realized people wrote things in books. It had always seemed to him to be a frivolous waste of paper. ‘I’m afraid if your friends met them they might be in trouble,’ said Lackjaw sadly as they walked up the street. They turned the corner and saw the bonfire. It was in the middle of the street. A couple of star people were feeding it with books from a nearby house, which had had its door smashed in and had been daubed with stars. News of Cohen hadn’t spread too far yet. The book burners took no notice as he wandered up and leaned against the wall. Curly flakes of burnt paper bounced in the hot air and floated away over the rooftops. ‘What are you doing?’ he said.

One of the star people, a woman, pushed her hair out of her eyes with a soot-blackened hand, gazed intently at Cohen’s left ear, and said, ‘Ridding the Disc of wickedness. ’ Two men came out of the building and glared at Cohen, or at least at his ear. Cohen reached out and took the heavy book the woman was carrying. Its cover was crusted with strange red and black stones that spelled out what Cohen was sure was a word. He showed it to Lackjaw. ‘The Necrotelecomnicon,’ said the dwarf. ‘Wizards use it. It’s how to contact the dead, I think. ’ ‘That’s wizards for you,’ said Cohen. He felt a page between finger and thumb; it was thin, and quite soft. The rather unpleasant organic-looking writing didn’t worry him at all. Yes, a book like this could be a real friend to a man— ‘Yes? You want something?’ he said to one of the star men, who had gripped his arm. ‘All books of magic must be burned,’ said the man, but a little uncertainly, because something about Cohen’s teeth was giving him a nasty feeling of sanity. ‘Why?’ said Cohen. ‘It has been revealed to us. ’ Now Cohen’s smile was as wide as all outdoors, and rather more dangerous. ‘I think we ought to be getting along,’ said Lackjaw nervously. A party of star people had turned into the street behind them. ‘ I think I would like to kill someone,’ said Cohen, still smiling. ‘The star directs that the Disc must be cleansed,’ said the man, backing away. ‘Stars can’t talk,’ said Cohen, drawing his sword. ‘If you kill me a thousand will take my place,’ said the man, who was now backed against the wall. ‘Yes,’ said Cohen, in a reasonable tone of voice, ‘but that isn’t the point, is it? The point is, you’ll be dead. ’ The man’s Adam’s apple began to bob like a yoyo. He squinted down at Cohen’s sword. ‘There is that, yes,’ he conceded. ‘Tell you what – how about if we put the fire out?’ ‘Good idea,’ said Cohen. Lackjaw tugged at his belt. The other star people were running towards them. There were a lot of them, many of them were armed, and it began to look as though things would become a little more serious. Cohen waved his sword at them defiantly, and turned and ran. Even Lackjaw had difficulty in keeping up. ‘Funny,’ he gasped, as they plunged down another alley, ‘I thought – for a minute – you’d want to stand – and fight them. ’ ‘Blow that – for a – lark. ’ As they came out into the light at the other end of the alley Cohen flung himself against the wall, drew his sword, stood with his head on one side as he judged the approaching footsteps, and then brought the blade around in a dead flat sweep at stomach height. There was an unpleasant noise and several screams, but by then Cohen was well away up the street, moving in the unusual shambling run that spared his bunions. With Lackjaw pounding along grimly beside him he turned off into an inn painted with red stars, jumped onto a table with only a faint whimper of pain, ran along it – while, with almost perfect choreography, Lackjaw ran straight underneath without ducking – jumped down at the other end, kicked his way through the kitchens, and came out into another alley. They scurried around a few more turnings and piled into a doorway. Cohen clung to the wall and wheezed until the little blue and purple lights went away. ‘Well,’ he panted, ‘what did you get?’ ‘Um, the cruet,’ said Lackjaw. ‘Just that?’ ‘Well, I had to go under the table, didn’t I? You didn’t do so well yourself. ’ Cohen looked disdainfully at the small melon he had managed to skewer in his flight. ‘This must be pretty tough here,’ he said, biting through the rind. ‘Want some salt on it?’ said the dwarf. Cohen said nothing. He just stood holding the melon, with his mouth open. Lackjaw looked around. The cul de sac they were in was empty, except for an old box someone had left against a wall. Cohen was staring at it. He handed the melon to the dwarf without looking at him and walked out into the sunlight. Lackjaw watched him creep stealthily around the box, or as stealthily as is possible with joints that creaked like a ship under full sail, and prod it once or twice with his sword, but very gingerly, as if he half-expected it to explode. ‘It’s just a box,’ the dwarf called out. ‘What’s so special about a box?’ Cohen said nothing. He squatted down painfully and peered closely at the lock on the lid. ‘What’s in it?’ said Lackjaw. ‘You wouldn’t want to know,’ said Cohen. ‘Help me up, will you?’ ‘Yes, but this box—’ ‘This box,’ said Cohen, ‘this box is—’ he waved his arms vaguely. ‘Oblong?’ ‘ Eldritch ,’ said Cohen mysteriously. ‘Eldritch?’ ‘Yup. ’ ‘Oh,’ said the dwarf. They stood looking at the box for a moment. ‘Cohen?’ ‘Yes?’ ‘What does eldritch mean?’ ‘Well, eldritch is—’ Cohen paused and looked down irritably. ‘Give it a kick and you’ll see. ’ Lackjaw’s steel-capped dwarfboot whammed into the side of the box. Cohen flinched. Nothing else happened. ‘I see,’ said the dwarf. ‘Eldritch means wooden?’ ‘No,’ said Cohen. ‘It – it oughtn’t to have done that. ’ ‘I see,’ said Lackjaw, who didn’t, and was beginning to wish Cohen hadn’t gone out into all this hot sunlight. ‘It ought to have run away, you think?’ ‘Yes. Or bitten your leg off. ’ ‘Ah,’ said the dwarf. He took Cohen gently by the arm. ‘It’s nice and shady over here,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you just have a little—’ Cohen shook him off. ‘It’s watching that wall,’ he said. ‘Look, that’s why it’s not taking any notice of us. It’s staring at the wall. ’ ‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Lackjaw soothingly. ‘Of course it’s watching that wall with its little eyes—’ ‘Don’t be an idiot, it hasn’t got any eyes,’ snapped Cohen. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ said Lackjaw hurriedly. ‘It’s watching the wall without eyes, sorry. ’ ‘I think it’s worried about something,’ said Cohen. ‘Well, it would be, wouldn’t it,’ said Lackjaw. ‘I expect it just wants us to go off somewhere and leave it alone. ’ ‘I think it’s very puzzled,’ Cohen added. ‘Yes, it certainly looks puzzled,’ said the dwarf. Cohen glared at him. ‘How can you tell?’ he snapped. It struck Lackjaw that the roles were unfairly reversing. He looked from Cohen to the box, his mouth opening and shutting. ‘How can you tell?’ he said. But Cohen wasn’t listening anyway. He sat down in front of the box, assuming that the bit with the keyhole was the front, and watched it intently. Lackjaw backed away. Funny, said his mind, but the damn thing is looking at me. ‘All right,’ said Cohen, ‘I know you and me don’t see eye to eye, but we’re all trying to find someone we care for, okay?’ ‘I’m—’ said Lackjaw, and realized that Cohen was talking to the box. ‘So tell me where they’ve gone. ’ As Lackjaw looked on in horror the Luggage extended its little legs, braced itself, and ran full tilt at the nearest wall. Clay bricks and dusty mortar exploded around it. Cohen peered through the hole. There was a small grubby storeroom on the other side. The Luggage stood in the middle of the floor, radiating extreme bafflement. ‘Shop!’ said Twoflower. ‘Anyone here?’ said Bethan. ‘Urrgh,’ said Rincewind. ‘I think we ought to sit him down somewhere and get him a glass of water,’ said Twoflower. ‘If there’s one here. ’ ‘There’s everything else,’ said Bethan. The room was full of shelves, and the shelves were full of everything. Things that couldn’t be accommodated on them hung in bunches from the dark and shadowy ceiling; boxes and sacks of everything spilled onto the floor. There was no sound from outside. Bethan looked around and found out why. ‘I’ve never seen so much stuff,’ said Twoflower. ‘There’s one thing it’s out of stock of,’ said Bethan, firmly. ‘How can you tell?’ ‘You just have to look. It’s fresh out of exits. ’ Twoflower turned around. Where the door and window had been there were shelves stacked with boxes; they looked as though they had been there for a long time. Twoflower sat Rincewind down on a rickety chair by the counter and poked doubtfully at the shelves. There were boxes of nails, and hairbrushes. There were bars of soap, faded with age.

There was a stack of jars containing deliquescent bath salts, to which someone had fixed a rather sad and jaunty little notice announcing, in the face of all the evidence, that one would make an Ideal Gift. There was also quite a lot of dust. Bethan peered at the shelves on the other wall, and laughed. ‘Would you look at this!’ she said. Twoflower looked. She was holding a – well, it was a little mountain chalet, but with seashells stuck all over it, and then the perpetrator had written ‘A Special Souvenir’ in pokerwork on the roof (which, of course, opened so that cigarettes could be kept in it, and played a tinny little tune). ‘Have you ever seen anything like it?’ she said. Twoflower shook his head. His mouth dropped open. ‘Are you all right?’ said Bethan. ‘I think it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,’ he said. There was a whirring noise overhead. They looked up. A big black globe had lowered itself from the darkness of the ceiling. Little red lights flashed on and off on it, and as they stared it spun around and looked at them with a big glass eye. It was menacing, that eye. It seemed to suggest very emphatically that it was watching something distasteful. ‘Hallo?’ said Twoflower. A head appeared over the edge of the counter. It looked angry. ‘I hope you were intending to pay for that,’ it said nastily. Its expression suggested that it expected Rincewind to say yes, and that it wouldn’t believe him. ‘This?’ said Bethan. ‘I wouldn’t buy this if you threw in a hatful of rubies and—’ ‘ I’ll buy it. How much?’ said Twoflower urgently, reaching into his pockets. His face fell. ‘Actually, I haven’t got any money,’ he said. ‘It’s in my Luggage, but I—’ There was a snort. The head disappeared from behind the counter, and reappeared from behind a display of toothbrushes. It belonged to a very small man almost hidden behind a green apron. He seemed very upset. ‘No money?’ he said. ‘You come into my shop—’ ‘We didn’t mean to,’ said Twoflower quickly. ‘We didn’t notice it was there. ’ ‘It wasn’t,’ said Bethan firmly. ‘It’s magical, isn’t it?’ The small shopkeeper hesitated. ‘Yes,’ he reluctantly agreed. ‘A bit. ’ ‘A bit?’ said Bethan. ‘A bit magical?’ ‘Quite a bit, then,’ he conceded, backing away, and, ‘All right,’ he agreed, as Bethan continued to glare at him. ‘It’s magical. I can’t help it. The bloody door hasn’t been and gone again, has it?’ ‘Yes, and we’re not happy about that thing in the ceiling. ’ He looked up, and frowned. Then he disappeared through a little beaded doorway half-hidden among the merchandise. There was a lot of clanking and whirring, and the black globe disappeared into the shadows. It was replaced by, in succession, a bunch of herbs, a mobile advertising something Twoflower had never heard of but which was apparently a bedtime drink, a suit of armour and a stuffed crocodile with a lifelike expression of extreme pain and surprise. The shopkeeper reappeared. ‘Better?’ he demanded. ‘It’s an improvement,’ said Twoflower, doubtfully. ‘I liked the herbs best. ’ At this point Rincewind groaned. He was about to wake up. There have been three general theories put forward to explain the phenomenon of the wandering shops or, as they are generically known, tabernae vagantes. The first postulates that many thousands of years ago there evolved somewhere in the multiverse a race whose single talent was to buy cheap and sell dear. Soon they controlled a vast galactic empire or, as they put it, Emporium, and the more advanced members of the species found a way to equip their very shops with unique propulsion units that could break the dark walls of space itself and open up vast new markets. And long after the worlds of the Emporium perished in the heat death of their particular universe, after one last defiant fire sale, the wandering starshops still ply their trade, eating their way through the pages of spacetime like a worm through a three-volume novel. The second is that they are the creation of a sympathetic Fate, charged with the role of supplying exactly the right thing at the right time. The third is that they are simply a very clever way of getting around the various Sunday Closing acts. All these theories, diverse as they are, have two things in common: they explain the observed facts, and they are completely and utterly wrong. Rincewind opened his eyes and lay for a moment looking up at the stuffed reptile. It was not the best thing to see when awakening from troubled dreams. . . Magic! So that’s what it felt like! No wonder wizards didn’t have much truck with sex! Rincewind knew what orgasms were, of course, he’d had a few in his time, sometimes even in company, but nothing in his experience even approximated to that tight, hot moment when every nerve in his body streamed with blue-white fire and raw magic had blazed forth from his fingers. It filled you and lifted you and you surfed down the rising, curling wave of elemental force. No wonder wizards fought for power. . . And so on. The Spell in his head had been doing it, though, not Rincewind. He was really beginning to hate that Spell. He was sure that if it hadn’t frightened away all the other spells he’d tried to learn he could have been a decent wizard in his own right. Somewhere in Rincewind’s battered soul the worm of rebellion flashed a fang. Right, he thought. You’re going back into the Octavo, first chance I get. He sat up. ‘Where the hell is this?’ he said, grabbing his head to stop it exploding. ‘A shop,’ said Twoflower mournfully. ‘I hope it sells knives because I think I’d like to cut my head off,’ said Rincewind. Something about the expression of the two opposite him sobered him up. ‘That was a joke,’ he said. ‘Mainly a joke, anyway. Why are we in this shop?’ ‘We can’t get out,’ said Bethan. ‘The door’s disappeared,’ added Twoflower helpfully. Rincewind stood up, a little shakily. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘One of those shops?’ ‘All right,’ said the shopkeeper testily. ‘It’s magical, yes, it moves around, yes, no, I’m not telling you why—’ ‘Can I have a drink of water, please?’ said Rincewind. The shopkeeper looked affronted. ‘First no money, then they want a glass of water,’ he snapped. ‘That’s just about—’ Bethan snorted and strode across to the little man, who tried to back away. He was too late. She picked him up by his apron straps and glared at him eye to eye. Torn though her dress was, disarrayed though her hair was, she became for a moment the symbol of every woman who has caught a man with his thumb on the scales of life. ‘Time is money,’ she hissed. ‘I’ll give you thirty seconds to get him a glass of water. I think that’s a bargain, don’t you?’ ‘I say,’ Twoflower whispered. ‘She’s a real terror when she’s roused, isn’t she?’ ‘Yes,’ said Rincewind, without enthusiasm. ‘All right, all right,’ said the shopkeeper, visibly cowed. ‘And then you can let us out,’ Bethan added. ‘That’s fine by me. I wasn’t open for business anyway, I just stopped for a few seconds to get my bearings and you barged in!’ He grumbled off through the bead curtains and returned with a cup of water. ‘I washed it out special,’ he said, avoiding Bethan’s gaze. Rincewind looked at the liquid in the cup. It had probably been clean before it was poured in, now drinking it would be genocide for thousands of innocent germs. He put it down carefully. ‘Now I’m going to have a good wash!’ stated Bethan, and stalked off through the curtain. The shopkeeper waved a hand vaguely and looked appealingly at Rincewind and Twoflower. ‘She’s not bad,’ said Twoflower. ‘She’s going to marry a friend of ours. ’ ‘Does he know?’ ‘Things not so good in the starshop business?’ said Rincewind, as sympathetically as he could manage. The little man shuddered. ‘You wouldn’t believe it,’ he said. ‘I mean, you learn not to expect much, you make a sale here and there, it’s a living, you know what I mean? But these people you’ve got these days, the ones with these star things painted on their faces, well, I hardly have time to open the store and they’re threatening to burn it down. Too magical, they say.

So I say, of course magical, what else?’ ‘Are there a lot of them about, then?’ said Rincewind. ‘All over the Disc, friend. Don’t ask me why. ’ ‘They believe a star is going to crash into the Disc,’ said Rincewind. ‘Is it?’ ‘Lots of people think so. ’ ‘That’s a shame. I’ve done good business here. Too magical, they say! What’s wrong with magic, that’s what I’d like to know?’ ‘What will you do?’ said Twoflower. ‘Oh, go to some other universe, there’s plenty around,’ said the shopkeeper airily. ‘Thanks for telling me about the star, though. Can I drop you off somewhere?’ The Spell gave Rincewind’s mind a kick. ‘Er, no,’ he said, ‘I think perhaps we’d better stay. To see it through, you know. ’ ‘You’re not worried about this star thing, then?’ ‘The star is life, not death,’ said Rincewind. ‘How’s that?’ ‘How’s what?’ ‘You did it again!’ said Twoflower, pointing an accusing finger. ‘You say things and then don’t know you’ve said them!’ ‘I just said we’d better stay,’ said Rincewind. ‘You said the star was life, not death,’ said Twoflower. ‘Your voice went all crackly and far away. Didn’t it?’ He turned to the shopkeeper for confirmation. ‘That’s true,’ said the little man. ‘I thought his eyes crossed a bit, too. ’ ‘It’s the Spell, then,’ said Rincewind. ‘It’s trying to take me over. It knows what’s going to happen, and I think it wants to go to Ankh-Morpork. I want to go too,’ he added defiantly. ‘Can you get us there?’ ‘Is that the big city on the Ankh? Sprawling place, smells of cesspits?’ ‘It has an ancient and honourable history,’ said Rincewind, his voice stiff with injured civic pride. ‘That’s not how you described it to me ,’ said Twoflower. ‘You told me it was the only city that actually started out decadent. ’ Rincewind looked embarrassed. ‘Yes, but, well, it’s my home, don’t you see?’ ‘No,’ said the shopkeeper, ‘not really. I always say home is where you hang your hat. ’ ‘Um, no,’ said Twoflower, always anxious to enlighten. ‘Where you hang your hat is a hatstand. A home is—’ ‘I’ll just go and see about setting you on your way,’ said the shopkeeper hurriedly, as Bethan came in. He scooted past her. Twoflower followed him. On the other side of the curtain was a room with a small bed, a rather grubby stove, and a three-legged table. Then the shopkeeper did something to the table, there was a noise like a cork coming reluctantly out of a bottle, and the room contained a wall-to-wall universe. ‘Don’t be frightened,’ said the shopkeeper, as stars streamed past. ‘I’m not frightened,’ said Twoflower, his eyes sparkling. ‘Oh,’ said the shopkeeper, slightly annoyed. ‘Anyway, it’s just imagery generated by the shop, it’s not real. ’ ‘And you can go anywhere?’ ‘Oh no,’ said the shopkeeper, deeply shocked. ‘There’s all kinds of fail-safes built in, after all, there’d be no point in going somewhere with insufficient per capita disposable income. And there’s got to be a suitable wall, of course. Ah, here we are, this is your universe. Very bijou, I always think. A sort of universette. . . ’ Here is the blackness of space, the myriad stars gleaming like diamond dust or, as some people would say, like great balls of exploding hydrogen a very long way off. But then, some people would say anything. A shadow starts to blot out the distant glitter, and it is blacker than space itself. From here it also looks a great deal bigger, because space is not really big, it is simply somewhere to be big in. Planets are big, but planets are meant to be big and there is nothing clever about being the right size. But this shape blotting out the sky like the footfall of God isn’t a planet. It is a turtle, ten thousand miles long from its crater-pocked head to its armoured tail. And Great A’Tuin is huge. Great flippers rise and fall ponderously, warping space into strange shapes. The Discworld slides across the sky like a royal barge. But even Great A’Tuin is struggling now as it leaves the free depths of space and must fight the tormenting pressures of the solar shallows. Magic is weaker here, on the littoral of light. Many more days of this and the Discworld will be stripped away by the pressures of reality. Great A’Tuin knows this, but Great A’Tuin can recall doing all this before, many thousands of years ago. The astrochelonian’s eyes, glowing red in the light of the dwarf star, are not focused on it but at a little patch of space nearby. . . ‘Yes, but where are we?’ said Twoflower. The shopkeeper, hunched over his table, just shrugged. ‘I don’t think we’re any where ,’ he said. ‘We’re in a cotangent incongruity, I believe. I could be wrong. The shop generally knows what it’s doing. ’ ‘You mean you don’t?’ ‘I pick a bit up, here and there. ’ The shopkeeper blew his nose. ‘Sometimes I land on a world where they understand these things. ’ He turned a pair of small, sad eyes on Twoflower. ‘You’ve got a kind face, sir. I don’t mind telling you. ’ ‘Telling me what?’ ‘It’s no life, you know, minding the Shop. Never settling down, always on the move, never closing. ’ ‘Why don’t you stop, then?’ ‘Ah, that’s it, you see, sir – I can’t. I’m under a curse, I am. A terrible thing. ’ He blew his nose again. ‘Cursed to run a shop?’ ‘Forever, sir, forever. And never closing! For hundreds of years! There was this sorcerer, you see. I did a terrible thing. ’ ‘In a shop?’ said Twoflower. ‘Oh, yes. I can’t remember what it was he wanted, but when he asked for it I – I gave one of those sucking-in noises, you know, like whistling only backwards?’ He demonstrated. Twoflower looked sombre, but he was at heart a kind man and always ready to forgive. ‘I see,’ he said slowly. ‘Even so—’ ‘That’s not all!’ ‘Oh. ’ ‘I told him there was no demand for it!’ ‘After making the sucking noise?’ ‘Yes. I probably grinned, too. ’ ‘Oh, dear. You didn’t call him squire, did you?’ ‘I – I may have done. ’ ‘Um. ’ ‘There’s more. ’ ‘Surely not?’ ‘Yes, I said I could order it and he could come back next day. ’ ‘That doesn’t sound too bad,’ said Twoflower, who alone of all the people in the multiverse allowed shops to order things for him and didn’t object at all to paying quite large sums of money to reimburse the shopkeeper for the inconvenience of having a bit of stock in his store often for several hours. ‘It was early closing day,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘Oh. ’ ‘Yes, and I heard him rattling the doorhandle. I had this sign on the door, you know, it said something like “Closed even for the sale of Necromancer cigarettes,” anyway, I heard him banging and I laughed. ’ ‘You laughed?’ ‘Yes. Like this. Hnufhnufhnufblort. ’ ‘Probably not a wise thing to do,’ said Twoflower, shaking his head. ‘I know, I know. My father always said, he said, “Do not peddle in the affairs of wizards. . . ” Anyway, I heard him shouting something about never closing again, and a lot of words I couldn’t understand, and then the shop – the shop – the shop came alive. ’ ‘And you’ve wandered like this ever since?’ ‘Yes. I suppose one day I might find the sorcerer and perhaps the thing he wanted will be in stock. Until then I must go from place to place—’ ‘That was a terrible thing to do,’ said Twoflower. The shopkeeper wiped his nose on his apron. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Even so, he shouldn’t have cursed you quite so badly,’ Twoflower added. ‘Oh. Yes, well. ’ The shopkeeper straightened his apron and made a brave little attempt to pull himself together. ‘Anyway, this isn’t getting you to Ankh-Morpork, is it?’ ‘Funny thing is,’ said Twoflower, ‘that I bought my Luggage in a shop like this, once. Another shop I mean. ’ ‘Oh yes, there’s several of us,’ said the shopkeeper, turning back to the table. ‘That sorcerer was a very impatient man, I understand. ’ ‘Endlessly roaming through the universe,’ mused Twoflower. ‘That’s right. Mind you, there is a saving on the rates. ’ ‘Rates?’ ‘Yes, they’re—’ the shopkeeper paused, and wrinkled his forehead. ‘I can’t quite remember, it was such a long time ago. Rates, rates—’ ‘Very large mice?’ ‘That’s probably it. ’ ‘Hold on – it’s thinking about something,’ said Cohen. Lackjaw looked up wearily.

It had been quite nice, sitting here in the shade. He had just worked out that in trying to escape from a city of crazed madmen he appeared to have allowed one mad man to give him his full attention. He wondered whether he would live to regret this. He earnestly hoped so. ‘Oh yes, it’s definitely thinking,’ he said bitterly. ‘Anyone can see that. ’ ‘I think it’s found them. ’ ‘Oh, good. ’ ‘Hold on to it. ’ ‘Are you mad?’ said Lackjaw. ‘I know this thing, trust me. Anyway, would you rather be left with all these star people? They might be interested in having a talk with you. ’ Cohen sidled over to the Luggage, and then flung himself astride it. It took no notice. ‘Hurry up,’ he said. ‘I think it’s going to go. ’ Lackjaw shrugged and climbed on gingerly behind Cohen. ‘Oh?’ he said, ‘and how does it g—’ Ankh-Morpork! Pearl of cities! This is not a completely accurate description, of course – it was not round and shiny – but even its worst enemies would agree that if you had to liken Ankh-Morpork to anything, then it might as well be a piece of rubbish covered with the diseased secretions of a dying mollusc. There have been bigger cities. There have been richer cities. There have certainly been prettier cities. But no city in the multiverse could rival Ankh-Morpork for its smell. The Ancient Ones, who know everything about all the universes and have smelt the smells of Calcutta and !Xrc—! and dauntocum Marsport, have agreed that even these fine examples of nasal poetry are mere limericks when set against the glory of the Ankh-Morpork smell. You can talk about tramps. You can talk about garlic. You can talk about France. Go on. But if you haven’t smelled Ankh-Morpork on a hot day you haven’t smelled anything. The citizens are proud of it. They carry chairs outside to enjoy it on a really good day. They puff out their cheeks and slap their chests and comment cheerfully on its little distinctive nuances. They have even put up a statue to it, to commemorate the time when the troops of a rival state tried to invade by stealth one dark night and managed to get to the top of the walls before, to their horror, their nose plugs gave out. Rich merchants who have spent many years abroad send back home for specially-stoppered and sealed bottles of the stuff, which brings tears to their eyes. It has that kind of effect. There is only really one way to describe the effect the smell of Ankh-Morpork has on the visiting nose, and that is by analogy. Take a tartan. Sprinkle it with confetti. Light it with strobe lights. Now take a chameleon. Put the chameleon on the tartan. Watch it closely. See? Which explains why, when the shop finally materialized in Ankh-Morpork, Rincewind sat bolt upright and said ‘We’re here,’ Bethan went pale and Twoflower, who had no sense of smell, said, ‘Really? How can you tell?’ It had been a long afternoon. They had broken into realspace in a number of walls in a variety of cities because, according to the shopkeeper, the Disc’s magical field was playing up and upsetting everything. All the cities were empty of most of their citizens and belonged to roaming gangs of crazed left-ear people. ‘Where do they all come from?’ said Twoflower, as they fled yet another mob. ‘Inside every sane person there’s a madman struggling to get out,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘That’s what I’ve always thought. No one goes mad quicker than a totally sane person. ’ ‘That doesn’t make sense,’ said Bethan, ‘or if it makes sense, I don’t like it. ’ The star was bigger than the sun. There would be no night tonight. On the opposite horizon the Disc’s own sunlet was doing its best to set normally, but the general effect of all that red light was to make the city, never particularly beautiful, look like something painted by a fanatical artist after a bad time on the shoe polish. But it was home. Rincewind peered up and down the empty street and felt almost happy. At the back of his mind the Spell was kicking up a ruckus, but he ignored it. Maybe it was true that magic was getting weaker as the star got nearer, or perhaps he’d had the Spell in his head for so long he had built up some kind of psychic immunity, but he found he could resist it. ‘We’re in the docks,’ he declared. ‘Just smell that sea air!’ ‘Oh,’ said Bethan, leaning against the wall, ‘yes. ’ ‘That’s ozone, that is,’ said Rincewind. ‘That’s air with character, is that. ’ He breathed deeply. Twoflower turned to the shopkeeper. ‘Well, I hope you find your sorcerer,’ he said. ‘Sorry we didn’t buy anything, but all my money’s in my Luggage, you see. ’ The shopkeeper pushed something into his hand. ‘A little gift,’ he said. ‘You’ll need it. ’ He darted back into his shop, the bell jangled, the sign saying Call Again Tomorrow For Spoonfetcher’s Leeches, the Little Suckers banged forlornly against the door, and the shop faded into the brickwork as though it had never been. Twoflower reached out gingerly and touched the wall, not quite believing it. ‘What’s in the bag?’ said Rincewind. It was a thick brown paper bag, with string handles. ‘If it sprouts legs I don’t want to know about it,’ said Bethan. Twoflower peered inside, and pulled out the contents. ‘Is that all?’ said Rincewind. ‘A little house with shells on?’ ‘It’s very useful,’ said Twoflower defensively. ‘You can keep cigarettes in it. ’ ‘And they’re what you really need, are they?’ said Rincewind. ‘I’d plump for a bottle of really strong sun-tan oil,’ said Bethan. ‘Come on,’ said Rincewind, and set off down the street. The others followed. It occurred to Twoflower that some words of comfort were called for, a little tactful small talk to take Bethan out of herself, as he would put it, and generally cheer her up. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘There’s just a chance that Cohen might still be alive. ’ ‘Oh, I expect he’s alive all right,’ she said, stamping along the cobbles as if she nursed a personal grievance against each one of them. ‘You don’t live to be eighty-seven in his job if you go around dying all the time. But he’s not here. ’ ‘Nor is my Luggage,’ said Twoflower. ‘Of course, that’s not the same thing. ’ ‘Do you think the star is going to hit the Disc?’ ‘No,’ said Twoflower confidently. ‘Why not?’ ‘Because Rincewind doesn’t think so. ’ She looked at him in amazement. ‘You see,’ the tourist went on, ‘you know that thing you do with seaweed?’ Bethan, brought up on the Vortex Plains, had only heard of the sea in stories, and had decided she didn’t like it. She looked blank. ‘Eat it?’ ‘No, what you do is, you hang it up outside your door, and it tells you if it’s going to rain. ’ Another thing Bethan had learned was that there was no real point in trying to understand anything Twoflower said, and that all anyone could do was run alongside the conversation and hope to jump on as it turned a corner. ‘I see,’ she said. ‘Rincewind is like that, you see. ’ ‘Like seaweed. ’ ‘Yes. If there was anything at all to be frightened about, he’d be frightened. But he’s not. The star is just about the only thing I’ve ever seen him not frightened of. If he’s not worried, then take it from me, there’s nothing to worry about. ’ ‘It’s not going to rain?’ said Bethan. ‘Well, no. Metaphorically speaking. ’ ‘Oh. ’ Bethan decided not to ask what ‘metaphorically’ meant, in case it was something to do with seaweed. Rincewind turned around. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Not far now. ’ ‘Where to?’ said Twoflower. ‘Unseen University, of course. ’ ‘Is that wise?’ ‘Probably not, but I’m still going—’ Rincewind paused, his face a mask of pain. He put his hand to his ears and groaned. ‘Spell giving you trouble?’ ‘Yargh. ’ ‘Try humming. ’ Rincewind grimaced. ‘I’m going to get rid of this thing,’ he said thickly. ‘It’s going back into the book where it belongs. I want my head back!’ ‘But then—’ Twoflower began, and stopped. They could all hear it – a distant chanting and the stamping of many feet. ‘Do you think it’s star people?’ said Bethan. It was. The lead marchers came around a corner a hundred yards away, behind a ragged white banner with an eight-pointed star on it.

‘Not just star people,’ said Twoflower. ‘All kinds of people!’ The crowd swept them up in its passage. One moment they were standing in the deserted street, the next they were perforce moving with a tide of humanity that bore them onwards through the city. Torchlight flickered easily on the damp tunnels far under the University as the heads of the eight Orders of wizardry filed onwards. ‘At least it’s cool down here,’ said one. ‘We shouldn’t be down here. ’ Trymon, who was leading the party, said nothing. But he was thinking very hard. He was thinking about the bottle of oil in his belt, and the eight keys the wizards carried – eight keys that would fit the eight locks that chained the Octavo to its lectern. He was thinking that old wizards who sense that magic is draining away are preoccupied with their own problems and are perhaps less alert than they should be. He was thinking that within a few minutes the Octavo, the greatest concentration of magic on the Disc, would be under his hands. Despite the coolness of the tunnel he began to sweat. They came to a lead-lined door set in the sheer stone. Trymon took a heavy key – a good, honest iron key, not like the twisted and disconcerting keys that would unlock the Octavo – gave the lock a squirt of oil, inserted the key, turned it. The lock squeaked open protestingly. ‘Are we of one resolve?’ said Trymon. There was a series of vaguely affirmative grunts. He pushed at the door. A warm gale of thick and somehow oily air rolled over them. The air was filled with a high-pitched and unpleasant chittering. Tiny sparks of octarine fire flared off every nose, fingernail and beard. The wizards, their heads bowed against the storm of randomized magic that blew out of the room, pushed forward. Half-formed shapes giggled and fluttered around them as the nightmare inhabitants of the Dungeon Dimensions constantly probed (with things that passed for fingers only because they were at the ends of their arms) for an unguarded entry into the circle of firelight that passed for the universe of reason and order. Even at this bad time for all things magical, even in a room designed to damp down all magical vibrations, the Octavo was still crackling with power. There was no real need for the torches. The Octavo filled the room with a dull, sullen light, which wasn’t strictly light at all but the opposite of light; darkness isn’t the opposite of light, it is simply its absence, and what was radiating from the book was the light that lies on the far side of darkness, the light fantastic. It was a rather disappointing purple colour. As has been noted before, the Octavo was chained to a lectern carved into the shape of something that looked vaguely avian, slightly reptilian and horribly alive. Two glittering eyes regarded the wizards with hooded hatred. ‘I saw it move,’ said one of them. ‘We’re safe so long as we don’t touch the book,’ said Trymon. He pulled a scroll out of his belt and unrolled it. ‘Bring that torch here,’ he said, ‘ and put that cigarette out !’ He waited for the explosion of infuriated pride. But none came. Instead, the offending mage removed the dogend from his lips with trembling fingers and ground it into the floor. Trymon exulted. So, he thought, they do what I say. Just for now, maybe – but just for now is enough. He peered at the crabby writing of a wizard long dead. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘let’s see: “To Appease Yt, The Thynge That Ys The Guardian. . . ”’ The crowd surged over one of the bridges that linked Morpork with Ankh. Below it the river, turgid at the best of times, was a mere trickle which steamed. The bridge shook under their feet rather more than it should. Strange ripples ran across the muddy remains of the river. A few tiles slid off the roof of a nearby house. ‘What was that?’ said Twoflower. Bethan looked behind them, and screamed. The star was rising. As the Disc’s own sun scurried for safety below the horizon, the great bloated ball of the star climbed slowly into the sky until the whole of it was several degrees above the edge of the world. They pulled Rincewind into the safety of a doorway. The crowd hardly noticed them, but ran on, terrified as lemmings. ‘The star’s got spots on,’ said Twoflower. ‘No,’ said Rincewind. ‘They’re. . . things. Things going around the star. Like the sun goes around the Disc. But they’re close in, because, because. . . ’ he paused. ‘I nearly know!’ ‘Know what?’ ‘I’ve got to get rid of this Spell!’ ‘Which way is the University?’ said Bethan. ‘This way!’ said Rincewind, pointing along the street. ‘It must be very popular. That’s where everyone’s going. ’ ‘I wonder why?’ said Twoflower. ‘Somehow,’ said Rincewind, ‘I don’t think it’s to enroll for evening classes. ’ In fact Unseen University was under siege, or at least those parts of it that extruded into the usual, everyday dimensions were under siege. The crowds outside its gates were, generally, making one of two demands. They were demanding that either a) the wizards should stop messing about and get rid of the star or, and this was the demand favoured by the star people, that b) they should cease all magic and commit suicide in good order, thus ridding the Disc of the curse of magic and warding off the terrible threat in the sky. The wizards on the other side of the walls had no idea how to do a) and no intention of doing b) and many had in fact plumped for c), which largely consisted of nipping out of hidden side doors and having it away on their toes as fast as possible, if not faster. What reliable magic still remained in the University was being channelled into keeping the great gates secure. The wizards were learning that while it was all very fine and impressive to have a set of gates that were locked by magic, it ought to have occurred to the builders to include some sort of emergency back-up device such as, for example, a pair of ordinary, unimpressive stout iron bolts. In the square outside the gates several large bonfires had been lit, for effect as much as anything else, because the heat from the star was scorching. ‘But you can still see the stars,’ said Twoflower, ‘the other stars, I mean. The little ones. In a black sky. ’ Rincewind ignored him. He was looking at the gates. A group of star people and citizens were trying to batter them down. ‘It’s hopeless,’ said Bethan. ‘We’ll never get in. Where are you going?’ ‘For a walk,’ said Rincewind. He was setting off determinedly down a side street. There were one or two freelance rioters here, mostly engaged in wrecking shops. Rincewind took no notice, but followed the wall until it ran parallel to a dark alley that had the usual unfortunate smell of all alleys, everywhere. Then he started looking very closely at the stonework. The wall here was twenty feet high, and topped with cruel metal spikes. ‘I need a knife,’ he said. ‘You’re going to cut your way through?’ said Bethan. ‘Just find me a knife,’ said Rincewind. He started to tap stones. Twoflower and Bethan looked at each other, and shrugged. A few minutes later they returned with a selection of knives, and Twoflower had even managed to find a sword. ‘We just helped ourselves,’ said Bethan. ‘But we left some money,’ said Twoflower. ‘I mean, we would have left some money, if we’d had any—’ ‘So he insisted on writing a note,’ said Bethan wearily. Twoflower drew himself up to his full height, which was hardly worth it. ‘I see no reason—’ he began, stiffly. ‘Yes, yes,’ said Bethan, sitting down glumly. ‘I know you don’t. Rincewind, all the shops have been smashed open. There was a whole bunch of people across the street helping themselves to musical instruments, can you believe that?’ ‘Yeah,’ said Rincewind, picking up a knife and testing its blade thoughtfully. ‘Luters, I expect. ’ He thrust the blade into the wall, twisted it, and stepped back as a heavy stone fell out. He looked up, counting under his breath, and levered another stone from its socket. ‘How did you do that?’ said Twoflower. ‘Just give me a leg up, will you?’ said Rincewind.

A moment later, his feet wedged into the holes he had created, he was making further steps halfway up the wall. ‘It’s been like this for centuries,’ his voice floated down. ‘Some of the stones haven’t got any mortar. Secret entrance, see? Watch out below. ’ Another stone cracked into the cobbles. ‘Students made it long ago,’ said Rincewind. ‘Handy way in and out after lights out. ’ ‘Ah,’ said Twoflower, ‘I understand. Over the wall and out to brightly-lit tavernas to drink and sing and recite poetry, yes?’ ‘Nearly right except for the singing and the poetry, yes,’ said Rincewind. ‘A couple of these spikes should be loose—’ There was a clang. ‘There’s not much of a drop this side,’ came his voice after a few seconds. ‘Come on, then. If you’re coming. ’ And so it was that Rincewind, Twoflower and Bethan entered Unseen University. Elsewhere on the campus— The eight wizards inserted their keys and, with many a worried glance at one another, turned them. There was a faint little snicking sound as the lock slid open. The Octavo was unchained. A faint octarine light played across its bindings. Trymon reached out and picked it up, and none of the others objected. His arm tingled. He turned towards the door. ‘Now to the Great Hall, brothers,’ he said, ‘if I may lead the way—’ And there were no objections. He reached the door with the book tucked under his arm. It felt hot, and somehow prickly. At every step he expected a cry, a protest, and none came. He had to use every ounce of control to stop himself from laughing. It was easier than he could have imagined. The others were halfway across the claustrophobic dungeon by the time he was through the door, and perhaps they had noticed something in the set of his shoulders, but it was too late because he had crossed the threshold, gripped the handle, slammed the door, turned the key, smiled the smile. He walked easily back along the corridor, ignoring the enraged screams of the wizards who had just discovered how impossible it is to pass spells in a room built to be impervious to magic. The Octavo squirmed , but Trymon held it tightly. Now he ran, putting out of his mind the horrible sensations under his arm as the book shape-changed into things hairy, skeletal and spiky. His hand went numb. The faint chittering noises he had been hearing grew in volume, and there were other sounds behind them – leering sounds, beckoning sounds, sounds made by the voices of unimaginable horrors that Trymon found it all too easy to imagine. As he ran across the Great Hall and up the main staircase the shadows began to move and reform and close in around him, and he also became aware that something was following, something with skittery legs moving obscenely fast. Ice formed on the walls. Doorways lunged at him as he barrelled past. Underfoot the stairs began to feel just like a tongue. . . Not for nothing had Trymon spent long hours in the University’s curious equivalent of a gymnasium, building up mental muscle. Don’t trust the senses, he knew, because they can be deceived. The stairs are there, somewhere – will them to be there, summon them into being as you climb and, boy, you better get good at it. Because this isn’t all imagination. Great A’Tuin slowed. With flippers the size of continents the skyturtle fought the pull of the star, and waited. There would not be long to wait. . . Rincewind sidled into the Great Hall. There were a few torches burning, and it looked as though it had been set up for some sort of magical work. But the ceremonial candlesticks had been overturned, the complex octograms chalked on the floor were scuffed as if something had danced on them, and the air was full of a smell unpleasant even by Ankh-Morpork’s broad standards. There was a hint of sulphur to it, but that underlay something worse. It smelt like the bottom of a pond. There was a distant crash, and a lot of shouting. ‘Looks like the gates have gone down,’ said Rincewind. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ said Bethan. ‘The cellars are this way,’ said Rincewind, and set off through an arch. ‘Down there ?’ ‘Yes. Would you rather stay here?’ He took a torch from its bracket on the wall and started down the steps. After a few flights the walls stopped being panelled and were bare stone. Here and there heavy doors had been propped open. ‘I heard something,’ said Twoflower. Rincewind listened. There did seem to be a noise coming from the depths below. It didn’t sound frightening. It sounded like a lot of people hammering on a door and shouting ‘Oi!’ ‘It’s not those Things from the Dungeon Dimensions you were telling us about, is it?’ said Bethan. ‘They don’t swear like that,’ said Rincewind. ‘Come on. ’ They hurried along the dripping passages, following the screamed curses and deep hacking coughs that were somehow reassuring; anything that wheezed like that, the listeners decided, couldn’t possibly represent a danger. At last they came to a door set in an alcove. It looked strong enough to hold back the sea. There was a tiny grille. ‘Hey!’ shouted Rincewind. It wasn’t very useful, but he couldn’t think of anything better. There was a sudden silence. Then a voice from the other side of the door said, very slowly, ‘Who is out there?’ Rincewind recognized that voice. It had jerked him from daydreams into terror on many a hot classroom afternoon, years before. It was Lemuel Panter, who had once made it his personal business to hammer the rudiments of scrying and summoning into young Rincewind’s head. He remembered the eyes like gimlets in a piggy face and the voice saying ‘And now Mister Rincewind will come out here and draw the relevant symbol on the board’ and the million mile walk past the waiting class as he tried desperately to remember what the voice had been droning on about five minutes before. Even now his throat was going dry with terror and randomized guilt. The Dungeon Dimensions just weren’t in it. ‘Please sir, it’s me, sir, Rincewind, sir,’ he squeaked. He saw Twoflower and Bethan staring at him, and coughed. ‘Yes,’ he added, in as deep a voice as he could manage. ‘That’s who it is. Rincewind. Right. ’ There was a susurration of whispers on the other side of the door. ‘ Rincewind? ’ ‘ Prince who? ’ ‘ I remember a boy who wasn’t any —’ ‘ The Spell, remember? ’ ‘ Rincewind? ’ There was a pause. Then the voice said, ‘I suppose the key isn’t in the lock, is it?’ ‘No,’ said Rincewind. ‘ What did he say? ’ ‘ He said no. ’ ‘ Typical of the boy. ’ ‘Um, who is in there?’ said Rincewind. ‘The Masters of Wizardry,’ said the voice, haughtily. ‘Why?’ There was another pause, and then a conference of embarrassed whispers. ‘We, uh, got locked in,’ said the voice, reluctantly. ‘What, with the Octavo?’ Whisper, whisper. ‘The Octavo, in fact, isn’t in here, in fact,’ said the voice slowly. ‘Oh. But you are?’ said Rincewind, as politely as possible while grinning like a necrophiliac in a morgue. ‘That would appear to be the case. ’ ‘Is there anything we can get you?’ said Twoflower anxiously. ‘You could try getting us out. ’ ‘Could we pick the lock?’ said Bethan. ‘No use,’ said Rincewind. ‘Totally thief-proof. ’ ‘I expect Cohen would have been able to,’ said Bethan loyally. ‘Wherever he’s got to. ’ ‘The Luggage would soon smash it down,’ agreed Twoflower. ‘Well, that’s it then,’ said Bethan. ‘Let’s get out into the fresh air. Fresher air, anyway. ’ She turned to walk away. ‘Hang on, hang on,’ said Rincewind. ‘That’s just typical, isn’t it? Old Rincewind won’t have any ideas, will he? Oh, no, he’s just a makeweight, he is. Kick him as you pass. Don’t rely on him, he’s—’ ‘All right,’ said Bethan. ‘Let’s hear it, then. ’ ‘—a nonentity, a failure, just a— what?’ ‘How are you going to get the door open?’ said Bethan. Rincewind looked at her with his mouth open. Then he looked at the door. It really was very solid, and the lock had a smug air. But he had got in, once, long ago. Rincewind the student had pushed at the door and it had swung open, and then a moment later the Spell had jumped into his mind and ruined his life.

‘Look,’ said a voice from behind the grille, as kindly as it could manage, ‘just go and find us a wizard, there’s a good fellow. ’ Rincewind took a deep breath. ‘Stand back,’ he rasped. ‘What?’ ‘Find something to hide behind,’ he barked, with his voice shaking only slightly. ‘You too,’ he said to Bethan and Twoflower. ‘But you can’t—’ ‘I mean it!’ ‘He means it,’ said Twoflower. ‘That little vein on the side of his forehead, you know, when it throbs like that, well—’ ‘Shut up!’ Rincewind raised one arm uncertainly and pointed it at the door. There was total silence. Oh gods, he thought, what happens now? In the blackness at the back of his mind the Spell shifted uneasily. Rincewind tried to get in tune or whatever with the metal of the lock. If he could sow discord amongst its atoms so that they flew apart— Nothing happened. He swallowed hard, and turned his attention to the wood. It was old and nearly fossilized, and probably wouldn’t burn even if soaked in oil and dropped into a furnace. He tried anyway, explaining to the ancient molecules that they should try to jump up and down to keep warm– In the strained silence of his own mind he glared at the Spell, which looked very sheepish. He considered the air around the door itself, how it might best be twisted into weird shapes so that the door existed in another set of dimensions entirely. The door sat there, defiantly solid. Sweating, his mind beginning the endless walk up to the blackboard in front of the grinning class, he turned desperately to the lock again. It must be made of little bits of metal, not very heavy— From the grille came the faintest of sounds. It was the noise of wizards untensing themselves and shaking their heads. Someone whispered, ‘ I told you —’ There was a tiny grinding noise, and a click. Rincewind’s face was a mask. Perspiration dripped off his chin. There was another click, and the grinding of reluctant spindles. Trymon had oiled the lock, but the oil had been soaked up by the rust and dust of years, and the only way for a wizard to move something by magic, unless he can harness some external movement, is to use the leverage of his mind itself. Rincewind was trying very hard to prevent his brain being pushed out of his ears. The lock rattled. Metal rods flexed in pitted groves, gave in, pushed levers. Levers clicked, notches engaged. There was a long drawn-out grinding noise that left Rincewind on his knees. The door swung open on pained hinges. The wizards sidled out cautiously. Twoflower and Bethan helped Rincewind to his feet. He stood grey-faced and swaying. ‘Not bad,’ said one of the wizards, looking closely at the lock. ‘A little slow, perhaps. ’ ‘Never mind that!’ snapped Jiglad Wert. ‘Did you three see anyone on the way down here?’ ‘No,’ said Twoflower. ‘Someone has stolen the Octavo. ’ Rincewind’s head jerked up. His eyes focused. ‘Who?’ ‘Trymon—’ Rincewind swallowed. ‘Tall man?’ he said. ‘Fair hair, looks a bit like a ferret?’ ‘Now that you mention it—’ ‘He was in my class,’ said Rincewind. ‘They always said he’d go a long way. ’ ‘He’ll go a lot further if he opens the book,’ said one of the wizards, who was hastily rolling a cigarette in shaking fingers. ‘Why?’ said Twoflower. ‘What will happen?’ The wizards looked at one another. ‘It’s an ancient secret, handed down from mage to mage, and we can’t pass it on to knowlessmen,’ said Wert. ‘Oh, go on,’ said Twoflower. ‘Oh well, it probably doesn’t matter any more. One mind can’t hold all the spells. It’ll break down, and leave a hole. ’ ‘What? In his head?’ ‘Um. No. In the fabric of the Universe,’ said Wert. ‘He might think he can control it by himself, but—’ They felt the sound before they heard it. It started off in the stones as a slow vibration, then rose suddenly to a knife-edge whine that bypassed the eardrums and bored straight into the brain. It sounded like a human voice singing, or chanting, or screaming, but there were deeper and more horrible harmonics. The wizards went pale. Then, as one man, they turned and ran up the steps. There were crowds outside the building. Some people were holding torches, others had stopped in the act of piling kindling around the walls. But everyone was staring up at the Tower of Art. The wizards pushed their way through the unheeding bodies, and turned to look up. The sky was full of moons. Each one was three times bigger than the Disc’s own moon, and each was in shadow except for a pink crescent where it caught the light of the star. But in front of everything the top of the Tower of Art was an incandescent fury. Shapes could be dimly glimpsed within it, but there was nothing reassuring about them. The sound had changed now to the wasp-like buzzing, magnified a million times. Some of the wizards sank to their knees. ‘He’s done it,’ said Wert, shaking his head. ‘He’s opened a pathway. ’ ‘Are those things demons?’ said Twoflower. ‘Oh, demons ,’ said Wert. ‘Demons would be a picnic compared with what’s trying to come through up there. ’ ‘They’re worse than anything we can possibly imagine,’ said Panter. ‘I can imagine some pretty bad things,’ said Rincewind. ‘These are worse. ’ ‘Oh. ’ ‘And what do you propose to do about it?’ said a clear voice. They turned. Bethan was glaring at them, arms folded. ‘Pardon?’ said Wert. ‘You’re wizards, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘Well, get on with it. ’ ‘What, tackle that?’ said Rincewind. ‘Know anyone else?’ Wert pushed forward. ‘Madam, I don’t think you quite understand—’ ‘The Dungeon Dimensions will empty into our Universe, right?’ said Bethan. ‘Well, yes—’ ‘We’ll all be eaten by things with tentacles for faces, right?’ ‘Nothing so pleasant, but—’ ‘And you’re just going to let it happen?’ ‘Listen,’ said Rincewind. ‘It’s all over, do you see? You can’t put the spells back in the book, you can’t unsay what’s been said, you can’t—’ ‘You can try !’ Rincewind sighed, and turned to Twoflower. He wasn’t there. Rincewind’s eyes turned inevitably towards the base of the Tower of Art, and he was just in time to see the tourist’s plump figure, sword inexpertly in hand, as it disappeared into a door. Rincewind’s feet made their own decision and, from the point of view of his head, got it entirely wrong. The other wizards watched him go. ‘Well?’ said Bethan. ‘ He’s going. ’ The wizards tried to avoid one another’s eyes. Eventually Wert said, ‘We could try, I suppose. It doesn’t seem to be spreading. ’ ‘But we’ve got hardly any magic to speak of,’ said one of the wizards. ‘Have you got a better idea, then?’ One by one, their ceremonial robes glittering in the weird light, the wizards turned and trudged towards the tower. The tower was hollow inside, with the stone treads of its staircase mortared spiral-fashion into the walls. Twoflower was already several turns up by the time Rincewind caught him. ‘Hold on,’ he said, as cheerfully as he could manage. ‘This sort of thing is a job for the likes of Cohen, not you. No offence. ’ ‘Would he do any good?’ Rincewind looked up at the actinic light that lanced down through the distant hole at the top of the staircase. ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘Then I’d be as good as him, wouldn’t I?’ said Twoflower, flourishing his looted sword. Rincewind hopped after him, keeping as close to the wall as possible. ‘You don’t understand!’ he shouted. ‘There’s unimaginable horrors up there!’ ‘You always said I didn’t have any imagination. ’ ‘It’s a point, yes,’ Rincewind conceded, ‘but—’ Twoflower sat down. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’ve been looking forward to something like this ever since I came here. I mean, this is an adventure, isn’t it? Alone against the gods, that sort of thing?’ Rincewind opened and shut his mouth for a few seconds before the right words managed to come out. ‘Can you use a sword?’ he said weakly. ‘I don’t know. I’ve never tried. ’ ‘You’re mad!’ Twoflower looked at him with his head on one side. ‘You’re a fine one to talk,’ he said. ‘I’m here because I don’t know any better, but what about you?’ He pointed downwards, to where the other wizards were toiling up the stairs.

‘What about them?’ Blue light speared down the inside of the tower. There was a peal of thunder. The wizards reached them, coughing horribly and fighting for breath. ‘What’s the plan?’ said Rincewind. ‘There isn’t one,’ said Wert. ‘Right. Fine,’ said Rincewind. ‘I’ll leave you to get on with it, then. ’ ‘You’ll come with us,’ said Panter. ‘But I’m not even a proper wizard. You threw me out, remember?’ ‘I can’t think of any student less able,’ said the old wizard, ‘but you’re here, and that’s the only qualification you need. Come on. ’ The light flared and went out. The terrible noises died as if strangled. Silence filled the tower; one of those heavy, pressing silences. ‘It’s stopped,’ said Twoflower. Something moved, high up against the circle of red sky. It fell slowly, turning over and over and drifting from side to side. It hit the stairs a turn above them. Rincewind was first to it. It was the Octavo. But it lay on the stone as limp and lifeless as any other book, its pages fluttering in the breeze that blew up the tower. Twoflower panted up behind Rincewind, and looked down. ‘They’re blank,’ he whispered. ‘Every page is completely blank. ’ ‘Then he did it,’ said Wert. ‘He’s read the spells. Successfully, too. I wouldn’t have believed it. ’ ‘There was all that noise,’ said Rincewind doubtfully. ‘The light, too. Those shapes. That didn’t sound so successful to me. ’ ‘Oh, you always get a certain amount of extra-dimensional attention in any great work of magic,’ said Panter dismissively. ‘It impresses people, nothing more. ’ ‘It looked like monsters up there,’ said Twoflower, standing closer to Rincewind. ‘Monsters? Show me some monsters!’ said Wert. Instinctively they looked up. There was no sound. Nothing moved against the circle of light. ‘I think we should go up and, er, congratulate him,’ said Wert. ‘Congratulate?’ exploded Rincewind. ‘He stole the Octavo! He locked you up!’ The wizards exchanged knowing looks. ‘Yes, well,’ said one of them. ‘When you’ve advanced in the craft, lad, you’ll know that there are times when the important thing is success. ’ ‘It’s getting there that matters,’ said Wert bluntly. ‘Not how you travel. ’ They set off up the spiral. Rincewind sat down, scowling at the darkness. He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Twoflower, who was holding the Octavo. ‘This is no way to treat a book,’ he said. ‘Look, he’s bent the spine right back. People always do that, they’ve got no idea of how to treat them. ’ ‘Yah,’ said Rincewind vaguely. ‘Don’t worry,’ said Twoflower. ‘I’m not worried, I’m just angry,’ snapped Rincewind. ‘Give me the bloody thing!’ He snatched the book and snapped it open viciously. He rummaged around in the back of his mind, where the Spell hung out. ‘All right,’ he snarled. ‘You’ve had your fun, you’ve ruined my life, now get back to where you belong!’ ‘But I—’ protested Twoflower. ‘The Spell, I mean the Spell,’ said Rincewind. ‘Go on, get back on the page!’ He glared at the ancient parchment until his eyes crossed. ‘Then I’ll say you!’ he shouted, his voice echoing up the tower. ‘You can join the rest of them and much good may it do you!’ He shoved the book back into Twoflower’s arms and staggered off up the steps. The wizards had reached the top and disappeared from view. Rincewind climbed after them. ‘Lad, am I?’ he muttered. ‘When I’m advanced in the craft, eh? I just managed to go around with one of the Great Spells in my head for years without going totally insane, didn’t I?’ He considered the last question from all angles. ‘Yes, you did,’ he reassured himself. ‘You didn’t start talking to trees, even when trees started talking to you. ’ His head emerged into the sultry air at the top of the tower. He had expected to see fire-blackened stones crisscrossed with talon marks, or perhaps something even worse. Instead he saw the seven senior wizards standing by Trymon, who seemed totally unscathed. He turned and smiled pleasantly at Rincewind. ‘Ah, Rincewind. Come and join us, won’t you?’ So this is it, Rincewind thought. All that drama for nothing. Maybe I really am not cut out to be a wizard, maybe— He looked up and into Trymon’s eyes. Perhaps it was the Spell, in its years of living in Rincewind’s head, that had affected his eyes. Perhaps his time with Twoflower, who only saw things as they ought to be, had taught him to see things as they are. But what was certain was that by far the most difficult thing Rincewind did in his whole life was look at Trymon without running in terror or being very violently sick. The others didn’t seem to have noticed. They also seemed to be standing very still. Trymon had tried to contain the seven Spells in his mind and it had broken, and the Dungeon Dimensions had found their hole, all right. Silly to have imagined that the Things would have come marching out of a sort of rip in the sky, waving mandibles and tentacles. That was old-fashioned stuff, far too risky. Even nameless terrors learned to move with the times. All they really needed to enter was one head. His eyes were empty holes. Knowledge speared into Rincewind’s mind like a knife of ice. The Dungeon Dimensions would be a playgroup compared to what the Things could do in a universe of order. People were craving order, and order they would get – the order of the turning screw, the immutable law of straight lines and numbers. They would beg for the harrow. . . Trymon was looking at him. Something was looking at him. And still the others hadn’t noticed. Could he even explain it? Trymon looked the same as he had always done, except for the eyes, and a slight sheen to his skin. Rincewind stared, and knew that there were far worse things than Evil. All the demons in Hell would torture your very soul, but that was precisely because they valued souls very highly; Evil would always try to steal the universe, but at least it considered the universe worth stealing. But the grey world behind those empty eyes would trample and destroy without even according its victims the dignity of hatred. It wouldn’t even notice them. Trymon held out his hand. ‘The eighth spell,’ he said. ‘Give it to me. ’ Rincewind backed away. ‘This is disobedience, Rincewind. I am your superior, after all. In fact, I have been voted the supreme head of all the Orders. ’ ‘Really?’ said Rincewind hoarsely. He looked at the other wizards. They were immobile, like statues. ‘Oh yes,’ said Trymon pleasantly. ‘Quite without prompting, too. Very democratic. ’ ‘I preferred tradition,’ said Rincewind. ‘That way even the dead get the vote. ’ ‘You will give me the Spell voluntarily,’ said Trymon. ‘Do I have to show you what I will do otherwise? And in the end you will still yield it. You will scream for the opportunity to give it to me. ’ If it stops anywhere, it stops here, thought Rincewind. ‘You’ll have to take it,’ he said. ‘I won’t give it to you. ’ ‘I remember you,’ said Trymon. ‘Not much good as a student, as I recall. You never really trusted magic, you kept on saying there should be a better way to run a universe. Well, you’ll see. I have plans. We can—’ ‘Not we,’ said Rincewind firmly. ‘Give me the Spell!’ ‘Try and take it,’ said Rincewind, backing away. ‘I don’t think you can. ’ ‘Oh?’ Rincewind jumped aside as octarine fire flashed from Trymon’s fingers and left a bubbling rock puddle on the stones. He could sense the Spell lurking in the back of his mind. He could sense its fear. In the silent caverns of his head he reached out for it. It retreated in astonishment, like a dog faced with a maddened sheep. He followed, stamping angrily through the disused lots and inner-city disaster areas of his subconscious, until he found it cowering behind a heap of condemned memories. It roared silent defiance at him, but Rincewind wasn’t having any. Is this it? he shouted at it. When it’s time for the showdown, you go and hide? You’re frightened? The Spell said, That’s nonsense, you can’t possibly believe that, I’m one of the Eight Spells.

But Rincewind advanced on it angrily, shouting, Maybe, but the fact is I do believe it and you’d better remember whose head you’re in, right? I can believe anything I like in here! Rincewind jumped aside again as another bolt of fire lanced through the hot night. Trymon grinned, and made another complicated motion with his hands. Pressure gripped Rincewind. Every inch of his skin felt as though it was being used as an anvil. He flopped onto his knees. ‘There are much worse things,’ said Trymon pleasantly. ‘I can make your flesh burn on the bones, or fill your body with ants. I have the power to—’ ‘I have a sword, you know. ’ The voice was squeaky with defiance. Rincewind raised his head. Through a purple haze of pain he saw Twoflower standing behind Trymon, holding a sword in exactly the wrong way. Trymon laughed, and flexed his fingers. For a moment his attention was diverted. Rincewind was angry. He was angry at the Spell, at the world, at the unfairness of everything, at the fact that he hadn’t had much sleep lately, at the fact that he wasn’t thinking quite straight. But most of all he was angry with Trymon, standing there full of the magic Rincewind had always wanted but had never achieved, and doing nothing worthwhile with it. He sprang, striking Trymon in the stomach with his head and flinging his arms around him in desperation. Twoflower was knocked aside as they slid along the stones. Trymon snarled, and got out the first syllable of a spell before Rincewind’s wildly flailing elbow caught him in the neck. A blast of randomized magic singed Rincewind’s hair. Rincewind fought as he always fought, without skill or fairness or tactics but with a great deal of whirlwind effort. The strategy was to prevent an opponent getting enough time to realize that in fact Rincewind wasn’t a very good or strong fighter, and it often worked. It was working now, because Trymon had spent rather too much time reading ancient manuscripts and not getting enough healthy exercise and vitamins. He managed to get several blows in, which Rincewind was far too high on rage to notice, but he only used his hands while Rincewind employed knees, feet and teeth as well. He was, in fact, winning. This came as a shock. It came as more of a shock when, as he knelt on Trymon’s chest hitting him repeatedly about the head, the other man’s face changed. The skin crawled and waved like something seen through a heat haze, and Trymon spoke. ‘Help me!’ For a moment his eyes looked up at Rincewind in fear, pain and entreaty. Then they weren’t eyes at all, but multi-faceted things on a head that could be called a head only by stretching the definition to its limits. Tentacles and saw-edged legs and talons unfolded to rip Rincewind’s rather sparse flesh from his body. Twoflower, the tower and the red sky all vanished. Time ran slowly, and stopped. Rincewind bit hard on a tentacle that was trying to pull his face off. As it uncoiled in agony he thrust out a hand and felt it break something hot and squishy. They were watching. He turned his head, and saw that now he was fighting on the floor of an enormous amphitheatre. On each side tier upon tier of creatures stared down at him, creatures with bodies and faces that appeared to have been made by crossbreeding nightmares. He caught a glimpse of even worse things behind him, huge shadows that stretched into the overcast sky, before the Trymon-monster lunged at him with a barbed sting the size of a spear. Rincewind dodged sideways, and then swung around with both hands clasped together into one fist that caught the thing in the stomach, or possibly the thorax, with a blow that ended in the satisfying crunch of chitin. He plunged forward, fighting now out of terror of what would happen if he stopped. The ghostly arena was full of the chittering of the Dungeon creatures, a wall of rustling sound that hammered at his ears as he struggled. He imagined that sound filling the Disc, and he flung blow after blow to save the world of men, to preserve the little circle of firelight in the dark night of chaos and to close the gap through which the nightmare was advancing. But mainly he hit it to stop it hitting back. Claws or talons drew white-hot lines across his back, and something bit his shoulder, but he found a nest of soft tubes among all the hairs and scales and squeezed it hard. An arm barbed with spikes swept him away, and he rolled over in the gritty black dust. Instinctively he curled into a ball, but nothing happened. Instead of the onslaught of fury he expected he opened his eyes to see the creature limping away from him, various liquids leaking from it. It was the first time anything had ever run away from Rincewind. He dived after it, caught a scaly leg, and wrenched. The creature chittered at him and flailed desperately with such appendages as were still working, but Rincewind’s grip was unshakeable. He pulled himself up and planted one last satisfying blow into its remaining eye. It screamed, and ran. And there was only one place for it to run to. The tower and the red sky came back with the click of restored time. As soon as he felt the press of the flagstones under his feet Rincewind flung his weight to one side and rolled on his back with the frantic creature at arms’ length. ‘Now!’ he yelled. ‘Now what?’ said Twoflower. ‘Oh. Yes. Right!’ He swung the sword inexpertly but with some force, missing Rincewind by inches and burying it deeply in the Thing. There was a shrill buzzing, as though he had smashed a wasps’ nest, and the mêlée of arms and legs and tentacles flailed in agony. It rolled again, screaming and thrashing at the flagstones, and then it was thrashing at nothing at all because it had rolled over the edge of the stairway, taking Rincewind with it. There was a squelching noise as it bounced off a few of the stone steps, and then a distant and disappearing shriek as it tumbled the depth of the tower. Finally there was a dull explosion and a flash of octarine light. Then Twoflower was alone on the top of the tower – alone, that is, except for seven wizards who still seemed to be frozen to the spot. He sat bewildered as seven fireballs rose out of the blackness and plunged into the discarded Octavo, which suddenly looked its old self and far more interesting. ‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘I suppose they’re the Spells. ’ ‘Twoflower. ’ The voice was hollow and echoing, and just recognizable as Rincewind’s. Twoflower stopped with his hand halfway to the book. ‘Yes?’ he said. ‘Is that – is that you, Rincewind?’ ‘Yes,’ said the voice, resonant with the tones of the grave. ‘And there is something very important I want you to do for me, Twoflower. ’ Twoflower looked around. He pulled himself together. So the fate of the Disc would depend on him, after all. ‘I’m ready,’ he said, his voice vibrating with pride. ‘What is it you want me to do?’ ‘First, I want you to listen very carefully,’ said Rincewind’s disembodied voice patiently. ‘I’m listening. ’ ‘It’s very important that when I tell you what to do you don’t say “What do you mean?” or argue or anything, understand?’ Twoflower stood to attention. At least, his mind stood to attention, his body really couldn’t. He stuck out several of his chins. ‘I’m ready,’ he said. ‘Good. Now, what I want you to do is—’ ‘Yes?’ Rincewind’s voice rose from the depths of the stairwell. ‘I want you to come and help me up before I lose my grip on this stone,’ it said. Twoflower opened his mouth, then shut it quickly. He ran to the square hole and peered down. By the ruddy light of the star he could just make out Rincewind’s eyes looking up at him. Twoflower lay down on his stomach and reached out. Rincewind’s hand gripped his wrist in the sort of grip that told Twoflower that if he, Rincewind, wasn’t pulled up then there was no possible way in which that grip was going to be relaxed. ‘I’m glad you’re alive,’ he said. ‘Good. So am I,’ said Rincewind. He hung around in the darkness for a bit. After the past few minutes it was almost enjoyable, but only almost. ‘Pull me up, then,’ he hinted.

‘I think that might be sort of difficult,’ grunted Twoflower. ‘I don’t actually think I can do it, in fact. ’ ‘What are you holding on to, then?’ ‘You. ’ ‘I mean besides me. ’ ‘What do you mean, besides you?’ said Twoflower. Rincewind said a word. ‘Well, look,’ said Twoflower. ‘The steps go around in a spiral, right? If I sort of swing you and then you let go—’ ‘If you’re going to suggest I try dropping twenty feet down a pitch dark tower in the hope of hitting a couple of greasy little steps which might not even still be there, you can forget it,’ said Rincewind sharply. ‘There is an alternative, then. ’ ‘Out with it, man. ’ ‘You could drop five hundred feet down a pitch black tower and hit stones which certainly are there,’ said Twoflower. Dead silence came from below him. Then Rincewind said, accusingly, ‘That was sarcasm. ’ ‘I thought it was just stating the obvious. ’ Rincewind grunted. ‘I suppose you couldn’t do some magic—’ Twoflower began. ‘No. ’ ‘Just a thought. ’ There was a flare of light far below, and a confused shouting, and then more lights, more shouting, and a line of torches starting up the long spiral. ‘There’s some people coming up the stairs,’ said Twoflower, always keen to inform. ‘I hope they’re running,’ said Rincewind. ‘I can’t feel my arm. ’ ‘You’re lucky,’ said Twoflower. ‘I can feel mine. ’ The leading torch stopped its climb and a voice rang out, filling the hollow tower with indecipherable echoes. ‘I think,’ said Twoflower, aware that he was gradually sliding further over the hole, ‘that was someone telling us to hold on. ’ Rincewind said another word. Then he said, in a lower and more urgent tone, ‘Actually, I don’t think I can hang on any longer. ’ ‘Try. ’ ‘It’s no good, I can feel my hand slipping!’ Twoflower sighed. It was time for harsh measures. ‘All right, then,’ he said. ‘Drop, then. See if I care. ’ ‘What?’ said Rincewind, so astonished he forgot to let go. ‘Go on, die. Take the easy way out. ’ ‘ Easy? ’ ‘All you have to do is plummet screaming through the air and break every bone in your body,’ said Twoflower. ‘Anybody can do it. Go on. I wouldn’t want you to think that perhaps you ought to stay alive because we need you to say the Spells and save the Disc. Oh, no. Who cares if we all get burned up? Go on, just think of yourself. Drop. ’ There was a long, embarrassed silence. ‘I don’t know why it is,’ said Rincewind eventually, in a voice rather louder than necessary, ‘but ever since I met you I seem to have spent a lot of time hanging by my fingers over certain depth, have you noticed?’ ‘Death,’ corrected Twoflower. ‘Death what?’ said Rincewind. ‘Certain death,’ said Twoflower helpfully, trying to ignore the slow but inexorable slide of his body across the flagstones. ‘Hanging over certain death. You don’t like heights. ’ ‘Heights I don’t mind,’ said Rincewind’s voice from the darkness. ‘Heights I can live with. It’s depths that are occupying my attention at the moment. Do you know what I’m going to do when we get out of this?’ ‘No?’ said Twoflower, wedging his toes into a gap in the flagstones and trying to make himself immobile by sheer force of will. ‘I’m going to build a house in the flattest country I can find and it’s only going to have a ground floor and I’m not even going to wear sandals with thick soles—’ The leading torch came around the last turn of the spiral and Twoflower looked down on the grinning face of Cohen. Behind him, still hopping awkwardly up the stones, he could make out the reassuring bulk of the Luggage. ‘Everything all right?’ said Cohen. ‘Can I do anything?’ Rincewind took a deep breath. Twoflower recognized the signs. Rincewind was about to say something like, ‘Yes, I’ve got this itch on the back of my neck, you couldn’t scratch it, could you, on your way past?’ or ‘No, I enjoy hanging over bottomless drops’ and he decided he couldn’t possibly face that. He spoke very quickly. ‘Pull Rincewind back onto the stairs,’ he snapped. Rincewind deflated in mid-snarl. Cohen caught him around the waist and jerked him unceremoniously onto the stones. ‘Nasty mess down on the floor down there,’ he said conversationally. ‘Who was it?’ ‘Did it—’ Rincewind swallowed, ‘did it have – you know – tentacles and things?’ ‘No,’ said Cohen. ‘Just the normal bits. Spread out a bit, of course. ’ Rincewind looked at Twoflower, who shook his head. ‘Just a wizard who let things get on top of him,’ he said. Unsteadily, with his arms screaming at him, Rincewind let himself be helped back onto the roof of the tower. ‘How did you get here?’ he added. Cohen pointed to the Luggage, which had trotted over to Twoflower and opened its lid like a dog that knows it’s been bad and is hoping that a quick display of affection may avert the rolled-up newspaper of authority. ‘Bumpy but fast,’ he said admiringly. ‘I’ll tell you this, no one tries to stop you. ’ Rincewind looked up at the sky. It was indeed full of moons, huge cratered discs now ten times bigger than the Disc’s tiny satellite. He looked at them without much interest. He felt washed out and stretched well beyond breaking point, as fragile as ancient elastic. He noticed that Twoflower was trying to set up his picture box. Cohen was looking at the seven senior wizards. ‘Funny place to put statues,’ he said. ‘No one can see them. Mind you, I can’t say they’re up to much. Very poor work. ’ Rincewind staggered across and tapped Wert gingerly on the chest. He was solid stone. This is it, he thought. I just want to go home. Hang on, I am home. More or less. So I just want a good sleep, and perhaps it will all be better in the morning. His gaze fell on the Octavo, which was outlined in tiny flashes of octarine fire. Oh yes, he thought. He picked it up and thumbed idly through its pages. They were thick with complex and swirling script that changed and reformed even as he looked at it. It seemed undecided as to what it should be; one moment it was an orderly, matter-of-fact printing; the next a series of angular runes. Then it would be curly Kythian spellscript. Then it would be pictograms in some ancient, evil and forgotten writing that seemed to consist exclusively of unpleasant reptilian beings doing complicated and painful things to one another. . . The last page was empty. Rincewind sighed, and looked in the back of his mind. The Spell looked back. He had dreamed of this moment, how he would finally evict the Spell and take vacant possession of his own head and learn all those lesser spells which had, up until then, been too frightened to stay in his mind. Somehow he had expected it to be far more exciting. Instead, in utter exhaustion and in a mood to brook no argument, he stared coldly at the Spell and jerked a metaphorical thumb over his shoulder. You. Out. It looked for a moment as though the Spell was going to argue, but it wisely thought better of it. There was a tingling sensation, a blue flash behind his eyes, and a sudden feeling of emptiness. When he looked down at the page it was full of words. They were runes again. He was glad about that, the reptilian pictures were not only unspeakable but probably unpronounceable too, and reminded him of things he would have great difficulty in forgetting. He looked blankly at the book while Twoflower bustled around unheeded and Cohen tried in vain to lever the rings off the stone wizards. He had to do something, he reminded himself. What was it, now? He opened the book at the first page and began to read, his lips moving and his forefinger tracing the outline of each letter. As he mumbled each word it appeared soundlessly in the air beside him, in bright colours that streamed away in the night wind. He turned over the page. Other people were coming up the steps now – star people, citizens, even some of the Patrician’s personal guard. A couple of star people made a half-hearted attempt to approach Rincewind, who was surrounded now by a rainbow swirl of letters and took absolutely no notice of them, but Cohen drew his sword and looked nonchalantly at them and they thought better of it.

Silence spread out from Rincewind’s bent form like ripples in a puddle. It cascaded down the tower and spread out through the milling crowds below, flowed over the walls, gushed darkly through the city, and engulfed the lands beyond. The bulk of the star loomed silently over the Disc. In the sky around it the new moons turned slowly and noiselessly. The only sound was Rincewind’s hoarse whispering as he turned page after page. ‘Isn’t this exciting!’ said Twoflower. Cohen, who was rolling a cigarette from the tarry remnants of its ancestors, looked at him blankly, paper halfway to his lips. ‘Isn’t what exciting?’ he said. ‘All this magic!’ ‘It’s only lights,’ said Cohen critically. ‘He hasn’t even produced doves out of his sleeves. ’ ‘Yes, but can’t you sense the occult potentiality?’ said Twoflower. Cohen produced a big yellow match from somewhere in his tobacco bag, looked at Wert for a moment, and with great deliberation struck the match on his fossilized nose. ‘Look,’ he said to Twoflower, as kindly as he could manage, ‘what do you expect? I’ve been around a long time, I’ve seen the whole magical thing, and I can tell you that if you go around with your jaw dropping all the time people hit it. Anyway, wizards die just like anyone else when you stick a—’ There was a loud snap as Rincewind shut the book. He stood up, and looked around. What happened next was this: Nothing. It took a little while for people to realize it. Everyone had ducked instinctively, waiting for the explosion of white light or scintillating fireball or, in the case of Cohen, who had fairly low expectations, a few white pigeons, possibly a slightly crumpled rabbit. It wasn’t even an interesting nothing. Sometimes things can fail to happen in quite impressive ways, but as far as non-events went this one just couldn’t compete. ‘Is that it?’ said Cohen. There was a general muttering from the crowd, and several of the star people were looking angrily at Rincewind. The wizard stared blearily at Cohen. ‘I suppose so,’ he said. ‘But nothing’s happened. ’ Rincewind looked blankly at the Octavo. ‘Maybe it has a subtle effect?’ he said hopefully. ‘After all, we don’t know exactly what is supposed to happen. ’ ‘We knew it!’ shouted one of the star people. ‘Magic doesn’t work! It’s all illusion!’ A stone looped over the roof and hit Rincewind on the shoulder. ‘Yeah,’ said another star person. ‘Let’s get him!’ ‘Let’s throw him off the tower!’ ‘Yeah, let’s get him and throw him off the tower!’ The crowd surged forward. Twoflower held up his hands. ‘I’m sure there’s just been a slight mistake—’ he began, before his legs were kicked from underneath him. ‘Oh bugger,’ said Cohen, dropping his dogend and grinding it under a sandalled foot. He drew his sword and looked around for the Luggage. It hadn’t rushed to Twoflower’s aid. It was standing in front of Rincewind, who was clutching the Octavo to his chest like a hot-water bottle and looking frantic. A star man lunged at him. The Luggage raised its lid threateningly. ‘I know why it hasn’t worked,’ said a voice from the back of the crowd. It was Bethan. ‘Oh yeah?’ said the nearest citizen. ‘And why should we listen to you?’ A mere fraction of a second later Cohen’s sword was pressed against his neck. ‘On the other hand,’ said the man evenly, ‘perhaps we should pay attention to what this young lady has got to say. ’ As Cohen swung around slowly with his sword at the ready, Bethan stepped forward and pointed to the swirling shapes of the spells, which still hung in the air around Rincewind. ‘That one can’t be right,’ she said, indicating a smudge of dirty brown amidst the pulsing, brightly coloured flares. ‘You must have mispronounced a word. Let’s have a look. ’ Rincewind passed her the Octavo without a word. She opened it and peered at the pages. ‘What funny writing,’ she said. ‘It keeps changing. What’s that crocodile thing doing to the octopus?’ Rincewind looked over her shoulder and, without thinking, told her. She was silent for a moment. ‘Oh,’ she said levelly. ‘I didn’t know crocodiles could do that. ’ ‘It’s just ancient picture writing,’ said Rincewind hurriedly. ‘It’ll change if you wait. The Spells can appear in every known language. ’ ‘Can you remember what you said when the wrong colour appeared?’ Rincewind ran a finger down the page. ‘There, I think. Where the two-headed lizard is doing – whatever it’s doing. ’ Twoflower appeared at her other shoulder. The Spell flowed into another script. ‘I can’t even pronounce it,’ said Bethan. ‘Squiggle, squiggle, dot, dash. ’ ‘That’s Cupumuguk snow runes,’ said Rincewind. ‘I think it should be pronounced “zph”. ’ ‘It didn’t work, though. How about “sph”?’ They looked at the word. It remained resolutely off-colour. ‘Or “sff”?’ said Bethan. ‘It might be “tsff”,’ said Rincewind doubtfully. If anything the colour became a dirtier shade of brown. ‘How about “zsff”?’ said Twoflower. ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Rincewind. ‘With snow runes the—’ Bethan elbowed him in the stomach and pointed. The brown shape in the air was now a brilliant red. The book trembled in her hands. Rincewind grabbed her around the waist, snatched Twoflower by the collar, and jumped backwards. Bethan lost her grip on the Octavo, which tumbled towards the floor. And didn’t reach it. The air around the Octavo glowed. It rose slowly, flapping its pages like wings. Then there was a plangent, sweet twanging noise and it seemed to explode in a complicated silent flower of light which rushed outwards, faded, and was gone. But something was happening much further up in the sky. . . Down in the geological depths of Great A’Tuin’s huge brain, new thoughts surged along neural pathways the size of arterial roads. It was impossible for a sky turtle to change its expression, but in some indefinable way its scaly, meteor-pocked face looked quite expectant. It was staring fixedly at the eight spheres endlessly orbiting around the star, on the very beaches of space. The spheres were cracking. Huge segments of rock broke away and began the long spiral down to the star. The sky filled with glittering shards. From the wreckage of one hollow shell a very small sky turtle paddled its way into the red light. It was barely bigger than an asteroid, its shell still shiny with molten yolk. There were four small world-elephant calves on there, too. And on their backs was a discworld, tiny as yet, covered in smoke and volcanoes. Great A’Tuin waited until all eight baby turtles had freed themselves from their shells and were treading space and looking bewildered. Then, carefully, so as not to dislodge anything, the old turtle turned and with considerable relief set out on the long swim to the blessedly cool, bottomless depths of space. The young turtles followed, orbiting their parent. Twoflower stared raptly at the display overhead. He probably had the best view of anyone on the Disc. Then a terrible thought occurred to him. ‘Where’s the picture box?’ he asked urgently. ‘What?’ said Rincewind, eyes fixed on the sky. ‘The picture box,’ said Twoflower. ‘I must get a picture of this!’ ‘Can’t you just remember it?’ said Bethan, not looking at him. ‘I might forget. ’ ‘ I won’t ever forget,’ she said. ‘It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. ’ ‘Much better than pigeons and billiard balls,’ agreed Cohen. ‘I’ll give you that, Rincewind. How’s it done?’ ‘I dunno,’ said Rincewind. ‘The star’s getting smaller,’ said Bethan. Rincewind was vaguely aware of Twoflower’s voice arguing with the demon who lived in the box and painted the pictures. It was quite a technical argument, about field depths and whether or not the demon still had enough red paint. It should be pointed out that currently Great A’Tuin was very pleased and contented, and feelings like that in a brain the size of several large cities are bound to radiate out. In fact most people on the Disc were currently in a state of mind normally achievable only by a lifetime of dedicated meditation or about thirty seconds of illegal herbage. That’s old Twoflower, Rincewind thought.

It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate beauty, he just appreciates it in his own way. I mean, if a poet sees a daffodil he stares at it and writes a long poem about it, but Twoflower wanders off to find a book on botany. And treads on it. It’s right what Cohen said. He just looks at things, but nothing he looks at is ever the same again. Including me, I suspect. The Disc’s own sun rose. The star was already dwindling, and it wasn’t quite so much competition. Good reliable Disc light poured across the enraptured landscape, like a sea of gold. Or, as the more reliable observers generally held, like golden syrup. That is a nice dramatic ending, but life doesn’t work like that and there were other things that had to happen. There was the Octavo, for example. As the sunlight hit it the book snapped shut and started to fall back to the tower. And many of the observers realized that dropping towards them was the single most magical thing on the Discworld. The feeling of bliss and brotherhood evaporated along with the morning dew. Rincewind and Twoflower were elbowed aside as the crowd surged forward, struggling and trying to climb up one another, hands outstretched. The Octavo dropped into the centre of the shouting mass. There was a snap. A decisive snap, the sort of snap made by a lid that doesn’t intend to be opening in a hurry. Rincewind peered between someone’s legs at Twoflower. ‘Do you know what I think’s going to happen?’ he said, grinning. ‘What?’ ‘I think that when you open the Luggage there’s just going to be your laundry in there, that’s what I think. ’ ‘Oh dear. ’ ‘I think the Octavo knows how to look after itself. Best place for it, really. ’ ‘I suppose so. You know, sometimes I get the feeling that the Luggage knows exactly what it’s doing. ’ ‘I know what you mean. ’ They crawled to the edge of the milling crowd, stood up, dusted themselves off and headed for the steps. No one paid them any attention. ‘What are they doing now?’ said Twoflower, trying to see over the heads of the throng. ‘It looks as though they’re trying to lever it open,’ said Rincewind. There was a snap and a scream. ‘I think the Luggage rather enjoys the attention,’ said Twoflower, as they began their cautious descent. ‘Yes, it probably does it good to get out and meet people,’ said Rincewind. ‘And now I think it’d do me good to go and order a couple of drinks. ’ ‘Good idea,’ said Twoflower ‘I’ll have a couple of drinks too. ’ It was nearly noon when Twoflower awoke. He couldn’t remember why he was in a hayloft, or why he was wearing someone else’s coat, but he did wake up with one idea right in the forefront of his mind. He decided it was vitally important to tell Rincewind about it. He fell out of the hay and landed on the Luggage. ‘Oh, you’re here, are you?’ he said. ‘I hope you’re ashamed of yourself. ’ The Luggage looked bewildered. ‘Anyway, I want to comb my hair. Open up,’ said Twoflower. The Luggage obligingly flipped its lid. Twoflower rooted around among the bags and boxes inside until he found a comb and mirror and repaired some of the damage of the night. Then he looked hard at the Luggage. ‘I suppose you wouldn’t like to tell me what you’ve done with the Octavo?’ The Luggage’s expression could only be described as wooden. ‘All right. Come on, then. ’ Twoflower stepped out into the sunlight, which was slightly too bright for his current tastes, and wandered aimlessly along the street. Everything seemed fresh and new, even the smells, but there didn’t seem to be many people up yet. It had been a long night. He found Rincewind at the foot of the Tower of Art, supervising a team of workmen who had rigged up a gantry of sorts on the roof and were lowering the stone wizards to the ground. He seemed to be assisted by a monkey, but Twoflower was in no mood to be surprised at anything. ‘Will they be able to be turned back?’ he said. Rincewind looked around. ‘What? Oh, it’s you. No, probably not. I’m afraid they dropped poor old Wert, anyway. Five hundred feet onto cobbles. ’ ‘Will you be able to do anything about that?’ ‘Make a nice rockery. ’ Rincewind turned and waved at the workmen. ‘You’re very cheerful,’ said Twoflower, a shade reproachfully. ‘Didn’t you go to bed?’ ‘Funny thing, I couldn’t sleep,’ said Rincewind. ‘I came out for a breath of fresh air, and no one seemed to have any idea what to do, so I just sort of got people together,’ he indicated the librarian, who tried to hold his hand, ‘and started organizing things. Nice day, isn’t it? Air like wine. ’ ‘Rincewind, I’ve decided that—’ ‘You know, I think I might re-enroll,’ said Rincewind cheerfully. ‘I think I could really make a go of things this time. I can really see myself getting to grips with magic and graduating really well. They do say if it’s summa cum laude, then the living is easy—’ ‘Good, because—’ ‘There’s plenty of room at the top, too, now all the big boys will be doing doorstop duty, and—’ ‘I’m going home. ’ ‘—a sharp lad with a bit of experience of the world could – what?’ ‘Oook?’ ‘I said I’m going home,’ repeated Twoflower, making polite little attempts to shake off the librarian, who was trying to pick lice off him. ‘What home?’ said Rincewind, astonished. ‘Home home. My home. Where I live,’ Twoflower explained sheepishly. ‘Back across the sea. You know. Where I came from. Will you please stop doing that?’ ‘Oh. ’ ‘Oook?’ There was a pause. Then Twoflower said, ‘You see, last night it occurred to me, I thought, well, the thing is, all this travelling and seeing things is fine but there’s also a lot of fun to be had from having been. You know, sticking all your pictures in a book and remembering things. ’ ‘There is?’ ‘Oook?’ ‘Oh, yes. The important thing about having lots of things to remember is that you’ve got to go somewhere afterwards where you can remember them, you see? You’ve got to stop. You haven’t really been anywhere until you’ve got back home. I think that’s what I mean. ’ Rincewind ran the sentence across his mind again. It didn’t seem any better second time around. ‘Oh,’ he said again. ‘Well, good. If that’s the way you look at it. When are you going, then?’ ‘Today, I think. There’s bound to be a ship going part of the way. ’ ‘I expect so,’ said Rincewind awkwardly. He looked at his feet. He looked at the sky. He cleared his throat. ‘We’ve been through some times together, eh?’ said Twoflower, nudging him in the ribs. ‘Yeah,’ said Rincewind, contorting his face into something like a grin. ‘You’re not upset, are you?’ ‘Who, me?’ said Rincewind. ‘Gosh, no. Hundred and one things to do. ’ ‘That’s all right, then. Listen, let’s go and have breakfast and then we can go down to the docks. ’ Rincewind nodded dismally, turned to his assistant, and took a banana out of his pocket. ‘You’ve got the hang of it now, you take over,’ he muttered. ‘Oook. ’ In fact there wasn’t any ship going anywhere near the Agatean Empire, but that was an academic point because Twoflower simply counted gold pieces into the hand of the first captain with a halfway clean ship until the man suddenly saw the merits of changing his plans. Rincewind waited on the quayside until Twoflower had finished paying the man about forty times more than his ship was worth. ‘That’s settled, then,’ said Twoflower. ‘He’ll drop me at the Brown Islands and I can easily get a ship from there. ’ ‘Great,’ said Rincewind. Twoflower looked thoughtful for a moment. Then he opened the Luggage and pulled out a bag of gold. ‘Have you seen Cohen and Bethan?’ he said. ‘I think they went off to get married,’ said Rincewind. ‘I heard Bethan say it was now or never. ’ ‘Well, when you see them give them this,’ said Twoflower, handing him the bag. ‘I know it’s expensive, setting up home for the first time. ’ Twoflower had never fully understood the gulf in the exchange rate. The bag could quite easily set Cohen up with a small kingdom. ‘I’ll hand it over first chance I get,’ he said, and to his own surprise realized that he meant it. ‘Good. I’ve thought about something to give you, too.

’ ‘Oh, there’s no—’ Twoflower rummaged in the Luggage and produced a large sack. He began to fill it with clothes and money and the picture box until finally the Luggage was completely empty. The last thing he put in was his souvenir musical cigarette box with the shell-encrusted lid, carefully wrapped in soft paper. ‘It’s all yours,’ he said, shutting the Luggage’s lid. ‘I shan’t really need it any more, and it won’t fit on my wardrobe anyway. ’ ‘What?’ ‘Don’t you want it?’ ‘Well, I – of course, but – it’s yours. It follows you, not me. ’ ‘Luggage,’ said Twoflower, ‘this is Rincewind. You’re his, right?’ The Luggage slowly extended its legs, turned very deliberately and looked at Rincewind. ‘I don’t think it belongs to anyone but itself, really,’ said Twoflower. ‘Yes,’ said Rincewind uncertainly. ‘Well, that’s about it, then,’ said Twoflower. He held out his hand. ‘Goodbye, Rincewind. I’ll send you a postcard when I get home. Or something. ’ ‘Yes. Any time you’re passing, there’s bound to be someone here who knows where I am. ’ ‘Yes. Well. That’s it, then. ’ ‘That’s it, right enough. ’ ‘Right. ’ ‘Yep. ’ Twoflower walked up the gangplank, which the impatient crew hauled up behind him. The rowing drum started its beat and the ship was propelled slowly out onto the turbid waters of the Ankh, now back to their old level, where it caught the tide and turned towards the open sea. Rincewind watched it until it was a dot. Then he looked down at the Luggage. It stared back at him. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Go away. I’m giving you to yourself, do you understand?’ He turned his back on it and stalked away. After a few seconds he was aware of the little footsteps behind him. He spun around. ‘I said I don’t want you!’ he snapped, and gave it a kick. The Luggage sagged. Rincewind stalked away. After he had gone a few yards he stopped and listened. There was no sound. When he turned the Luggage was where he had left it. It looked sort of huddled. Rincewind thought for a while. ‘All right, then,’ he said. ‘Come on. ’ He turned his back and strode off to the University. After a few minutes the Luggage appeared to make up its mind, extended its legs again and padded after him. It didn’t see that it had a lot of choice. They headed along the quay and into the city, two dots on a dwindling landscape which, as the perspective broadened, included a tiny ship starting out across a wide green sea that was but a part of a bright circling ocean on a cloud-swirled Disc on the back of four giant elephants that themselves stood on the shell of an enormous turtle. Which soon became a glint among the stars, and disappeared. 1 They won’t be described, since even the pretty ones looked like the offspring of an octopus and a bicycle. It is well known that things from undesirable universes are always seeking an entrance into this one, which is the psychic equivalent of handy for the buses and closer to the shops. 2 A Thaum is the basic unit of magical strength. It has been universally established as the amount of magic needed to create one small white pigeon or three normal sized billiard balls. 3 An interesting metaphor. To nocturnal trolls, of course, the dawn of time lies in the future. 4 Not precisely, of course. Trees didn’t burst into flame, people didn’t suddenly become very rich and extremely dead, and the seas didn’t flash into steam. A better simile, in fact, would be ‘not like molten gold’. 5 No one knows why, but all the most truly mysterious and magical items are bought from shops that appear and, after a trading life even briefer than a double-glazing company, vanish like smoke. There have been various attempts to explain this, all of which don’t fully account for the observed facts. These shops turn up anywhere in the universe, and their immediate non-existence in any particular city can normally be deduced from crowds of people wandering the streets clutching defunct magical items, ornate guarantee cards, and looking very suspiciously at brick walls. THE END Terry Pratchett Sourcery A Novel of Discworld ® DEDICATION Many years ago I saw, in Bath, a very large American lady towing a huge tartan suitcase very fast on little rattly wheels which caught in the pavement cracks and generally gave it a life of its own. At that moment the Luggage was born. Many thanks to that lady and everyone else in places like Power Cable, Neb. , who don’t get nearly enough encouragement. This book does not contain a map. Please feel free to draw your own. There was a man and he had eight sons. Apart from that, he was nothing more than a comma on the page of History. It’s sad, but that’s all you can say about some people. But the eighth son grew up and married and had eight sons, and because there is only one suitable profession for the eighth son of an eighth son, he became a wizard. And he became wise and powerful, or at any rate powerful, and wore a pointed hat and there it would have ended… Should have ended… But against the Lore of Magic and certainly against all reason—except the reasons of the heart, which are warm and messy and, well, unreasonable —he fled the halls of magic and fell in love and got married, not necessarily in that order. And he had seven sons, each one from the cradle at least as powerful as any wizard in the world. And then he had an eighth son… A wizard squared. A source of magic. A sourcerer. Summer thunder rolled around the sandy cliffs. Far below, the sea sucked on the shingle as noisily as an old man with one tooth who had been given a gobstopper. A few seagulls hung lazily in the updraughts, waiting for something to happen. And the father of wizards sat among the thrift and rattling sea grasses at the edge of the cliff, cradling the child in his arms, staring out to sea. There was a roil of black cloud out there, heading inland, and the light it pushed before it had that deep syrup quality it gets before a really serious thunderstorm. He turned at a sudden silence behind him, and looked up through tear-reddened eyes at a tall hooded figure in a black robe. I PSLORE THE R ED ? it said. The voice was as hollow as a cave, as dense as a neutron star. Ipslore grinned the terrible grin of the suddenly mad, and held up the child for Death’s inspection. “My son,” he said. “I shall call him Coin. ” A NAME AS GOOD AS ANY OTHER , said Death politely. His empty sockets stared down at a small round face wrapped in sleep. Despite rumor, Death isn’t cruel—merely terribly, terribly good at his job. “You took his mother,” said Ipslore. It was a flat statement, without apparent rancor. In the valley behind the cliffs Ipslore’s homestead was a smoking ruin, the rising wind already spreading the fragile ashes across the hissing dunes. I T WAS A HEART ATTACK AT THE END , said Death. T HERE ARE WORSE WAYS TO DIE. T AKE IT FROM ME. Ipslore looked out to sea. “All my magic could not save her,” he said. T HERE ARE PLACES WHERE EVEN MAGIC MAY NOT GO. “And now you have come for the child?” N O. T HE CHILD HAS HIS OWN DESTINY. I HAVE COME FOR YOU. “Ah. ” The wizard stood up, carefully laid the sleeping baby down on the thin grass, and picked up a long staff that had been lying there. It was made of a black metal, with a meshwork of silver and gold carvings that gave it a rich and sinister tastelessness; the metal was octiron, intrinsically magical. “I made this, you know,” he said. “They all said you couldn’t make a staff out of metal, they said they should only be of wood, but they were wrong. I put a lot of myself into it. I shall give it to him. ” He ran his hands lovingly along the staff, which gave off a faint tone. He repeated, almost to himself, “I put a lot of myself into it. ” I T IS A GOOD STAFF , said Death. Ipslore held it in the air and looked down at his eighth son, who gave a gurgle. “She wanted a daughter,” he said. Death shrugged. Ipslore gave him a look compounded of bewilderment and rage. “What is he?” T HE EIGHTH SON OF AN EIGHTH SON OF AN EIGHTH SON , said Death, unhelpfully. The wind whipped at his robe, driving the black clouds overhead.

“What does that make him?” A SOURCERER, AS YOU ARE WELL AWARE. Thunder rolled, on cue. “What is his destiny?” shouted Ipslore, above the rising gale. Death shrugged again. He was good at it. S OURCERERS MAKE THEIR OWN DESTINY. T HEY TOUCH THE EARTH LIGHTLY. Ipslore leaned on the staff, drumming on it with his fingers, apparently lost in the maze of his own thoughts. His left eyebrow twitched. “No,” he said, softly, “no. I will make his destiny for him. ” I ADVISE AGAINST IT. “Be quiet! And listen when I tell you that they drove me out, with their books and their rituals and their Lore! They called themselves wizards, and they had less magic in their whole fat bodies than I have in my little finger! Banished! Me ! For showing that I was human! And what would humans be without love?” R ARE , said Death. N EVERTHELESS — “Listen! They drove us here, to the ends of the world, and that killed her! They tried to take my staff away!” Ipslore was screaming above the noise of the wind. “Well, I still have some power left,” he snarled. “And I say that my son shall go to Unseen University and wear the Archchancellor’s hat and the wizards of the world shall bow to him! And he shall show them what lies in their deepest hearts. Their craven, greedy hearts. He’ll show the world its true destiny, and there will be no magic greater than his. ” N O. And the strange thing about the quiet way Death spoke the word was this: it was louder than the roaring of the storm. It jerked Ipslore back to momentary sanity. Ipslore rocked back and forth uncertainly. “What?” he said. I SAID NO. N OTHING IS FINAL. N OTHING IS ABSOLUTE. EXCEPT ME, OF COURSE. S UCH TINKERING WITH DESTINY COULD MEAN THE DOWNFALL OF THE WORLD. T HERE MUST BE A CHANCE, HOWEVER SMALL. T HE LAWYERS OF FATE DEMAND A LOOPHOLE IN EVERY PROPHECY. Ipslore stared at Death’s implacable face. “I must give them a chance?” Y ES. Tap, tap, tap went Ipslore’s fingers on the metal of the staff. “Then they shall have their chance,” he said, “when hell freezes over. ” N O. I AM NOT ALLOWED TO ENLIGHTEN YOU, EVEN BY DEFAULT, ABOUT CURRENT TEMPERATURES IN THE NEXT WORLD. “Then,” Ipslore hesitated, “then they shall have their chance when my son throws his staff away. ” N O WIZARD WOULD EVER THROW HIS STAFF AWAY , said Death. T HE BOND IS TOO GREAT. “Yet it is possible, you must agree. ” Death appeared to consider this. Must was not a word he was accustomed to hearing, but he seemed to concede the point. A GREED , he said. “Is that a small enough chance for you?” S UFFICIENTLY MOLECULAR. Ipslore relaxed a little. In a voice that was nearly normal, he said: “I don’t regret it, you know. I would do it all again. Children are our hope for the future. ” T HERE IS NO HOPE FOR THE FUTURE , said Death. “What does it contain, then?” M E. “Besides you, I mean!” Death gave him a puzzled look. I’ M SORRY ? The storm reached its howling peak overhead. A seagull went past backwards. “I meant,” said Ipslore, bitterly, “what is there in this world that makes living worthwhile?” Death thought about it. C ATS , he said eventually, C ATS ARE NICE. “Curse you!” M ANY HAVE , said Death, evenly. “How much longer do I have?” Death pulled a large hourglass from the secret recesses of his robe. The two bulbs were enclosed in bars of black and gold, and the sand was nearly all in the bottom one. O H, ABOUT NINE SECONDS. Ipslore pulled himself up to his full and still impressive height, and extended the gleaming metal staff toward the child. A hand like a little pink crab reached out from the blanket and grasped it. “Then let me be the first and last wizard in the history of the world to pass on his staff to his eighth son,” he said slowly and sonorously. “And I charge him to use it to— I SHOULD HURRY UP, IF I WERE YOU … “—the full,” said Ipslore, “becoming the mightiest—” The lightning screamed from the heart of the cloud, hit Ipslore on the point of his hat, crackled down his arm, flashed along the staff and struck the child. The wizard vanished in a wisp of smoke. The staff glowed green, then white, then merely red-hot. The child smiled in his sleep. When the thunder had died away Death reached down slowly and picked up the boy, who opened his eyes. They glowed golden, from the inside. For the first time in what, for want of any better word, must be called his life, Death found himself looking at a stare that he found hard to return. The eyes seemed to be focused on a point several inches inside his skull. I did not mean for that to happen , said the voice of Ipslore, from out of the empty air. Is he harmed? No. Death tore his gaze away from that fresh, knowing smile. H E CONTAINED THE POWER. H E IS A SOURCERER: NO DOUBT HE WILL SURVIVE MUCH WORSE. A ND NOW—YOU WILL COME WITH ME. No. Y ES. Y OU ARE DEAD, YOU SEE. Death looked around for Ipslore’s wavering shade, and failed to find it. W HERE ARE YOU ? In the staff. Death leaned on his scythe and sighed. F OOLISH. H OW EASILY COULD I CUT YOU LOOSE. Not without destroying the staff , said the voice of Ipslore, and it seemed to Death that there was a new, thick, exultant quality to it. And now the child has accepted the staff you cannot destroy it without destroying him. And that you cannot do without upsetting destiny. My last magic. Rather neat, I feel. Death prodded the staff. It crackled, and sparks crawled obscenely along its length. Strangely enough, he wasn’t particularly angry. Anger is an emotion, and for emotion you need glands, and Death didn’t have much truck with glands and needed a good run at it to get angry. But he was mildly annoyed. He sighed again. People were always trying this sort of thing. On the other hand, it was quite interesting to watch, and at least this was a bit more original than the usual symbolic chess game, which Death always dreaded because he could never remember how the knight was supposed to move. Y OU’RE ONLY PUTTING OFF THE INEVITABLE , he said. That’s what being alive is all about. B UT WHAT PRECISELY DO YOU EXPECT TO GAIN ? I shall be by my son’s side. I shall teach him, even though he won’t know it. I shall guide his understanding. And, when he is ready, I shall guide his steps. T ELL ME , said Death, H OW DID YOU GUIDE THE STEPS OF YOUR OTHER SONS ? I drove them out. They dared to argue with me, they would not listen to what I could teach them. But this one will. I S THIS WISE ? The staff was silent. Beside it, the boy chuckled at the sound of a voice only he could hear. There was no analogy for the way in which Great A’Tuin the world turtle moved against the galactic night. When you are ten thousand miles long, your shell pocked with meteor craters and frosted with comet ice, there is absolutely nothing you can realistically be like except yourself. So Great A’Tuin swam slowly through the interstellar deeps like the largest turtle there has ever been, carrying on its carapace the four huge elephants that bore on their backs the vast, glittering waterfall-fringed circle of the Discworld, which exists either because of some impossible blip on the curve of probability or because the gods enjoy a joke as much as anyone. More than most people, in fact. Near the shores of the Circle Sea, in the ancient, sprawling city of Ankh-Morpork, on a velvet cushion on a ledge high up in the Unseen University, was a hat. It was a good hat. It was a magnificent hat. It was pointy, of course, with a wide floppy brim, but after disposing of these basic details the designer had really got down to business. There was gold lace on there, and pearls, and bands of purest vermine, and sparkling Ankhstones * , and some incredibly tasteless sequins, and—a dead giveaway, of course—a circle of octarines. Since they weren’t in a strong magical field at the moment they weren’t glowing, and looked like rather inferior diamonds. Spring had come to Ankh-Morpork. It wasn’t immediately apparent, but there were signs that were obvious to the cognoscenti.

For example, the scum on the river Ankh, that great wide slow waterway that served the double city as reservoir, sewer and frequent morgue, had turned a particularly iridescent green. The city’s drunken rooftops sprouted mattresses and bolsters as the winter bedding was put out to air in the weak sunshine, and in the depths of musty cellars the beams twisted and groaned when their dry sap responded to the ancient call of root and forest. Birds nested among the gutters and eaves of Unseen University, although it was noticeable that however great the pressure on the nesting sites they never, ever, made nests in the invitingly open mouths of the gargoyles that lined the rooftops, much to the gargoyles’ disappointment. A kind of spring had even come to the ancient University itself. Tonight would be the Eve of Small Gods, and a new Archchancellor would be elected. Well, not exactly elected , because wizards didn’t have any truck with all this undignified voting business, and it was well known that Archchancellors were selected by the will of the gods, and this year it was a pretty good bet that the gods would see their way clear to selecting old Virrid Wayzygoose, who was a decent old boy and had been patiently waiting his turn for years. The Archchancellor of Unseen University was the official leader of all the wizards on the Disc. Once upon a time it had meant that he would be the most powerful in the handling of magic, but times were a lot quieter now and, to be honest, senior wizards tended to look upon actual magic as a bit beneath them. They tended to prefer administration, which was safer and nearly as much fun, and also big dinners. And so the long afternoon wore on. The hat squatted on its faded cushion in Wayzygoose’s chambers, while he sat in his tub in front of the fire and soaped his beard. Other wizards dozed in their studies, or took a gentle stroll around the gardens in order to work up an appetite for the evening’s feast; about a dozen steps was usually considered quite sufficient. In the Great Hall, under the carved or painted stares of two hundred earlier Archchancellors, the butler’s staff set out the long tables and benches. In the vaulted maze of the kitchens—well, the imagination should need no assistance. It should include lots of grease and heat and shouting, vats of caviar, whole roast oxen, strings of sausages like paperchains strung from wall to wall, the head chef himself at work in one of the cold rooms putting the finishing touches to a model of the University carved for some inexplicable reason out of butter. He kept doing this every time there was a feast—butter swans, butter buildings, whole rancid greasy yellow menageries—and he enjoyed it so much no one had the heart to tell him to stop. In his own labyrinth of cellars the butler prowled among his casks, decanting and tasting. The air of expectation had even spread to the ravens who inhabited the Tower of Art, eight hundred feet high and reputedly the oldest building in the world. Its crumbling stones supported thriving miniature forests high above the city’s rooftops. Entire species of beetles and small mammals had evolved up there and, since people rarely climbed it these days owing to the tower’s distressing tendency to sway in the breeze, the ravens had it all to themselves. Now they were flying around it in a state of some agitation, like gnats before a thunderstorm. If anyone below is going to take any notice of them it might be a good idea. Something horrible was about to happen. You can tell, can’t you? You’re not the only one. “What’s got into them?” shouted Rincewind above the din. The Librarian ducked as a leather-bound grimoire shot out from its shelf and jerked to a mid-air halt on the end of its chain. Then he dived, rolled and landed on a copy of Maleficio’s Discouverie of Demonologie that was industriously bashing at its lectern. “Oook!” he said. Rincewind put his shoulder against a trembling bookshelf and forced its rustling volumes back into place with his knees. The noise was terrible. Books of magic have a sort of life of their own. Some have altogether too much; for example, the first edition of the Necrotelicomicon has to be kept between iron plates, the True Arte of Levitatione has spent the last one hundred and fifty years up in the rafters, and Ge Fordge’s Compenydyum of Sex Majick is kept in a vat of ice in a room all by itself and there’s a strict rule that it can only be read by wizards who are over eighty and, if possible, dead. But even the everyday grimoires and incunabula on the main shelves were as restless and nervy as the inmates of a chicken house with something rank scrabbling under the door. From their shut covers came a muffled scratching, like claws. “What did you say?” screamed Rincewind. “Oook!” * “Right!” Rincewind, as honorary assistant librarian, hadn’t progressed much beyond basic indexing and banana-fetching, and he had to admire the way the Librarian ambled among the quivering shelves, here running a black-leather hand over a trembling binding, here comforting a frightened thesaurus with a few soothing simian murmurings. After a while the Library began to settle down, and Rincewind felt his shoulder muscles relax. It was a fragile peace, though. Here and there a page rustled. From distant shelves came the ominous creak of a spine. After its initial panic the Library was now as alert and jittery as a long-tailed cat in a rocking-chair factory. The Librarian ambled back down the aisles. He had a face that only a lorry tire could love and it was permanently locked in a faint smile, but Rincewind could tell by the way the ape crept into his cubbyhole under the desk and hid his head under a blanket that he was deeply worried. Examine Rincewind, as he peers around the sullen shelves. There are eight levels of wizardry on the Disc; after sixteen years Rincewind has failed to achieve even level one. In fact it is the considered opinion of some of his tutors that he is incapable even of achieving level zero, which most normal people are born at; to put it another way, it has been suggested that when Rincewind dies the average occult ability of the human race will actually go up by a fraction. He is tall and thin and has the scrubby kind of beard that looks like the kind of beard worn by people who weren’t cut out by nature to be beard wearers. He is dressed in a dark red robe that has seen better days, possibly better decades. But you can tell he’s a wizard, because he’s got a pointy hat with a floppy brim. It’s got the word “Wizzard” embroidered on it in big silver letters, by someone whose needlework is even worse than their spelling. There’s a star on top. It has lost most of its sequins. Clamping his hat on his head, Rincewind pushed his way through the Library’s ancient doors and stepped out into the golden light of the afternoon. It was calm and quiet, broken only by the hysterical croaking of the ravens as they circled the Tower of Art. Rincewind watched them for a while. The University’s ravens were a tough bunch of birds. It took a lot to unsettle them. On the other hand— —the sky was pale blue tinted with gold, with a few high wisps of fluffy cloud glowing pinkly in the lengthening light. The ancient chestnut trees in the quadrangle were in full bloom. From an open window came the sound of a student wizard practicing the violin, rather badly. It was not what you would call ominous. Rincewind leaned against the warm stonework. And screamed. The building was shuddering. He could feel it come up through his hand and along his arms, a faint rhythmic sensation at just the right frequency to suggest uncontrollable terror. The stones themselves were frightened. He looked down in horror at a faint clinking noise. An ornamental drain cover fell backwards and one of the University’s rats poked its whiskers out. It gave Rincewind a desperate look as it scrambled up and fled past him, followed by dozens of its tribe.

Some of them were wearing clothes but that wasn’t unusual for the University, where the high level of background magic does strange things to genes. As he stared around him Rincewind could see other streams of gray bodies leaving the University by every drainpipe and flowing toward the outside wall. The ivy by his ear rustled and a group of rats made a series of death-defying leaps onto his shoulders and slid down his robe. They otherwise ignored him totally but, again, this wasn’t particularly unusual. Most creatures ignored Rincewind. He turned and fled into the University, skirts flapping around his knees, until he reached the bursar’s study. He hammered on the door, which creaked open. “Ah. It’s, um, Rincewind, isn’t it?” said the bursar, without much enthusiasm. “What’s the matter?” “We’re sinking!” The bursar stared at him for a few moments. His name was Spelter. He was tall and wiry and looked as though he had been a horse in previous lives and had only just avoided it in this one. He always gave people the impression that he was looking at them with his teeth. “Sinking?” “Yes. All the rats are leaving!” The bursar gave him another stare. “Come inside, Rincewind,” he said, kindly. Rincewind followed him into the low, dark room and across to the window. It looked out over the gardens to the river, oozing peacefully toward the sea. “You haven’t been, um, overdoing it?” said the bursar. “Overdoing what?” said Rincewind, guiltily. “This is a building, you see,” said the bursar. Like most wizards when faced with a puzzle, he started to roll himself a cigarette. “It’s not a ship. There are ways of telling, you know. Absence of porpoises frolicking around the bows, a shortage of bilges, that sort of thing. The chances of foundering are remote. Otherwise, um, we’d have to man the sheds and row for shore. Um?” “But the rats—” “Grain ship in harbor, I expect. Some, um, springtime ritual. ” “I’m sure I felt the building shaking, too,” said Rincewind, a shade uncertainly. Here in this quiet room, with the fire crackling in the grate, it didn’t seem quite so real. “A passing tremor. Great A’Tuin hiccuping, um, possibly. A grip on yourself, um, is what you should get. You haven’t been drinking, have you?” “No!” “Um. Would you like to?” Spelter padded over to a dark oak cabinet and pulled out a couple of glasses, which he filled from the water jug. “I tend to be best at sherry this time of day,” he said, and spread his hands over the glasses. “Say, um, the word—sweet or dry?” “Um, no,” said Rincewind. “Perhaps you’re right. I think I’ll go and have a bit of rest. ” “Good idea. ” Rincewind wandered down the chilly stone passages. Occasionally he’d touch the wall and appear to be listening, and then he’d shake his head. As he crossed the quadrangle again he saw a herd of mice swarm over a balcony and scamper toward the river. The ground they were running over seemed to be moving, too. When Rincewind looked closer he could see that it was because it was covered with ants. These weren’t ordinary ants. Centuries of magical leakage into the walls of the University had done strange things to them. Some of them were pulling very small carts, some of them were riding beetles, but all of them were leaving the University as quickly as possible. The grass on the lawn rippled as they passed. He looked up as an elderly striped mattress was extruded from an upper window and flopped down onto the flagstones below. After a pause, apparently to catch its breath, it rose a little from the ground. Then it started to float purposefully across the lawn and bore down on Rincewind, who managed to jump out of its way just in time. He heard a high-pitched chittering and caught a glimpse of thousands of determined little legs under the bulging fabric before it hurtled onward. Even the bedbugs were on the move, and in case they didn’t find such comfortable quarters elsewhere they were leaving nothing to chance. One of them waved at him and squeaked a greeting. Rincewind backed away until something touched the back of his legs and froze his spine. It turned out to be a stone seat. He watched it for some time. It didn’t seem in any hurry to run away. He sat down gratefully. There’s probably a natural explanation, he thought. Or a perfectly normal unnatural one, anyway. A gritty noise made him look across the lawn. There was no natural explanation of this. With incredible slowness, easing themselves down parapets and drainpipes in total silence except for the occasional scrape of stone on stone, the gargoyles were leaving the roof. It’s a shame that Rincewind had never seen poor quality stop-motion photography, because then he would have known exactly how to describe what he was seeing. The creatures didn’t exactly move, but they managed to progress in a series of high speed tableaux, and lurched past him in a spindly procession of beaks, manes, wings, claws and pigeon droppings. “What’s happening?” he squeaked. A thing with a goblin’s face, harpy’s body and hen’s legs turned its head in a series of little jerks and spoke in a voice like the peristalsis of mountains (although the deep resonant effect was rather spoiled because, of course, it couldn’t close its mouth). It said: “A Ourcerer is umming! Eee orr ife!” Rincewind said “Pardon?” But the thing had gone past and was lurching awkwardly across the ancient lawn. * So Rincewind sat and stared blankly at nothing much for fully ten seconds before giving a little scream and running as fast as he could. He didn’t stop until he’d reached his own room in the Library building. It wasn’t much of a room, being mainly used to store old furniture, but it was home. Against one shadowy wall was a wardrobe. It wasn’t one of your modern wardrobes, fit only for nervous adulterers to jump into when the husband returned home early, but an ancient oak affair, dark as night, in whose dusty depths coat-hangers lurked and bred; herds of flaking shoes roamed its floor. It was quite possible that it was a secret doorway to fabulous worlds, but no one had ever tried to find out because of the distressing smell of mothballs. And on top of the wardrobe, wrapped in scraps of yellowing paper and old dust sheets, was a large brass-bound chest. It went by the name of the Luggage. Why it consented to be owned by Rincewind was something only the Luggage knew, and it wasn’t telling, but probably no other item in the entire chronicle of travel accessories had quite such a history of mystery and grievous bodily harm. It had been described as half suitcase, half homicidal maniac. It had many unusual qualities which may or may not become apparent soon, but currently there was only one that set it apart from any other brass-bound chest. It was snoring, with a sound like someone very slowly sawing a log. The Luggage might be magical. It might be terrible. But in its enigmatic soul it was kin to every other piece of luggage throughout the multiverse, and preferred to spend its winters hibernating on top of a wardrobe. Rincewind hit it with a broom until the sawing stopped, filled his pockets with odds and ends from the banana crate he used as a dressing table, and made for the door. He couldn’t help noticing that his mattress had gone but that didn’t matter because he was pretty clear that he was never going to sleep on a mattress again, ever. The Luggage landed on the floor with a solid thump. After a few seconds, and with extreme care, it rose up on hundreds of little pink legs. It tilted backwards and forward a bit, stretching every leg, and then it opened its lid and yawned. “Are you coming or not?” The lid shut with a snap. The Luggage maneuverd its feet into a complicated shuffle until it was facing the doorway, and headed after its master. The Library was still in a state of tension, with the occasional clinking * of a chain or muffled crackle of a page. Rincewind reached under the desk and grabbed the Librarian who was still hunched under his blanket. “Come on, I said!” “Oook. ” “I’ll buy you a drink,” said Rincewind desperately.

The Librarian unfolded like a four-legged spider. “Oook?” Rincewind half-dragged the ape from his nest and out through the door. He didn’t head for the main gates but for an otherwise undistinguished area of wall where a few loose stones had, for two thousand years, offered students an unobtrusive way in after lights-out. Then he stopped so suddenly that the Librarian cannoned into him and the Luggage ran into both of them. “Oook!” “Oh, gods,” he said. “Look at that!” “Oook?” There was a shiny black tide flowing out of a grating near the kitchens. Early evening starlight glinted off millions of little black backs. But it wasn’t the sight of the cockroaches that was so upsetting. It was the fact that they were marching in step, a hundred abreast. Of course, like all the informal inhabitants of the University the roaches were a little unusual, but there was something particularly unpleasant about the sound of billions of very small feet hitting the stones in perfect time. Rincewind stepped gingerly over the marching column. The Librarian jumped it. The Luggage, of course, followed them with a noise like someone tapdancing over a bag of potato chips. And so, forcing the Luggage to go all the way around to the gates anyway, because otherwise it’d only batter a hole in the wall, Rincewind quit the University with all the other insects and small frightened rodents and decided that if a few quiet beers wouldn’t allow him to see things in a different light, then a few more probably would. It was certainly worth a try. That was why he wasn’t present in the Great Hall for dinner. It would turn out to be the most important missed meal of his life. Further along the University wall there was a faint clink as a grapnel caught the spikes that lined its top. A moment later a slim, black-clad figure dropped lightly into the University grounds and ran soundlessly toward the Great Hall, where it was soon lost in the shadows. No-one would have noticed it anyway. On the other side of the campus the Sourcerer was walking toward the gates of the University. Where his feet touched the cobbles blue sparks crackled and evaporated the early evening dew. It was very hot. The big fireplace at the turnwise end of the Great Hall was practically incandescent. Wizards feel the cold easily, so the sheer blast of heat from the roaring logs was melting candles twenty feet away and bubbling the varnish on the long tables. The air over the feast was blue with tobacco smoke, which writhed into curious shapes as it was bent by random drifts of magic. On the center table the complete carcass of a whole roast pig looked extremely annoyed at the fact that someone had killed it without waiting for it to finish its apple, and the model University made of butter was sinking gently into a pool of grease. There was a lot of beer about. Here and there red-faced wizards were happily singing ancient drinking songs which involved a lot of knee-slapping and cries of “Ho!” The only possible excuse for this sort of thing is that wizards are celibate, and have to find their amusement where they can. Another reason for the general conviviality was the fact that no one was trying to kill anyone else. This is an unusual state of affairs in magical circles. The higher levels of wizardry are a perilous place. Every wizard is trying to dislodge the wizards above him while stamping on the fingers of those below; to say that wizards are healthily competitive by nature is like saying that piranhas are naturally a little peckish. However, ever since the great Mage Wars left whole areas of the Disc uninhabitable * , wizards have been forbidden to settle their differences by magical means, because it caused a lot of trouble for the population at large and in any case it was often difficult to tell which of the resultant patches of smoking fat had been the winner. So they traditionally resort to knives, subtle poisons, scorpions in shoes and hilarious booby traps involving razor-sharp pendulums. On Small Gods’ Eve, however, it was considered extremely bad form to kill a brother wizard, and wizards felt able to let their hair down without fear of being strangled with it. The Archchancellor’s chair was empty. Wayzygoose was dining alone in his study, as befits a man chosen by the gods after their serious discussion with sensible senior wizards earlier in the day. Despite his eighty years, he was feeling a little bit nervous and hardly touched his second chicken. In a few minutes he would have to make a speech. Wayzygoose had, in his younger days, sought power in strange places; he’d wrestled with demons in blazing octagrams, stared into dimensions that men were not meant to know of, and even outfaced the Unseen University grants committee, but nothing in the eight circles of nothingness was quite so bad as a couple of hundred expectant faces staring up at him through the cigar smoke. The heralds would soon be coming by to collect him. He sighed and pushed his pudding away untasted, crossed the room, stood in front of the big mirror, and fumbled in the pocket of the robe for his notes. After a while he managed to get them in some sort of order and cleared his throat. “My brothers in art,” he began, “I cannot tell you how much I—er, how much…fine traditions of this ancient university…er…as I look around me and see the pictures of Archchancellors gone before…” He paused, sorted through his notes again, and plunged on rather more certainly. “Standing here tonight I am reminded of the story about the three-legged pedlar and the, er, merchant’s daughters. It seems that this merchant…” There was a knock at the door. “Enter,” Wayzygoose barked, and peered at the notes carefully. “This merchant,” he muttered, “this merchant, yes, this merchant had three daughters. I think it was. Yes. It was three. It would appear…” He looked into the mirror, and turned round. He started to say, “Who are y—” And found that there are things worse than making speeches, after all. The small dark figure creeping along the deserted corridors heard the noise, and didn’t take too much notice. Unpleasant noises were not uncommon in areas where magic was commonly practiced. The figure was looking for something. It wasn’t sure what it was, only that it would know it when it found it. After some minutes its search led it to Wayzygoose’s room. The air was full of greasy coils. Little particles of soot drifted gently on the air currents, and there were several foot-shaped burn marks on the floor. The figure shrugged. There was no accounting for the sort of things you found in wizard’s rooms. It caught sight of its multi-faceted reflection in the shattered mirror, adjusted the set of its hood, and got on with the search. Moving like one listening to inner directions, it padded noiselessly across the room until it reached the table whereon stood a tall, round and battered leather box. It crept closer and gently raised the lid. The voice from inside sounded as though it was talking through several layers of carpet when it said, At last. What kept you? “I mean, how did they all get started? I mean, back in the old times, there were real wizards, there was none of this levels business. They just went out and—did it. Pow!” One or two of the other customers in the darkened bar of the Mended Drum tavern looked around hastily at the noise. They were new in town. Regular customers never took any notice of surprising noises like groans or unpleasantly gristly sounds. It was a lot healthier. In some parts of the city curiosity didn’t just kill the cat, it threw it in the river with lead weights tied to its feet. Rincewind’s hands weaved unsteadily over the array of empty glasses on the table in front of him. He’d almost been able to forget about the cockroaches. After another drink he might manage to forget about the mattress, too. “Whee! A fireball! Fizz! Vanishing like smoke! Whee!—Sorry. ” The Librarian carefully pulled what remained of his beer out of the reach of Rincewind’s flailing arms. “Proper magic. ” Rincewind stifled a belch. “Oook.

” Rincewind stared into the frothy remnants of his last beer, and then, with extreme care in case the top of his head fell off, leaned down and poured some into a saucer for the Luggage. It was lurking under the table, which was a relief. It usually embarrassed him in bars by sidling up to drinkers and terrorizing them into feeding it potato chips. He wondered fuzzily where his train of thought had been derailed. “Where was I?” “Oook,” the Librarian hinted. “Yeah. ” Rincewind brightened. “ They didn’t have all this levels and grades business, you know. They had sourcerers in those days. They went out in the world and found new spells and had adventures—” He dipped a finger in a puddle of beer and doodled a design on the stained, scratched timber of the table. One of Rincewind’s tutors had said of him that “to call his understanding of magical theory abysmal is to leave no suitable word to describe his grasp of its practice. ” This had always puzzled him. He objected to the fact that you had to be good at magic to be a wizard. He knew he was a wizard, deep in his head. Being good at magic didn’t have anything to do with it. That was just an extra, it didn’t actually define somebody. “When I was a little boy,” he said wistfully, “I saw this picture of a sourcerer in a book. He was standing on a mountain top waving his arms and the waves were coming right up, you know, like they do down in Ankh Bay in a gale, and there were flashes of lightning all around him—” “Oook?” “I don’t know why they didn’t, perhaps he had rubber boots on,” Rincewind snapped, and went on dreamily, “And he had this staff and a hat on, just like mine, and his eyes were sort of glowing and there was all this sort of like glitter coming out of his fingertips, and I thought one day I’ll do that, and—” “Oook?” “Just a half, then. ” “Oook. ” “How do you pay for this stuff? Every time anyone gives you any money you eat it. ” “Oook. ” “Amazing. ” Rincewind completed his sketch in the beer. There was a stick figure on a cliff. It didn’t look much like him—drawing in stale beer is not a precise art—but it was meant to. “That’s what I wanted to be,” he said. “Pow! Not all this messing around. All this books and stuff, that isn’t what it should all be about. What we need is real wizardry. ” That last remark would have earned the prize for the day’s most erroneous statement if Rincewind hadn’t then said: “It’s a pity there aren’t any of them around anymore. ” Spelter rapped on the table with his spoon. He was an impressive figure, in his ceremonial robe with the purple-and-vermine * hood of the Venerable Council of Seers and the yellow sash of a fifth level wizard; he’d been fifth level for three years, waiting for one of the sixty-four sixth level wizards to create a vacancy by dropping dead. He was in an amiable mood, however. Not only had he just finished a good dinner, he also had in his quarters a small vial of a guaranteed untastable poison which, used correctly, should guarantee him promotion within a few months. Life looked good. The big clock at the end of the hall trembled on the verge of nine o’clock. The tattoo with the spoon hadn’t had much effect. Spelter picked up a pewter tankard and brought it down hard. “Brothers!” he shouted, and nodded as the hubbub died away. “Thank you. Be upstanding, please, for the ceremony of the, um, keys. ” There was a ripple of laughter and a general buzz of expectancy as the wizards pushed back their benches and got unsteadily to their feet. The double doors to the hall were locked and triple barred. An incoming Archchancellor had to request entry three times before they would be unlocked, signifying that he was appointed with the consent of wizardry in general. Or some such thing. The origins were lost in the depths of time, which was as good a reason as any for retaining the custom. The conversation died away. The assembled wizardry stared at the doors. There was a soft knocking. “Go away!” shouted the wizards, some of them collapsing at the sheer subtlety of the humor. Spelter picked up the great iron ring that contained the keys to the University. They weren’t all metal. They weren’t all visible. Some of them looked very strange indeed. “Who is that who knocketh without?” he intoned. “ I do. ” What was strange about the voice was this: it seemed to every wizard that the speaker was standing right behind him. Most of them found themselves looking over their shoulders. In that moment of shocked silence there was the sharp little snick of the lock. They watched in fascinated horror as the iron bolts traveled back of their own accord; the great oak beams of timber, turned by Time into something tougher than rock, slid out of their sockets; the hinges flared from red through yellow to white and then exploded. Slowly, with a terrible inevitability, the doors fell into the hall. There was an indistinct figure standing in the smoke from the burning hinges. “Bloody hell, Virrid,” said one of the wizards nearby, “that was a good one. ” As the figure strode into the light they could all see that it was not, after all, Virrid Wayzygoose. He was at least a head shorter than any other wizard, and wore a simple white robe. He was also several decades younger; he looked about ten years old, and in one hand he held a staff considerably taller than he was. “Here, he’s no wizard—” “Where’s his hood, then?” “Where’s his hat ?” The stranger walked up the line of astonished wizards until he was standing in front of the top table. Spelter looked down at a thin young face framed by a mass of blond hair, and most of all he looked into two golden eyes that glowed from within. But he felt they weren’t looking at him. They seemed to be looking at a point six inches beyond the back of his head. Spelter got the impression that he was in the way, and considerably surplus to immediate requirements. He rallied his dignity and pulled himself up to his full height. “What is the meaning of, um, this?” he said. It was pretty weak, he had to admit, but the steadiness of that incandescent glare appeared to be stripping all the words out of his memory. “I have come,” said the stranger. “Come? Come for what?” “To take my place. Where is the seat for me?” “Are you a student?” demanded Spelter, white with anger. “What is your name, young man?” The boy ignored him and looked around at the assembled wizards. “Who is the most powerful wizard here?” he said. “I wish to meet him. ” Spelter nodded his head. Two of the college porters, who had been sidling toward the newcomer for the last few minutes, appeared at either elbow. “Take him out and throw him in the street,” said Spelter. The porters, big solid serious men, nodded. They gripped the boy’s pipestem arms with hands like banana bunches. “Your father will hear of this,” said Spelter severely. “He already has,” said the boy. He glanced up at the two men and shrugged. “What’s going on here?” Spelter turned to see Skarmer Billias, head of the Order of the Silver Star. Whereas Spelter tended toward the wiry, Billias was expansive, looking rather like a small captive balloon that had for some reason been draped in blue velvet and vermine; between them, the wizards averaged out as two normal-sized men. Unfortunately, Billias was the type of person who prided himself on being good with children. He bent down as far as his dinner would allow and thrust a whiskery red face toward the boy. “What’s the matter, lad?” he said. “This child had forced his way into here because, he says, he wants to meet a powerful wizard,” said Spelter, disapprovingly. Spelter disliked children intensely, which was perhaps why they found him so fascinating. At the moment he was successfully preventing himself from wondering about the door. “Nothing wrong with that,” said Billias. “Any lad worth his salt wants to be a wizard. I wanted to be a wizard when I was a lad. Isn’t that right lad?” “Are you puissant?” said the boy. “Hmm?” “I said, are you puissant? How powerful are you?” “Powerful?” said Billias.

He stood up, fingered his eighth-level sash, and winked at Spelter. “Oh, pretty powerful. Quite powerful as wizards go. ” “Good. I challenge you. Show me your strongest magic. And when I have beaten you, why, then I shall be Archchancellor. ” “Why, you impudent—” began Spelter, but his protest was lost in the roar of laughter from the rest of the wizards. Billias slapped his knees, or as near to them as he could reach. “A duel, eh?” he said. “Pretty good, eh?” “Duelling is forbidden, as well you know,” said Spelter. “Anyway, it’s totally ridiculous! I don’t know who did the doors for him, but I will not stand here and see you waste all our time—” “Now, now,” said Billias. “What’s your name, lad?” “Coin. ” “Coin sir ,” snapped Spelter. “Well, now, Coin,” said Billias. “You want to see the best I can do, eh?” “Yes. ” “Yes sir ,” snapped Spelter. Coin gave him an unblinking stare, a stare as old as time, the kind of stare that basks on rocks on volcanic islands and never gets tired. Spelter felt his mouth go dry. Billias held out his hands for silence. Then, with a theatrical flourish, he rolled up the sleeve of his left arm and extended his hand. The assembled wizards watched with interest. Eighth-levels were above magic, as a rule, spending most of their time in contemplation—normally of the next menu—and, of course, avoiding the attentions of ambitious wizards of the seventh-level. This should be worth seeing. Billias grinned at the boy, who returned it with a stare that focused on a point a few inches beyond the back of the old wizard’s head. Somewhat disconcerted, Billias flexed his fingers. Suddenly this wasn’t quite the game he had intended, and he felt an overpowering urge to impress. It was swiftly overtaken by a surge of annoyance at his own stupidity in being unnerved. “I shall show you,” he said, and took a deep breath, “Maligree’s Wonderful Garden. ” There was a susurration from the diners. Only four wizards in the entire history of the University had ever succeeded in achieving the complete Garden. Most wizards could create the trees and flowers, and a few had managed the birds. It wasn’t the most powerful spell, it couldn’t move mountains, but achieving the fine detail built into Maligree’s complex syllables took a finely tuned skill. “You will observe,” Billias added, “nothing up my sleeve. ” His lips began to move. His hands flickered through the air. A pool of golden sparks sizzled in the palm of his hand, curved up, formed a faint sphere, began to fill in the detail… Legend had it that Maligree, one of the last of the true sourcerers, created the Garden as a small, timeless, private self-locking universe where he could have a quiet smoke and a bit of a think while avoiding the cares of the world. Which was itself a puzzle, because no wizard could possibly understand how any being as powerful as a sourcerer could have a care in the world. Whatever the reason, Maligree retreated further and further into a world of his own and then, one day, closed the entrance after him. The garden was a glittering ball in Billias’s hands. The nearest wizards craned admiringly over his shoulders, and looked down into a two-foot sphere that showed a delicate, flower-strewn landscape; there was a lake in the middle distance, complete in every ripple, and purple mountains behind an interesting-looking forest. Tiny birds the size of bees flew from tree to tree, and a couple of deer no larger than mice glanced up from their grazing and stared out at Coin. Who said critically: “It’s quite good. Give it to me. ” He took the intangible globe out of the wizard’s hands and held it up. “Why isn’t it bigger?” he said. Billias mopped his brow with a lace-edged handkerchief. “Well,” he said weakly, so stunned by Coin’s tone that he was quite unable to be affronted, “since the old days, the efficacity of the spell has rather—” Coin stood with his head on one side for a moment, as though listening to something. Then he whispered a few syllables and stroked the surface of the sphere. It expanded. One moment it was a toy in the boy’s hands, and the next… …the wizards were standing on cool grass, in a shady meadow rolling down to the lake. There was a gentle breeze blowing from the mountains; it was scented with thyme and hay. The sky was deep blue shading to purple at the zenith. The deer watched the newcomers suspiciously from their grazing ground under the trees. Spelter looked down in shock. A peacock was pecking at his bootlaces. “—” he began, and stopped. Coin was still holding a sphere, a sphere of air. Inside it, distorted as though seen through a fish-eye lens or the bottom of a bottle, was the Great Hall of Unseen University. The boy looked around at the trees, squinted thoughtfully at the distant, snow-capped mountains, and nodded at the astonished men. “It’s not bad,” he said. “I should like to come here again. ” He moved his hands in a complicated motion that seemed, in some unexplained way, to turn them inside out. Now the wizards were back in the hall, and the boy was holding the shrinking Garden in his palm. In the heavy, shocked silence he put it back into Billias’s hands, and said: “That was quite interesting. Now I will do some magic. ” He raised his hands, stared at Billias, and vanished him. Pandemonium broke out, as it tends to on these occasions. In the center of it stood Coin, totally composed, in a spreading cloud of greasy smoke. Ignoring the tumult, Spelter bent down slowly and, with extreme care, picked a peacock feather off the floor. He rubbed it thoughtfully back and forth across his lips as he looked from the doorway to the boy to the vacant Archchancellor’s chair, and his thin mouth narrowed, and he began to smile. An hour later, as thunder began to roll in the clear skies above the city, and Rincewind was beginning to sing gently and forget all about cockroaches, and a lone mattress was wandering the streets, Spelter shut the door of the Archchancellor’s study and turned to face his fellow mages. There were six of them, and they were very worried. They were so worried, Spelter noted, that they were listening to him, a mere fifth level wizard. “He’s gone to bed,” he said, “with a hot milk drink. ” “Milk?” said one of the wizards, with tired horror in his voice. “He’s too young for alcohol,” explained the bursar. “Oh, yes. Silly of me. ” The hollow-eyed wizard opposite said: “Did you see what he did to the door?” “I know what he did to Billias!” “ What did he do?” “I don’t want to know!” “Brothers, brothers,” said Spelter soothingly. He looked down at their worried faces and thought: too many dinners. Too many afternoons waiting for the servants to bring in the tea. Too much time spent in stuffy rooms reading old books written by dead men. Too much gold brocade and ridiculous ceremony. Too much fat. The whole University is ripe for one good push… Or one good pull… “I wonder if we really have, um, a problem here,” he said. Gravie Derment of the Sages of the Unknown Shadow hit the table with his fist. “Good grief, man!” he snapped. “Some child wanders in out of the night, beats two of the University’s finest, sits down in the Archchancellor’s chair and you wonder if we have a problem? The boy’s a natural! From what we’ve seen tonight, there isn’t a wizard on the Disc who could stand against him!” “Why should we stand against him?” said Spelter, in a reasonable tone of voice. “Because he’s more powerful than we are!” “Yes?” Spelter’s voice would have made a sheet of glass look like a plowed field, it made honey look like gravel. “It stands to reason—” Gravie hesitated. Spelter gave him an encouraging smile. “Ahem. ” The ahemmer was Marmaric Carding, head of the Hoodwinkers. He steepled his beringed fingers and peered sharply at Spelter over the top of them. The bursar disliked him intensely. He had considerable doubt about the man’s intelligence. He suspected it might be quite high, and that behind those vein-crazed jowls was a mind full of brightly polished little wheels, spinning like mad.

“He does not seem overly inclined to use that power,” said Carding. “What about Billias and Virrid?” “Childish pique,” said Carding. The other wizards stared from him to the bursar. They were aware of something going on, and couldn’t quite put their finger on it. The reason that wizards didn’t rule the Disc was quite simple. Hand any two wizards a piece of rope and they would instinctively pull in opposite directions. Something about their genetics or their training left them with an attitude toward mutual co-operation that made an old bull elephant with terminal toothache look like a worker ant. Spelter spread his hands. “Brothers,” he said again, “do you not see what has happened? Here is a gifted youth, perhaps raised in isolation out in the untutored, um, countryside, who, feeling the ancient call of the magic in his bones, has journeyed far across tortuous terrain, through who knows what perils, and at last has reached his journey’s end, alone and afraid, seeking only the steadying influence of us, his tutors, to shape and guide his talents? Who are we to turn him away, into the, um, wintry blast, shunning his—” The oration was interrupted by Gravie blowing his nose. “It’s not winter,” said one of the other wizards flatly, “and it’s quite a warm night. ” “Out into the treacherously changeable spring weather ,” snarled Spelter, “and cursed indeed would be the man who failed, um, at this time—” “It’s nearly summer. ” Carding rubbed the side of his nose thoughtfully. “The boy has a staff,” he said. “Who gave it to him? Did you ask?” “No,” said Spelter, still glowering at the almanackical interjector. Carding started to look at his fingernails in what Spelter considered to be a meaningful way. “Well, whatever the problem, I feel sure it can wait until morning,” he said in what Spelter felt was an ostentatiously bored voice. “Ye gods, he blew Billias away!” said Gravie. “And they say there’s nothing in Virrid’s room but soot!” “They were perhaps rather foolish,” said Carding smoothly. “I am sure, my good brother, that you would not be defeated in affairs of the Art by a mere stripling?” Gravie hesitated. “Well, er,” he said, “no. Of course not. ” He looked at Carding’s innocent smile and coughed loudly. “Certainly not, of course. Billias was very foolish. However, some prudent caution is surely—” “Then let us all be cautious in the morning,” said Carding cheerfully. “Brothers, let us adjourn this meeting. The boy sleeps, and in that at least he is showing us the way. This will look better in the light. ” “I have seen things that didn’t,” said Gravie darkly, who didn’t trust Youth. He held that no good ever came of it. The senior wizards filed out and back to the Great Hall, where the dinner had got to the ninth course and was just getting into its stride. It takes more than a bit of magic and someone being blown to smoke in front of him to put a wizard off his food. For some unexplained reason Spelter and Carding were the last to leave. They sat at either end of the long table, watching each other like cats. Cats can sit at either end of a lane and watch each other for hours, performing the kind of mental maneuvering that would make a grand master appear impulsive by comparison, but cats have got nothing on wizards. Neither was prepared to make a move until he had run the entire forthcoming conversation through his mind to see if it left him a move ahead. Spelter weakened first. “All wizards are brothers,” he said. “We should trust one another. I have information. ” “I know,” said Carding. “You know who the boy is. ” Spelter’s lips moved soundlessly as he tried to foresee the next bit of the exchange. “You can’t be certain of that,” he said, after a while. “My dear Spelter, you blush when you inadvertently tell the truth. ” “I didn’t blush!” “Precisely,” said Carding, “my point. ” “All right,” Spelter conceded. “But you think you know something else. ” The fat wizard shrugged. “A mere suspicion of a hunch,” he said. “But why should I ally ,” he rolled the unfamiliar word around his tongue, “with you, a mere fifth level? I could more certainly obtain the information by rendering down your living brain. I mean no offense, you understand, I ask only for knowledge. ” The events of the next few seconds happened far too fast to be understood by non-wizards, but went approximately like this: Spelter had been drawing the signs of Megrim’s Accelerator in the air under cover of the table. Now he muttered a syllable under his breath and fired the spell along the tabletop, where it left a smoking path in the varnish and met, about halfway, the silver snakes of Brother Hushmaster’s Potent Asp-Spray as they spewed from Carding’s fingertips. The two spells cannoned into one another, turned into a ball of green fire and exploded, filling the room with fine yellow crystals. The wizards exchanged the kind of long, slow glare you could roast chestnuts on. Bluntly, Carding was surprised. He shouldn’t have been. Eighth-level wizards are seldom faced with challenging tests of magical skill. In theory there are only seven other wizards of equal power and every lesser wizard is, by definition—well, lesser. This makes them complacent. But Spelter, on the other hand, was at the fifth level. It may be quite tough at the top, and it is probably even tougher at the bottom, but halfway up it’s so tough you could use it for horseshoes. By then all the no-hopers, the lazy, the silly and the downright unlucky have been weeded out, the field’s cleared, and every wizard stands alone and surrounded by mortal enemies on every side. There’s the pushy fours below, waiting to trip him up. There’s the arrogant sixes above, anxious to stamp out all ambition. And, of course, all around are his fellow fives, ready for any opportunity to reduce the competition a little. And there’s no standing still. Wizards of the fifth level are mean and tough and have reflexes of steel and their eyes are thin and narrow from staring down the length of that metaphorical last furlong at the end of which rests the prize of prizes, the Archchancellor’s hat. The novelty of cooperation began to appeal to Carding. There was worthwhile power here, which could be bribed into usefulness for as long as it was necessary. Of course, afterwards it might have to be—discouraged… Spelter thought: patronage. He’d heard the term used, though never within the University, and he knew it meant getting those above you to give you a leg up. Of course, no wizard would normally dream of giving a colleague a leg up unless it was in order to catch them on the hop. The mere thought of actually encouraging a competitor…But on the other hand, this old fool might be of assistance for a while, and afterwards , well… They looked at one another with mutual, grudging admiration and unlimited mistrust, but at least it was a mistrust each one felt he could rely on. Until afterwards. “His name is Coin,” said Spelter. “He says his father’s name is Ipslore. ” “I wonder how many brothers has he got?” said Carding. “I’m sorry?” “There hasn’t been magic like that in this university in centuries,” said Carding, “maybe for thousands of years. I’ve only ever read about it. ” “We banished an Ipslore thirty years ago,” said Spelter. “According to the records, he’d got married. I can see that if he had sons, um, they’d be wizards, but I don’t understand how—” “That wasn’t wizardry. That was sourcery,” said Carding, leaning back in his chair. Spelter stared at him across the bubbling varnish. “Sourcery?” “The eighth son of a wizard would be a sourcerer. ” “I didn’t know that!” “It is not widely advertised. ” “Yes, but—sourcerers were a long time ago, I mean, the magic was a lot stronger then, um, men were different…it didn’t have anything to do with, well, breeding. ” Spelter was thinking, eight sons, that means he did it eight times. At least. Gosh. “Sourcerers could do everything,” he went on. “They were nearly as powerful as the gods. Um. There was no end of trouble. The gods simply wouldn’t allow that sort of thing anymore, depend upon it.

” “Well, there was trouble because the sourcerers fought among themselves,” said Carding, “But one sourcerer wouldn’t be any trouble. One sourcerer correctly advised, that is. By older and wiser minds. ” “But he wants the Archchancellor’s hat!” “Why can’t he have it?” Spelter’s mouth dropped open. This was too much, even for him. Carding smiled at him amiably. “But the hat—” “It’s just a symbol,” said Carding. “It’s nothing special. If he wants it, he can have it. It’s a small enough thing. Just a symbol, nothing more. A figurehat. ” “Figurehat?” “Worn by a figurehead. ” “But the gods choose the Archchancellor!” Carding raised an eyebrow. “Do they?” he said, and coughed. “Well, yes, I suppose they do. In a manner of speaking. ” “ In a manner of speaking? ” Carding got up and gathered his skirts around him. “I think,” he said, “that you have a great deal to learn. By the way, where is that hat?” “I don’t know,” said Spelter, who was still quite shaken. “Somewhere in, um, Virrid’s apartments, I suppose. ” “We’d better fetch it,” said Carding. He paused in the doorway and stroked his beard reflectively. “I remember Ipslore,” he said. “We were students together. Wild fellow. Odd habits. Superb wizard, of course, before he went to the bad. Had a funny way of twitching his eyebrow, I remember, when he was excited. ” Carding looked blankly across forty years of memory, and shivered. “The hat,” he reminded himself. “Let’s find it. It would be a shame if anything happened to it. ” In fact the hat had no intention of letting anything happen to it, and was currently hurrying toward the Mended Drum under the arm of a rather puzzled, black-clad thief. The thief, as will become apparent, was a special type of thief. This thief was an artist of theft. Other thieves merely stole everything that was not nailed down, but this thief stole the nails as well. This thief had scandalised Ankh by taking a particular interest in stealing, with astonishing success, things that were in fact not only nailed down but also guarded by keen-eyed guards in inaccessible strong rooms. There are artists that will paint an entire chapel ceiling; this was the kind of thief that could steal it. This particular thief was credited with stealing the jewelled disembowelling knife from the Temple of Offler the Crocodile God during the middle of Evensong, and the silver shoes from the Patrician’s finest racehorse while it was in the process of winning a race. When Gritoller Mimpsey, vice-president of the Thieves’ Guild, was jostled in the marketplace and then found on returning home that a freshly-stolen handful of diamonds had vanished from their place of concealment, he knew who to blame. * This was the type of thief that could steal the initiative, the moment and the words right out of your mouth. However, it was the first time it had stolen something that not only asked it to, in a low but authoritative voice, but gave precise and somehow unarguable instructions about how it was to be disposed of. It was that cusp of the night that marks the turning point of Ankh-Morpork’s busy day, when those who make their living under the sun are resting after their labors and those who turn an honest dollar by the cold light of the moon are just getting up the energy to go to work. The day had, in fact, reached that gentle point when it was too late for housebreaking and too early for burglary. Rincewind sat alone in the crowded, smoky room, and didn’t take much notice when a shadow passed over the table and a sinister figure sat down opposite him. There was nothing very remarkable about sinister figures in this place. The Drum jealousy guarded its reputation as the most stylishly disreputable tavern in Ankh-Morpork and the big troll that now guarded the door carefully vetted customers for suitability in the way of black cloaks, glowing eyes, magic swords and so forth. Rincewind never found out what he did to the failures. Perhaps he ate them. When the figure spoke, its husky voice came from the depths of a black velvet hood, lined with fur. “Psst,” it said. “Not very,” said Rincewind, who was in a state of mind where he couldn’t resist it, “but I’m working on it. ” “I’m looking for a wizard,” said the voice. It sounded hoarse with the effort of disguising itself but, again, this was nothing unusual in the Drum. “Any wizard in particular?” Rincewind said guardedly. People could get into trouble this way. “One with a keen sense of tradition who would not mind taking risks for high reward,” said another voice. It appeared to be coming from a round black leather box under the stranger’s arm. “Ah,” said Rincewind, “that narrows it down a bit, then. Does this involve a perilous journey into unknown and probably dangerous lands?” “It does, as a matter of fact. ” “Encounters with exotic creatures?” Rincewind smiled. “Could be. ” “Almost certain death?” “Almost certainly. ” Rincewind nodded, and picked up his hat. “Well, I wish you every success in your search,” he said, “I’d help you myself, only I’m not going to. ” “What?” “Sorry. I don’t know why, but the prospect of certain death in unknown lands at the claws of exotic monsters isn’t for me. I’ve tried it, and I couldn’t get the hang of it. Each to their own, that’s what I say, and I was cut out for boredom. ” He rammed his hat on his head and stood up a little unsteadily. He’d reached the foot of the steps leading up into the street when a voice behind him said: “A real wizard would have accepted. ” He could have kept going. He could have walked up the stairs, out into the street, got a pizza at the Klatchian takeaway in Sniggs Alley, and gone to bed. History would have been totally changed, and in fact would also have been considerably shorter, but he would have got a good night’s sleep although, of course, it would have been on the floor. The future held its breath, waiting for Rincewind to walk away. He didn’t do this for three reasons. One was alcohol. One was the tiny flame of pride that flickers in the heart of even the most careful coward. But the third was the voice. It was beautiful. It sounded like wild silk looks. The subject of wizards and sex is a complicated one, but as has already been indicated it does, in essence, boil down to this: when it comes to wine, women and song, wizards are allowed to get drunk and croon as much as they like. The reason given to young wizards was that the practice of magic is hard and demanding and incompatible with sticky and furtive activities. It was a lot more sensible, they were told, to stop worrying about that sort of thing and really get to grips with Woddeley’s Occult Primer instead. Funnily enough this didn’t seem to satisfy, and young wizards suspected that the real reason was that the rules were made by old wizards. With poor memories. They were quite wrong, although the real reason had long been forgotten: if wizards were allowed to go around breeding all the time, there was a risk of sourcery. Of course, Rincewind had been around a bit and had seen a thing or two, and had thrown off his early training to such an extent that he was quite capable of spending hours at a time in a woman’s company without having to go off for a cold shower and a lie-down. But that voice would have made even a statue get down off its pedestal for a few brisk laps of the playing field and fifty press-ups. It was a voice that could make “Good morning” sound like an invitation to bed. The stranger threw back her hood and shook out her long hair. It was almost pure white. Since her skin was tanned golden the general effect was calculated to hit the male libido like a lead pipe. Rincewind hesitated, and lost a splendid opportunity to keep quiet. From the top of the stairs came a thick trollish voice: “Ere, I thed you can’t go freu dere—” She sprang forward and shoved a round leather box into Rincewind’s arms. “Quick, you must come with me,” she said. “You’re in great danger!” “Why?” “Because I will kill you if you don’t. ” “Yes, but hang on a moment, in that case—” Rincewind protested feebly.

Three members of the Patrician’s personal guard appeared at the top of the stairs. Their leader beamed down at the room. The smile suggested that he intended to be the only one to enjoy the joke. “Don’t nobody move,” he suggested. Rincewind heard a clatter behind him as more guards appeared at the back door. The Drum’s other customers paused with their hands on assorted hilts. These weren’t the normal city watch, cautious and genially corrupt. These were walking slabs of muscle and they were absolutely unbribable, if only because the Patrician could outbid anyone else. Anyway, they didn’t seem to be looking for anyone except the woman. The rest of the clientele relaxed and prepared to enjoy the show. Eventually it might be worth joining it, once it was certain which was the winning side. Rincewind felt the pressure tighten on his wrist. “Are you mad?” he hissed. “This is messing with the Man!” There was a swish and the sergeant’s shoulder suddenly sprouted a knife hilt. Then the girl spun around and with surgical precision planted a small foot in the groin of the first guard through the door. Twenty pairs of eyes watered in sympathy. Rincewind grabbed his hat and tried to dive under the nearest table, but that grip was steel. The next guard to approach got another knife in the thigh. Then she drew a sword like a very long needle and raised it threateningly. “Anyone else?” she said. One of the guards raised a crossbow. The Librarian, sitting hunched over his drink, reached out a lazy arm like two broom handles strung with elastic and slapped him backwards. The bolt rebounded from the star on Rincewind’s hat and hit the wall by a respected procurer who was sitting two tables away. His bodyguards threw another knife which just missed a thief across the room, who picked up a bench and hit two guards, who struck out at the nearest drinkers. After that one thing sort of led to another and pretty soon everyone was fighting to get something—either away, out or even. Rincewind found himself pulled relentlessly behind the bar. The landlord was sitting on his moneybags under the counter with two machetes crossed on his knees, enjoying a quiet drink. Occasionally the sound of breaking furniture would make him wince. The last thing Rincewind saw before he was dragged away was the Librarian. Despite looking like a hairy rubber sack full of water, the orangutan had the weight and reach of any man in the room and was currently sitting on a guard’s shoulders and trying, with reasonable success, to unscrew his head. Of more concern to Rincewind was the fact that he was being dragged upstairs. “My dear lady,” he said desperately. “What do you have in mind?” “Is there a way onto the roof?” “Yes. What’s in this box?” “Shhh!” She halted at a bend in the dingy corridor, reached into a belt pouch and scattered a handful of small metal objects on the floor behind them. Each one was made of four nails welded together so that, however the things fell, one was always pointing upwards. She looked critically at the nearest doorway. “You haven’t got about four feet of cheesewire on you, have you?” she said wistfully. She’d drawn another throwing knife and was throwing it up and catching it again. “I don’t think so,” said Rincewind weakly. “Pity. I’ve run out. Okay, come on. ” “Why? I haven’t done anything!” She went to the nearest window, pushed open the shutters and paused with one leg over the sill. “Fine,” she said, over her shoulder. “Stay here and explain it to the guards. ” “Why are they chasing you?” “I don’t know. ” “Oh, come on! There must be a reason!” “Oh, there’s plenty of reasons. I just don’t know which one. Are you coming?” Rincewind hesitated. The Patrician’s personal guard was not known for its responsive approach to community policing, preferring to cut bits off instead. Among the things they took a dim view of was, well, basically, people being in the same universe. Running away from them was likely to be a capital offense. “I think maybe I’ll come along with you,” he said gallantly. “A girl can come to harm all alone in this city. ” Freezing fog filled the streets of Ankh-Morpork. The flares of street traders made little yellow haloes in the smothering billows. The girl peered around a corner. “We’ve lost them,” she said. “Stop shaking. You’re safe now. ” “What, you mean I’m all alone with a female homicidal maniac?” said Rincewind. “Fine. ” She relaxed and laughed at him. “I was watching you,” she said. “An hour ago you were afraid that your future was going to be dull and uninteresting. ” “I want it to be dull and uninteresting,” said Rincewind bitterly. “I’m afraid it’s going to be short. ” “Turn your back,” she commanded, stepping into an alley. “Not on your life,” he said. “I’m going to take my clothes off. ” Rincewind spun around, his face red. There was a rustling behind him, and a waft of scent. After a while she said, “You can look around now. ” He didn’t. “You needn’t worry. I’ve put some more on. ” He opened his eyes. The girl was wearing a demure white lace dress with fetchingly puffed sleeves. He opened his mouth. He realized with absolute clarity that up to now the trouble he had been in was simple, modest and nothing he couldn’t talk his way out of given a decent chance or, failing that, a running start. His brain started to send urgent messages to his sprinting muscles, but before they could get through she’d grabbed his arm again. “You really shouldn’t be so nervous,” she said sweetly. “Now, let’s have a look at this thing. ” She pulled the lid off the round box in Rincewind’s unprotesting hands, and lifted out the Archchancellor’s hat. The octarines around its crown blazed in all eight colors of the spectrum, creating the kind of effects in the foggy alley that it would take a very clever special effects director and a whole battery of star filters to achieve by any non-magical means. As she raised it high in the air it created its own nebula of colors that very few people ever see in legal circumstances. Rincewind sank gently to his knees. She looked down at him, puzzled. “Legs given out?” “It’s—it’s the hat. The Archchancellor’s hat,” said Rincewind, hoarsely. His eyes narrowed. “You’ve stolen it!” he shouted, struggling back to his feet and grabbing for the sparkling brim. “It’s just a hat. ” “Give it to me this minute! Women mustn’t touch it! It belongs to wizards!” “Why are you getting so worked up?” she said. Rincewind opened his mouth. Rincewind closed his mouth. He wanted to say: It’s the Archchancellor’s hat, don’t you understand? It’s worn by the head of all wizards, well, on the head of the head of all wizards, no, metaphorically it’s worn by all wizards, potentially, anyway, and it’s what every wizard aspires to, it’s the symbol of organized magic, it’s the pointy tip of the profession, it’s a symbol, it’s what it means to all wizards… And so on. Rincewind had been told about the hat on his first day at University, and it had sunk into his impressionable mind like a lead weight into a jelly. He wasn’t sure of much in the world, but he was certain that the Archchancellor’s hat was important. Maybe even wizards need a little magic in their lives. Rincewind , said the hat. He stared at the girl. “It spoke to me!” “Like a voice in your head?” “Yes!” “It did that to me, too. ” “But it knew my name!” Of course we do, stupid fellow. We are supposed to be a magic hat after all. The hat’s voice wasn’t only clothy. It also had a strange choral effect, as if an awful lot of voices were talking at the same time, in almost perfect unison. Rincewind pulled himself together. “O great and wonderful hat,” he said pompously, “strike down this impudent girl who has had the audacity, nay, the—” Oh, do shut up. She stole us because we ordered her to. It was a near thing, too. “But she’s a—” Rincewind hesitated. “She’s of the female persuasion…” he muttered. So was your mother. “Yes, well, but she ran away before I was born,” Rincewind mumbled.

Of all the disreputable taverns in all the city you could have walked into, you walked into his , complained the hat. “He was the only wizard I could find,” said the girl. “He looked the part. He had ‘Wizard’ written on his hat and everything. ” Don’t believe everything you read. Too late now, anyway. We haven’t got much time. “Hold on, hold on,” said Rincewind urgently, “What’s going on? You wanted her to steal you? Why haven’t we got much time?” He pointed an accusing finger at the hat. “Anyway, you can’t go around letting yourself be stolen, you’re supposed to be on—on the Archchancellor’s head! The ceremony was tonight, I should have been there—” Something terrible is happening at the University. It is vital that we are not taken back, do you understand? You must take us to Klatch, where there is someone fit to wear me. “Why?” There was something very strange about the voice, Rincewind decided. It sounded impossible to disobey, as though it was solid destiny. If it told him to walk over a cliff, he thought, he’d be halfway down before it could occur to him to disobey. The death of all wizardry is at hand. Rincewind looked around guiltily. “Why?” he said. The world is going to end. “What, again?” I mean it , said the hat sulkily. The triumph of the Ice Giants, the Apocralypse, the Teatime of the Gods, the whole thing. “Can we stop it?” The future is uncertain on that point. Rincewind’s expression of determined terror faded slowly. “Is this a riddle?” he said. Perhaps it would be simpler if you just did what you’re told and didn’t try to understand things , said the hat. Young woman, you will put us back in our box. A great many people will shortly be looking for us. “Hey, hold on,” said Rincewind. “I’ve seen you around here for years and you never talked before. ” I didn’t have anything that needed to be said. Rincewind nodded. That seemed reasonable. “Look, just shove it in its box, and let’s get going,” said the girl. “A bit more respect if you please, young lady,” said Rincewind haughtily. “That is the symbol of ancient wizardry you happen to be addressing. ” “You carry it, then,” she said. “Hey, look,” said Rincewind, scrambling along after her as she swept down the alleys, crossed a narrow street and entered another alley between a couple of houses that leaned together so drunkenly that their upper storys actually touched. She stopped. “Well?” she snapped. “You’re the mystery thief, aren’t you?” he said, “Everyone’s been talking about you, how you’ve taken things even from locked rooms and everything. You’re different than I imagined…” “Oh?” she said coldly. “How?” “Well, you’re…shorter. ” “Oh, come on. ” The street cressets, not particularly common in this part of the city in any case, gave out altogether here. There was nothing but watchful darkness ahead. “I said come on,” she repeated. “What are you afraid of?” Rincewind took a deep breath. “Murderers, muggers, thieves, assassins, pickpockets, cutpurses, reevers, snigsmen, rapists and robbers,” he said. “That’s the Shades you’re going into!” * “Yes, but people won’t come looking for us in here,” she said. “Oh, they’ll come in all right, they just won’t come out,” said Rincewind. “Nor will we. I mean, a beautiful young woman like you…it doesn’t bear thinking about…I mean, some of the people in there…” “But I’ll have you to protect me,” she said. Rincewind thought he heard the sound of marching feet several streets away. “You know,” he sighed, “I knew you’d say that. ” Down these mean streets a man must walk, he thought. And along some of them he will break into a run. It is so black in the Shades on this foggy spring night that it would be too dark to read about Rincewind’s progress through the eerie streets, so the descriptive passage will lift up above the level of the ornate rooftops, the forest of twisty chimneys, and admire the few twinkling stars that manage to pierce the swirling billows. It will try to ignore the sounds drifting up from below—the patter of feet, the rushes, the gristly noises, the groans, the muffled screams. It could be that some wild animal is pacing through the Shades after two weeks on a starvation diet. Somewhere near the center of the Shades—the district has never been adequately mapped—is a small courtyard. Here at least there are torches on the walls, but the light they throw is the light of the Shades themselves: mean, reddened, dark at the core. Rincewind staggered into the yard and hung onto the wall for support. The girl stepped into the ruddy light behind him, humming to herself. “Are you all right?” she said. “Nurrgh,” said Rincewind. “Sorry?” “Those men,” he bubbled, “I mean, the way you kicked his…when you grabbed them by the…when you stabbed that one right in…who are you?” “My name is Conina. ” Rincewind looked at her blankly for some time. “Sorry,” he said, “doesn’t ring a bell. ” “I haven’t been here long,” she said. “Yes, I didn’t think you were from around these parts,” he said. “I would have heard. ” “I’ve taken lodgings here. Shall we go in?” Rincewind glanced up at the dingy pole just visible in the smoky light of the spitting torches. It indicated that the hostelry behind the small dark door was the Troll’s Head. It might be thought that the Mended Drum, scene of unseemly scuffles only an hour ago, was a seedy disreputable tavern. In fact it was a reputable disreputable tavern. Its customers had a certain rough-hewn respectability—they might murder each other in an easygoing way, as between equals, but they didn’t do it vindictively. A child could go in for a glass of lemonade and be certain of getting nothing worse than a clip around the ear when his mother heard his expanded vocabulary. On quiet nights, and when he was certain the Librarian wasn’t going to come in, the landlord was even known to put bowls of peanuts on the bar. The Troll’s Head was a cesspit of a different odor. Its customers, if they reformed, tidied themselves up and generally improved their image out of all recognition might, just might, aspire to be considered the utter dregs of humanity. And in the Shades, a dreg is a dreg. By the way, the thing on the pole isn’t a sign. When they decided to call the place the Troll’s Head, they didn’t mess about. Feeling sick, and clutching the grumbling hatbox to his chest, Rincewind stepped inside. Silence. It wrapped itself around them, nearly as thickly as the smoke of a dozen substances guaranteed to turn any normal brain to cheese. Suspicious eyes peered through the smog. A couple of dice clattered to a halt on a tabletop. They sounded very loud, and probably weren’t showing Rincewind’s lucky number. He was aware of the stares of several score of customers as he followed the demure and surprisingly small figure of Conina into the room. He looked sideways into the leering faces of men who would kill him sooner than think, and in fact would find it a great deal easier. Where a respectable tavern would have had a bar there was just a row of squat black bottles and a couple of big barrels on trestles against the wall. The silence tightened like a tourniquet. Any minute now, Rincewind thought. A big fat man wearing nothing but a fur vest and a leather loincloth pushed back his stool and lurched to his feet and winked evilly at his colleagues. When his mouth opened, it was like a hole with a hem. “Looking for a man, little lady?” he said. She looked up at him. “Please keep away. ” A snake of laughter writhed around the room. Conina’s mouth snapped shut like a letterbox. “Ah,” the big man gurgled, “that’s right, I likes a girl with spirit—” Conina’s hand moved. It was a pale blur, stopping here and here : after a few seconds of disbelief the man gave a little grunt and folded up, very slowly. Rincewind shrank back as every other man in the room leaned forward. His instinct was to run, and he knew it was an instinct that would get him instantly killed. It was the Shades out there. Whatever was going to happen to him next was going to happen to him here. It was not a reassuring thought. A hand closed around his mouth.

Two more grabbed the hatbox from his arms. Conina spun past him, lifting her skirt to place a neat foot on a target beside Rincewind’s waist. Someone whimpered in his ear and collapsed. As the girl pirouetted gracefully around she picked up two bottles, knocked out their bottoms on the shelf and landed with their jagged ends held out in front of her. Morpork daggers, they were called in the patois of the streets. In the face of them, the Troll’s Head’s clientele lost interest. “Someone got the hat,” Rincewind muttered through dry lips, “They slipped out of the back way. ” She glared at him and made for the door. The Head’s crowd of customers parted automatically, like sharks recognizing another shark, and Rincewind darted anxiously after her before they came to any conclusion about him. They ran out into another alley and pounded down it. Rincewind tried to keep up with the girl; people following her tended to tread on sharp things, and he wasn’t sure she’d remember he was on her side, whatever side that was. A thin, half-hearted drizzle was falling. And at the end of the alley was a faint blue glow. “Wait!” The terror in Rincewind’s voice was enough to slow her down. “What’s wrong?” “Why’s he stopped?” “I’ll ask him,” said Conina, firmly. “Why’s he covered in snow?” She stopped and turned around, arms thrust into her sides, one foot tapping impatiently on the damp cobbles. “Rincewind, I’ve known you for an hour and I’m astonished you’ve lived even that long!” “Yes, but I have, haven’t I? I’ve got a sort of talent for it. Ask anyone. I’m an addict. ” “Addicted to what?” “Life. I got hooked on it at an early age and I don’t want to give it up and take it from me, this doesn’t look right!” Conina looked back at the figure surrounded by the glowing blue aura. It seemed to be looking at something in its hands. Snow was settling on its shoulder like really bad dandruff. Terminal dandruff. Rincewind had an instinct for these things, and he had a deep suspicion that the man had gone where shampoo would be no help at all. They sidled along a glistening wall. “There’s something very strange about him,” she conceded. “You mean the way he’s got his own private blizzard?” “Doesn’t seem to upset him. He’s smiling. ” “A frozen grin, I’d call it. ” The man’s icicle-hung hands had been taking the lid off the box, and the glow from the hat’s octarines shone up into a pair of greedy eyes that were already heavily rimed with frost. “Know him?” said Conina. Rincewind shrugged. “I’ve seen him around,” he said. “He’s called Larry the Fox or Fezzy the Stoat or something. Some sort of rodent, anyway. He just steals things. He’s harmless. ” “He looks incredibly cold. ” Conina shivered. “I expect he’s gone to a warmer place. Don’t you think we should shut the box?” It’s perfectly safe now , said the hat’s voice from inside the glow. And so perish all enemies of wizardry. Rincewind wasn’t about to trust what a hat said. “We need something to shut the lid,” he muttered. “A knife or something. You wouldn’t have one, would you?” “Look the other way,” Conina warned. There was a rustle and another gust of perfume. “You can look back now. ” Rincewind was handed a twelve-inch throwing knife. He took it gingerly. Little particles of metal glinted on its edge. “Thanks. ” He turned back. “Not leaving you short, am I?” “I have others. ” “I’ll bet. ” Rincewind reached out gingerly with the knife. As it neared the leather box its blade went white and started to steam. He whimpered a little as the cold struck his hand—a burning, stabbing cold, a cold that crept up his arm and made a determined assault on his mind. He forced his numb fingers into action and, with great effort, nudged the edge of the lid with the tip of the blade. The glow faded. The snow became sleet, then melted into drizzle. Conina nudged him aside and pulled the box out of the frozen arms. “I wish there was something we could do for him. It seems wrong just to leave him here. ” “He won’t mind,” said Rincewind, with conviction. “Yes, but we could at least lean him against the wall. Or something. ” Rincewind nodded, and grabbed the frozen thief by his icicle arm. The man slipped out of his grasp and hit the cobbles. Where he shattered. Conina looked at the pieces. “Urg,” she said. There was a disturbance further up the alley, coming from the back door of the Troll’s Head. Rincewind felt the knife snatched from his hand and then go past his ear in a flat trajectory that ended in the doorpost twenty yards away. A head that had been sticking out withdrew hurriedly. “We’d better go,” said Conina, hurrying along the alley. “Is there somewhere we can hide? Your place?” “I generally sleep at the University,” said Rincewind, hopping along behind her. You must not return to the University , growled the hat from the depths of its box. Rincewind nodded distractedly. The idea certainly didn’t seem attractive. “Anyway, they don’t allow women inside after dark,” he said. “And before dark?” “Not then, either. ” Conina sighed. “That’s silly. What have you wizards got against women, then?” Rincewind’s brow wrinkled. “We’re not supposed to put anything against women,” he said. “That’s the whole point. ” Sinister gray mists rolled through the docks of Morpork, dripping from the rigging, coiling around the drunken rooftops, lurking in alleys. The docks at night were thought by some to be even more dangerous than the Shades. Two muggers, a sneak thief and someone who had merely tapped Conina on the shoulder to ask her the time had already found this out. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?” said Rincewind, stepping over the luckless pedestrian who lay coiled around his private pain. “Well?” “I mean, I wouldn’t like to cause offense. ” “Well?” “It’s just that I can’t help noticing—” “Hmmm?” “You have this certain way with strangers. ” Rincewind ducked, but nothing happened. “What are you doing down there?” said Conina, testily. “Sorry. ” “I know what you’re thinking. I can’t help it, I take after my father. ” “Who was he, then? Cohen the Barbarian?” Rincewind grinned to show it was a joke. At least, his lips moved in a desperate crescent. “No need to laugh about it, wizard. ” “What?” “It’s not my fault. ” Rincewind’s lips moved soundlessly. “Sorry,” he said. “Have I got this right? Your father really is Cohen the Barbarian ?” “Yes. ” The girl scowled at Rincewind. “Everyone has to have a father,” she added. “Even you, I imagine. ” She peered around a corner. “All clear. Come on,” she said, and then when they were striding along the damp cobbles she continued: “I expect your father was a wizard, probably. ” “I shouldn’t think so,” said Rincewind. “Wizardry isn’t allowed to run in families. ” He paused. He knew Cohen, he’d even been a guest at one of his weddings when he married a girl of Conina’s age; you could say this about Cohen, he crammed every hour full of minutes. “A lot of people would like to take after Cohen, I mean, he was the best fighter, the greatest thief, he—” “A lot of men would,” Conina snapped. She leaned against a wall and glared at him. “Listen,” she said, “There’s this long word, see, an old witch told me about it…can’t remember it…you wizards know about long words. ” Rincewind thought about long words. “Marmalade?” he volunteered. She shook her head irritably. “It means you take after your parents. ” Rincewind frowned. He wasn’t too good on the subject of parents. “Kleptomania? Recidivist?” he hazarded. “Begins with an H. ” “Hedonism?” said Rincewind desperately. “ Herrydeterry ,” said Conina. “This witch explained it to me. My mother was a temple dancer for some mad god or other, and father rescued her, and—they stayed together for a while. They say I get my looks and figure from her. ” “And very good they are, too,” said Rincewind, with hopeless gallantry. She blushed.

“Yes, well, but from him I got sinews you could moor a boat with, reflexes like a snake on a hot tin, a terrible urge to steal things and this dreadful sensation every time I meet someone that I should be throwing a knife through his eye at ninety feet. I can, too,” she added with a trace of pride. “Gosh. ” “It tends to put men off. ” “Well, it would,” said Rincewind weakly. “I mean, when they find out, it’s very hard to hang onto a boyfriend. ” “Except by the throat, I imagine,” said Rincewind. “Not what you really need to build up a proper relationship. ” “No. I can see,” said Rincewind. “Still, pretty good if you want to be a famous barbarian thief. ” “But not,” said Conina, “if you want to be a hairdresser. ” “Ah. ” They stared into the mist. “ Really a hairdresser?” said Rincewind. Conina sighed. “Not much call for a barbarian hairdresser, I expect,” said Rincewind. “I mean, no one wants a shampoo-and-beheading. ” “It’s just that every time I see a manicure set I get this terrible urge to lay about me with a double-handed cuticle knife. I mean sword,” said Conina. Rincewind sighed. “I know how it is,” he said. “I wanted to be a wizard. ” “But you are a wizard. ” “Ah. Well, of course, but—” “Quiet!” Rincewind found himself rammed against the wall, where a trickle of condensed mist inexplicably began to drip down his neck. A broad throwing knife had mysteriously appeared in Conina’s hand, and she was crouched like a jungle animal or, even worse, a jungle human. “What—” Rincewind began. “Shut up!” she hissed. “Something’s coming!” She stood up in one fluid movement, spun on one leg and let the knife go. There was a single, hollow, wooden thud. Conina stood and stared. For once, the heroic blood that pounded through her veins, drowning out all chances of a lifetime in a pink pinny, was totally at a loss. “I’ve just killed a wooden box,” she said. Rincewind looked around the corner. The Luggage stood in the dripping street, the knife still quivering in its lid, and stared at her. Then it changed its position slightly, its little legs moving in a complicated tango pattern, and stared at Rincewind. The Luggage didn’t have any features at all, apart from a lock and a couple of hinges, but it could stare better than a rockful of iguanas. It could outstare a glass-eyed statue. When it came to a look of betrayed pathos, the Luggage could leave the average kicked spaniel moping back in its kennel. It had several arrowheads and broken swords sticking in it. “What is it?” hissed Conina. “It’s just the Luggage,” said Rincewind wearily. “Does it belong to you?” “Not really. Sort of. ” “Is it dangerous?” The Luggage shuffled around to stare at her again. “There’s two schools of thought about that,” said Rincewind. “There’s some people who say it’s dangerous, and others who say it’s very dangerous. What do you think?” The Luggage raised its lid a fraction. The Luggage was made from the wood of the sapient peartree, a plant so magical that it had nearly died out on the Disc and survived only in one or two places; it was a sort of rosebay willowherb, only instead of bomb sites it sprouted in areas that had seen vast expenditures of magic. Wizards’ staves were traditionally made of it; so was the Luggage. Among the Luggage’s magical qualities was a fairly simple and direct one: it would follow its adopted owner anywhere. Not anywhere in any particular set of dimensions, or country, or universe, or lifetime. Anywhere. It was about as easy to shake off as a head cold and considerably more unpleasant. The Luggage was also extremely protective of its owner. It would be hard to describe its attitude to the rest of creation, but one could start with the phrase “bloody-minded malevolence” and work up from there. Conina stared at that lid. It looked very much like a mouth. “I think I’d vote for ‘terminally dangerous,’” she said. “It likes potato chips,” volunteered Rincewind, and then added, “Well, that’s a bit strong. It eats potato chips. ” “What about people?” “Oh, and people. About fifteen so far, I think. ” “Were they good or bad?” “Just dead, I think. It also does your laundry for you, you put your clothes in and they come out washed and ironed. ” “And covered in blood?” “You know, that’s the funny thing,” said Rincewind. “The funny thing?” repeated Conina, her eyes not leaving the Luggage. “Yes, because, you see, the inside isn’t always the same, it’s sort of multidimensional, and—” “How does it feel about women?” “Oh, it’s not choosy. It ate a book of spells last year. Sulked for three days and then spat it out. ” “It’s horrible,” said Conina, and backed away. “Oh, yes,” said Rincewind, “absolutely. ” “I mean the way it stares!” “It’s very good at it, isn’t it?” We must leave for Klatch , said a voice from the hatbox. One of these boats will be adequate. Commandeer it. Rincewind looked at the dim, mist-wreathed shapes that loomed in the mist under a forest of rigging. Here and there a riding light made a little fuzzy ball of light in the gloom. “Hard to disobey, isn’t it?” said Conina. “I’m trying,” said Rincewind. Sweat prickled on his forehead. Go aboard now , said the hat. Rincewind’s feet began to shuffle of their own accord. “Why are you doing this to me?” he moaned. Because I have no alternative. Believe me, if I could have found an eighth level mage I would have done so. I must not be worn! “Why not? You are the Archchancellor’s hat. ” And through me speak all the Archchancellors who ever lived. I am the University. I am the Lore. I am the symbol of magic under the control of men—and I will not be worn by a sourcerer! There must be no more sourcerers! The world is too worn out for sourcery! Conina coughed. “Did you understand any of that?” she said, cautiously. “I understood some of it, but I didn’t believe it,” said Rincewind. His feet remained firmly rooted to the cobbles. They called me a figurehat! The voice was heavy with sarcasm. Fat wizards who betray everything the University ever stood for, and they called me a figurehat! Rincewind, I command you. And you, madam. Serve me well and I will grant you your deepest desire. “How can you grant my deepest desire if the world’s going to end?” The hat appeared to think about it. Well, have you got a deepest desire that need only take a couple of minutes? “Look, how can you do magic? You’re just a—” Rincewind’s voice trailed off. I AM magic. Proper magic. Besides, you don’t get worn by some of the world’s greatest wizards for two thousand years without learning a few things. Now. We must flee. But with dignity of course. Rincewind looked pathetically at Conina, who shrugged again. “Don’t ask me,” she said. “This looks like an adventure. I’m doomed to have them, I’m afraid. That’s genetics * for you. ” “But I’m no good at them! Believe me, I’ve been through dozens!” Rincewind wailed. Ah. Experience , said the hat. “No, really, I’m a terrible coward, I always run away. ” Rincewind’s chest heaved. “Danger has stared me in the back of the head, oh, hundreds of times!” I don’t want you to go into danger. “Good!” I want you to stay OUT of danger. Rincewind sagged. “Why me?” he moaned. For the good of the University. For the honor of wizardry. For the sake of the world. For your heart’s desire. And I’ll freeze you alive if you don’t. Rincewind breathed a sigh almost of relief. He wasn’t good on bribes, or cajolery, or appeals to his better nature. But threats, now, threats were familiar. He knew where he was with threats. The sun dawned on Small Gods’ Day like a badly poached egg. The mists had closed in over Ankh-Morpork in streamers of silver and gold—damp, warm, silent. There was the distant grumbling of springtime thunder, out on the plains. It seemed warmer than it ought to be. Wizards normally slept late. On this morning, however, many of them had got up early and were wandering the corridors aimlessly. They could feel the change in the air. The University was filling up with magic.

Of course, it was usually full of magic anyway, but it was an old, comfortable magic, as exciting and dangerous as a bedroom slipper. But seeping through the ancient fabric was a new magic, saw-edged and vibrant, bright and cold as comet fire. It sleeted through the stones and crackled off sharp edges like static electricity on the nylon carpet of Creation. It buzzed and sizzled. It curled wizardly beards, poured in wisps of octarine smoke from fingers that had done nothing more mystical for three decades than a little light illusion. How can the effect be described with delicacy and taste? For most of the wizards, it was like being an elderly man who, suddenly faced with a beautiful young woman, finds to his horror and delight and astonishment that the flesh is suddenly as willing as the spirit. And in the halls and corridors of the University the word was being whispered: Sourcery ! A few wizards surreptitiously tried spells that they hadn’t been able to master for years, and watched in amazement as they unrolled perfectly. Sheepishly at first, and then with confidence, and then with shouts and whoops, they threw fireballs to one another or produced live doves out of their hats or made multi-colored sequins fall out of the air. Sourcery! One or two wizards, stately men who had hitherto done nothing more blameworthy that eat a live oyster, turned themselves invisible and chased the maids and bedders through the corridors. Sourcery! Some of the bolder spirits had tried out ancient flying spells and were bobbing a little uncertainly among the rafters. Sourcery! Only the Librarian didn’t share in the manic breakfast. He watched the antics for some time, pursing his prehensile lips, and then knuckled stiffly off toward his Library. If anyone had bothered to notice, they’d have heard him bolting the door. It was deathly quiet in the Library. The books were no longer frantic. They’d passed through their fear and out into the calm waters of abject terror, and they crouched on their shelves like so many mesmerized rabbits. A long hairy arm reached up and grabbed Casplock’s Compleet Lexicon of Majik with Precepts for the Wise before it could back away, soothed its terror with a long-fingered hand, and opened it under “S. ” The Librarian smoothed the trembling page gently and ran a horny nail down the entries until he came to: Sourcerer, n. (mythical). A proto-wizard, a doorway through which new majik may enterr the world, a wizard not limited by the physical capabilities of hys own bodie, not by Destinie, nor by Deathe. It is written that there once werre sourcerers in the youth of the world but not may there by nowe and blessed be, for sourcery is not for menne and the return of sourcery would mean the Ende of the Worlde…If the Creator hadd meant menne to bee as goddes, he ould have given them wings. SEE ALSO: thee Apocralypse, the legende of thee Ice Giants, and thee Teatime of the Goddes. The Librarian read the cross-references, turned back to the first entry, and stared at it through deep dark eyes for a long time. Then he put the book back carefully, crept under his desk, and pulled the blanket over his head. But in the minstrel gallery over the Great Hall Carding and Spelter watched the scene with entirely different emotions. Standing side by side they looked almost exactly like the number 10. “What is happening?” said Spelter. He’d had a sleepless night, and wasn’t thinking very straight. “Magic is flowing into the University,” said Carding. “That’s what sourcerer means. A channel for magic. Real magic, my boy. Not the tired old stuff we’ve made do with these past centuries. This is the dawning of a…a—” “New, um, dawn?” “Exactly. A time of miracles, a…a—” “ Anus mirabilis? ” Carding frowned. “Yes,” he said, eventually, “something like that, I expect. You have quite a way with words, you know. ” “Thank you, brother. ” The senior wizard appeared to ignore the familiarity. Instead he turned and leaned on the carved rail, watching the magical displays below them. His hands automatically went to his pockets for his tobacco pouch, and then paused. He grinned, and snapped his fingers. A lighted cigar appeared in his mouth. “Haven’t been able to do that in years,” he mused. “Big changes, my boy. They haven’t realized it yet, but it’s the end of Orders and Levels. That was just a—rationing system. We don’t need them anymore. Where is the boy?” “Still asleep—” Spelter began. “I am here,” said Coin. He stood in the archway leading to the senior wizard’s quarters, holding the octiron staff that was half again as tall as he was. Little veins of yellow fire coruscated across its matt black surface, which was so dark that it looked like a slit in the world. Spelter felt the golden eyes bore through him, as if his innermost thoughts were being scrolled across the back of his skull. “Ah,” he said, in a voice that he believed was jolly and avuncular but in fact sounded like a strangled death rattle. After a start like that his contribution could only get worse, and it did. “I see you’re, um, up,” he said. “My dear boy,” said Carding. Coin gave him a long, freezing stare. “I saw you last night,” he said. “Are you puissant?” “Only mildly,” said Carding, hurriedly recalling the boy’s tendency to treat wizardry as a terminal game of conkers. “But not so puissant as you, I’m sure. ” “I am to be made Archchancellor, as is my destiny?” “Oh, absolutely,” said Carding. “No doubt about it. May I have a look at your staff? Such an interesting design—” He reached out a pudgy hand. It was a shocking breach of etiquette in any case; no wizard should even think of touching another’s staff without his express permission. But there are people who can’t quite believe that children are fully human, and think that the operation of normal good manners doesn’t apply to them. Carding’s fingers curled around the black staff. There was a noise that Spelter felt rather than heard, and Carding bounced across the gallery and struck the opposite wall with a sound like a sack of lard hitting a pavement. “Don’t do that,” said Coin. He turned and looked through Spelter, who had gone pale, and added: “Help him up. He is probably not badly hurt. ” The bursar scuttled hurriedly across the floor and bent over Carding, who was breathing heavily and had gone an odd color. He patted the wizard’s hand until Carding opened one eye. “Did you see what happened?” he whispered. “I’m not sure. Um. What did happen?” hissed Spelter. “It bit me. ” “The next time you touch the staff,” said Coin, matter-of-factly, “you will die. Do you understand?” Carding raised his head gently, in case bits of it fell off. “Absolutely,” he said. “And now I would like to see the University,” the boy continued. “I have heard a great deal about it…” Spelter helped Carding to his unsteady feet and supported him as they trotted obediently after the boy. “Don’t touch his staff,” muttered Carding. “I’ll remember, um, not to,” said Spelter firmly. “What did it feel like?” “Have you ever been bitten by a viper?” “No. ” “In that case you’ll understand exactly what it felt like. ” “Hmmm?” “It wasn’t like a snake bite at all. ” They hurried after the determined figure as Coin marched down the stairs and through the ravished doorway of the Great Hall. Spelter dodged in front, anxious to make a good impression. “This is the Great Hall,” he said. Coin turned his golden gaze toward him, and the wizard felt his mouth dry up. “It’s called that because it’s a hall, d’you see. And big. ” He swallowed. “It’s a big hall,” he said, fighting to stop the last of his coherence being burned away by the searchlight of that stare. “A great big hall, which is why it’s called—” “Who are those people?” said Coin. He pointed with his staff. The assembled wizards, who had turned to watch him enter, backed out of the way as though the staff was a flamethrower. Spelter followed the sourcerer’s stare. Coin was pointing to the portraits and statues of former Archchancellors, which decorated the walls.

Full-bearded and point-hatted, clutching ornamental scrolls or holding mysterious symbolic bits of astrological equipment, they stared down with ferocious self-importance or, possibly, chronic constipation. “From these walls,” said Carding, “two hundred supreme mages look down upon you. ” “I don’t care for them,” said Coin, and the staff streamed octarine fire. The Archchancellors vanished. “And the windows are too small—” “The ceiling is too high—” “Everything is too old —” The wizards threw themselves flat as the staff flared and spat. Spelter pulled his hat over his eyes and rolled under a table when the very fabric of the University flowed around him. Wood creaked, stone groaned. Something tapped him on the head. He screamed. “Stop that!” shouted Carding above the din. “And pull your hat up! Show a little dignity!” “Why are you under the table, then?” said Spelter sourly. “We must seize our opportunity!” “What, like the staff?” “Follow me!” Spelter emerged into a bright, a horrible bright new world. Gone were the rough stone walls. Gone were the dark, owl-haunted rafters. Gone was the tiled floor, with its eye-boggling pattern of black and white tiles. Gone, too, were the high small windows, with their gentle patina of antique grease. Raw sunlight streamed into the hall for the first time. The wizards stared at one another, mouths open, and what they saw was not what they had always thought they’d seen. The unforgiving rays transmuted rich gold embroidery into dusty gilt, exposed opulent fabric as rather stained and threadbare velvet, turned fine flowing beards into nicotine-stained tangles, betrayed splendid diamonds as rather inferior Ankhstones. The fresh light probed and prodded, stripping away the comfortable shadows. And, Spelter had to admit, what was left didn’t inspire confidence. He was suddenly acutely aware that under his robes—his tattered, badly-faded robes, he realized with an added spasm of guilt; the robes with the perforated area where the mice had got at them—he was still wearing his bedroom slippers. The hall was now almost all glassa. What wasn’t glass was marble. It was all so splendid that Spelter felt quite unworthy. He turned to Carding, and saw that his fellow wizard was staring at Coin with his eyes gleaming. Most of the other wizards had the same expression. If wizards weren’t attracted to power they wouldn’t be wizards, and this was real power. The staff had them charmed like so many cobras. Carding reached out to touch the boy on the shoulder, and then thought better of it. “Magnificent,” he said, instead. He turned to the assembled wizardry and raised his arms. “My brothers,” he intoned, “we have in our midst a wizard of great power!” Spelter tugged at his robe. “He nearly killed you,” he hissed. Carding ignored him. “And I propose—” Carding swallowed—“I propose him for Archchancellor!” There was a moment’s silence, and then a burst of cheering and shouts of dissent. Several quarrels broke out at the back of the crowd. The wizards nearer the front weren’t quite so ready to argue. They could see the smile on Coin’s face. It was bright and cold, like the smile on the face of the moon. There was a commotion, and an elderly wizard fought his way to the front of the throng. Spelter recognized Ovin Hakardly, a seventh-level wizard and a lecturer in Lore. He was red with anger, except where he was white with rage. When he spoke, his words seared through the air like so many knives, clipped as topiary, crisp as biscuits. “Are you mad?” he said. “No one but a wizard of the eighth level may become Archchancellor! And he must be elected by the other most senior wizards in solemn convocation! (Duly guided by the gods, of course. ) It is the Lore! (The very idea!)” Hakardly had studied the Lore of magic for years and, because magic always tends to be a two-way process, it had made its mark on him; he gave the impression of being as fragile as a cheese straw, and in some unaccountable way the dryness of his endeavours had left him with the ability to pronounce punctuation. He stood vibrating with indignation and, he became aware, he was rapidly standing alone. In fact he was the center of an expanding circle of empty floor fringed with wizards who were suddenly ready to swear that they’d never clapped eyes on him in their life. Coin had raised his staff. Hakardly raised an admonitory finger. “You do not frighten me, young man,” he snapped. “Talented you may be, but magical talent alone is not enough. There are many other qualities required of a great wizard. Administrative ability, for example, and wisdom, and the—” Coin lowered his staff. “The Lore applies to all wizards, does it not?” he said. “Absolutely! It was drawn up—” “But I am not a wizard, Lord Hakardly. ” The wizard hesitated. “Ah,” he said, and hesitated again. “Good point,” he said. “But I am well aware of the need for wisdom, foresight and good advice, and I would be honored if you could see your way clear to providing those much-valued commodities. For example—why is it that wizards do not rule the world?” “What?” “It is a simple question. There are in this room—” Coin’s lips moved for a fraction of a second—“four hundred and seventy-two wizards, skilled in the most subtle of arts. Yet all you rule are these few acres of rather inferior architecture. Why is this?” The most senior wizards exchanged knowing glances. “Such it may appear,” said Hakardly eventually, “but, my child, we have domains beyond the ken of the temporal power. ” His eyes gleamed. “Magic can surely take the mind to inner landscape of arcane—” “Yes, yes,” said Coin. “Yet there are extremely solid walls outside your University. Why is this?” Carding ran his tongue over his lips. It was extraordinary. The child was speaking his thoughts. “You squabble for power,” said Coin, sweetly, “and yet, beyond these walls, to the man who carts nightsoil or the average merchant, is there really so much difference between a high-level mage and a mere conjuror?” Hakardly stared at him in complete and untrammeled astonishment. “Child, it’s obvious to the meanest citizen,” he said. “The robes and trimmings themselves—” “Ah,” said Coin, “the robes and trimmings. Of course. ” A short, heavy and thoughtful silence filled the hall. “It seems to me,” said Coin eventually, “that wizards rule only wizards. Who rules in the reality outside?” “As far as the city is concerned, that would be the Patrician, Lord Vetinari,” said Carding with some caution. “And is he a fair and just ruler?” Carding thought about it. The Patrician’s spy network was said to be superb. “I would say,” he said carefully, “that he is unfair and unjust, but scrupulously evenhanded. He is unfair and unjust to everyone, without fear or favor. ” “And you are content with this?” said Coin. Carding tried not to catch Hakardly’s eye. “It’s not a case of being content with it,” he said. “I suppose we’ve not given it much thought. A wizard’s true vocation, you see—” “Is it really true that the wise suffer themselves to be ruled in this way?” Carding growled. “Of course not! Don’t be silly! We merely tolerate it. That’s what wisdom is all about, you’ll find that out when you grow up, it’s a case of biding one’s time—” “Where is this Patrician? I would like to see him. ” “That can be arranged, of course,” said Carding. “The Patrician is always graciously pleased to grant wizards an interview, and—” “Now I will grant him an interview,” said Coin. “He must learn that wizards have bided their time long enough. Stand back, please. ” He pointed the staff. The temporal ruler of the sprawling city of Ankh-Morpork was sitting in his chair at the foot of the steps leading up to the throne, looking for any signs of intelligence in intelligence reports. The throne had been empty for more than two thousand years, since the death of the last of the line of the kings of Ankh.

Legend said that one day the city would have a king again, and went on with various comments about magic swords, strawberry birthmarks and all the other things that legends gabble on about in these circumstances. In fact the only real qualification now was the ability to stay alive for more than about five minutes after revealing the existence of any magic swords or birthmarks, because the great merchant families of Ankh had been ruling the city for the last twenty centuries and were about to relinquish power as the average limpet is to let go of its rock. The current Patrician, head of the extremely rich and powerful Vetinari family, was thin, tall and apparently as cold-blooded as a dead penguin. Just by looking at him you could tell he was the sort of man you’d expect to keep a white cat, and caress it idly while sentencing people to death in a piranha tank; and you’d hazard for good measure that he probably collected rare thin porcelain, turning it over and over in his blue-white fingers while distant screams echoed from the depths of the dungeons. You wouldn’t put it past him to use the word “exquisite” and have thin lips. He looked the kind of person who, when they blink, you mark it off on the calendar. Practically none of this was in fact the case, although he did have a small and exceedingly elderly wire-haired terrier called Wuffles that smelled badly and wheezed at people. It was said to be the only thing in the entire world he truly cared about. He did of course sometimes have people horribly tortured to death, but this was considered to be perfectly acceptable behavior for a civic ruler and generally approved of by the overwhelming majority of citizens. * The people of Ankh are of a practical persuasion, and felt that the Patrician’s edict forbidding all street theater and mime artists made up for a lot of things. He didn’t administer a reign of terror, just the occasional light shower. The Patrician sighed, and laid the latest report on top of the large heap beside the chair. When he had been a little boy he had seen a showman who could keep a dozen plates spinning in the air. If the man had been capable of working the same trick with a hundred of them, Lord Vetinari considered, he would just about begin to be ready for training in the art of ruling Ankh-Morpork, a city once described as resembling an overturned termite heap without the charm. He glanced out of the window at the distant pillar of the Tower of Art, the center of Unseen University, and wondered vaguely whether any of those tiresome old fools could come up with a better way of collating all this paperwork. They wouldn’t, of course—you couldn’t expect a wizard to understand anything as basic as elementary civic espionage. He sighed again, and picked up the transcript of what the president of the Thieves’ Guild had said to his deputy at midnight in the soundproof room hidden behind the office in the Guild headquarters, and… Was in the Great Ha… Was not in the Great Hall of Unseen University, where he had spent some interminable dinners, but there were a lot of wizards around him and they were… … different. Like Death, which some of the city’s less fortunate citizens considered he intimately resembled, the Patrician never got angry until he had time to think about it. But sometimes he thought very quickly. He stared around at the assembled wizards, but there was something about them that choked the words of outrage in his throat. They looked like sheep who had suddenly found a trapped wolf at exactly the same time as they heard about the idea of unity being strength. There was something about their eyes. “What is the meaning of this outr—” he hesitated, and concluded, “this? A merry Small Gods’ Day prank, is it?” His eyes swivelled to meet those of a small boy holding a long metal staff. The child was smiling the oldest smile the Patrician had ever seen. Carding coughed. “My lord,” he began. “Out with it, man,” snapped Lord Vetinari. Carding had been diffident, but the Patrician’s tone was just that tiny bit too peremptory. The wizard’s knuckles went white. “I am a wizard of the eighth level,” he said quietly, “and you will not use that tone to me. ” “Well said,” said Coin. “Take him to the dungeons,” said Carding. “We haven’t got any dungeons,” said Spelter. “This is a university. ” “Then take him to the wine cellars,” snapped Carding. “And while you’re down there, build some dungeons. ” “Have you the faintest inkling of what you are doing?” said the Patrician. “I demand to know the meaning of this—” “You demand nothing at all,” said Carding. “And the meaning is that from now on the wizards will rule, as it was ordained. Now take—” “ You ? Rule Ankh-Morpork? Wizards who can barely govern themselves?” “Yes!” Carding was aware that this wasn’t the last word in repartee, and was even more alive to the fact that the dog Wuffles, who had been teleported along with his master, had waddled painfully across the floor and was peering short-sightedly at the wizard’s boots. “Then all truly wise men would prefer the safety of a nice deep dungeon,” said the Patrician. “And now you will cease this foolery and replace me in my palace, and it is just possible that we will say no more about this. Or at least that you won’t have the chance to. ” Wuffles gave up investigating Carding’s boots and trotted toward Coin, shedding a few hairs on the way. “This pantomime has gone on long enough,” said the Patrician. “Now I am getting—” Wuffles growled. It was a deep, primeval noise, which struck a chord in the racial memory of all those present and filled them with an urgent desire to climb a tree. It suggested long gray shapes hunting in the dawn of time. It was astonishing that such a small animal could contain so much menace, and all of it was aimed at the staff in Coin’s hand. The Patrician strode forward to snatch the animal, and Carding raised his hand and sent a blaze of orange and blue fire searing across the room. The Patrician vanished. On the spot where he had been standing a small yellow lizard blinked and glared with malevolent reptilian stupidity. Carding looked in astonishment at his fingers, as if for the first time. “ All right ,” he whispered hoarsely. The wizards stared down at the panting lizard, and then out at the city sparkling in the early morning light. Out there was the council of aldermen, the city watch, the Guild of Thieves, the Guild of Merchants, the priesthoods…and none of them knew what was about to hit them. It has begun , said the hat, from its box on the deck. “What has?” said Rincewind. The rule of sourcery. Rincewind looked blank. “Is that good?” Do you ever understand anything anyone says to you? Rincewind felt on firmer ground here. “No,” he said. “Not always. Not lately. Not often. ” “Are you sure you are a wizard?” said Conina. “It’s the only thing I’ve ever been sure of,” he said, with conviction. “How strange. ” Rincewind sat on the Luggage in the sun on the foredeck of the Ocean Waltzer as it lurched peacefully across the green waters of the Circle Sea. Around them men did what he was sure were important nautical things, and he hoped they were doing them correctly, because next to heights he hated depths most of all. “You look worried,” said Conina, who was cutting his hair. Rincewind tried to make his head as small as possible as the blades flashed by. “That’s because I am. ” “What exactly is the Apocralypse?” Rincewind hesitated. “Well,” he said, “it’s the end of the world. Sort of. ” “Sort of? Sort of the end of the world? You mean we won’t be certain? We’ll look around and say ‘Pardon me, did you hear something?’?” “It’s just that no two seers have ever agreed about it. There have been all kinds of vague predictions. Quite mad, some of them. So it was called the Apocralypse. ” He looked embarrassed. “It’s a sort of apocryphal Apocalypse. A kind of pun, you see. ” “Not very good. ” “No. I suppose not. ” * Conina’s scissors snipped busily. “I must say the captain seemed quite happy to have us aboard,” she observed.

“That’s because they think it’s lucky to have a wizard on the boat,” said Rincewind. “It isn’t, of course. ” “Lots of people believe it,” she said. “Oh, it’s lucky for other people, just not for me. I can’t swim. ” “What, not a stroke?” Rincewind hesitated, and twiddled the star on his hat cautiously. “About how deep is the sea here, would you say? Approximately?” he said. “About a dozen fathoms, I believe. ” “Then I could probably swim about a dozen fathoms, whatever they are. ” “Stop trembling like that, I nearly had your ear off,” Conina snapped. She glared at a passing seaman and waved her scissors. “What’s the matter, you never saw a man have a haircut before?” Someone up in the rigging made a remark which caused a ripple of ribald laughter in the topgallants, unless they were forecastles. “I shall pretend I didn’t hear that,” said Conina, and gave the comb a savage yank, dislodging numerous inoffensive small creatures. “Ow!” “Well, you should keep still!” “It’s a little difficult to keep still knowing who it is that’s waving a couple of steel blades around my head!” And so the morning passed, with scudding wavelets, the creaking of the rigging, and a rather complex layer cut. Rincewind had to admit, looking at himself in a shard of mirror, that there was a definite improvement. The captain had said that they were bound for the city of Al Khali, on the hubward coast of Klatch. “Like Ankh, only with sand instead of mud,” said Rincewind, leaning over the rail. “But quite a good slave market. ” “Slavery is immoral,” said Conina firmly. “Is it? Gosh,” said Rincewind. “Would you like me to trim your beard?” said Conina, hopefully. She stopped, scissors drawn, and stared out to sea. “Is there a kind of sailor that uses a canoe with sort of extra bits on the side and a sort of red eye painted on the front and a small sail?” she said. “I’ve heard of Klatchian slave pirates,” said Rincewind, “but this is a big boat. I shouldn’t think one of them would dare attack it. ” “One of them wouldn’t,” said Conina, still staring at the fuzzy area where the sea became the sky, “but these five might. ” Rincewind peered at the distant haze, and then looked up at the man on watch, who shook his head. “Come on,” he chuckled, with all the humor of a blocked drain. “You can’t really see anything out there. Can you?” “Ten men in each canoe,” said Conina grimly. “Look, a joke’s a joke—” “With long curvy swords. ” “Well, I can’t see a—” “—their long and rather dirty hair blowing in the wind—” “With split ends, I expect?” said Rincewind sourly. “Are you trying to be funny?” “Me?” “And here’s me without a weapon,” said Conina, sweeping back across the deck. “I bet there isn’t a decent sword anywhere on this boat. ” “Never mind. Perhaps they’ve just come for a quick shampoo. ” While Conina rummaged frantically in her pack Rincewind sidled over to the Archchancellor’s hatbox and cautiously raised the lid. “There’s nothing out there, is there?” he asked. How should I know? Put me on. “What? On my head?” Good grief. “But I’m not an Archchancellor!” said Rincewind. “I mean, I’ve heard of cool-headed, but—” I need to use your eyes. Now put me on. On your head. “Um. ” Trust me. Rincewind couldn’t disobey. He gingerly removed his battered gray hat, looked longingly at its disheveled star, and lifted the Archchancellor’s hat out of its box. It felt rather heavier than he’d expected. The octarines around the crown were glowing faintly. He lowered it carefully onto his new hairstyle, clutching the brim tightly in case he felt the first icy chill. In fact he simply felt incredibly light. And there was a feeling of great knowledge and power—not actually present, but just, mentally speaking, on the tip of his metaphorical tongue. Odd scraps of memory flickered across his mind, and they weren’t any memories he remembered remembering before. He probed gently, as one touches a hollow tooth with the tongue, and there they were— Two hundred dead Archchancellors, dwindling into the leaden, freezing past, one behind the other, watched him with blank gray eyes. That’s why it’s so cold, he told himself, the warmth seeps into the dead world. Oh, no… When the hat spoke, he saw two hundred pairs of pale lips move. Who are you? Rincewind, thought Rincewind. And in the inner recesses of his head he tried to think privately to himself…help. He felt his knees begin to buckle under the weight of centuries. What’s it like, being dead? he thought. Death is but a sleep , said the dead mages. But what does it feel like? Rincewind thought. You will have an unrivalled chance to find out when those war canoes get here, Rincewind. With a yelp of terror he thrust upwards and forced the hat off his head. Real life and sound flooded back in, but since someone was frantically banging a gong very close to his ear this was not much of an improvement. The canoes were visible to everyone now, cutting through the water with an eerie silence. Those black-clad figures manning the paddles should have been whooping and screaming; it wouldn’t have made it any better, but it would have seemed more appropriate. The silence bespoke an unpleasant air of purpose. “Gods, that was awful,” he said. “Mind you, so is this. ” Crew members scurried across the deck, cutlasses in hand. Conina tapped Rincewind on the shoulder. “They’ll try to take us alive,” she said. “Oh,” said Rincewind weakly. “Good. ” Then he remembered something else about Klatchian slavers, and his throat went dry. “You’ll—you’ll be the one they’ll be after,” he said. “I’ve heard about what they do—” “Should I know?” said Conina. To Rincewind’s horror she didn’t appear to have found a weapon. “They’ll throw you in a seraglio!” She shrugged. “Could be worse. ” “But it’s got all these spikes and when they shut the door—” hazarded Rincewind. The canoes were close enough now to see the determined expressions of the rowers. “That’s not a seraglio. That’s an Iron Maiden. Don’t you know what a seraglio is?” “Um…” She told him. He went crimson. “Anyway, they’ll have to capture me first,” said Conina primly. “It’s you who should be worrying. ” “Why me?” “You’re the only other one who’s wearing a dress. ” Rincewind bridled. “It’s a robe—” “Robe, dress. You better hope they know the difference. ” A hand like a bunch of bananas with rings on grabbed Rincewind’s shoulder and spun him around. The captain, a Hublander built on generous bear-like lines, beamed at him through a mass of facial hair. “Hah!” he said. “They know not that we aboard a wizard have! To create in their bellies the burning green fire! Hah?” The dark forests of his eyebrows wrinkled as it became apparent that Rincewind wasn’t immediately ready to hurl vengeful magic at the invaders. “Hah?” he insisted, making a mere single syllable do the work of a whole string of blood-congealing threats. “Yes, well, I’m just—I’m just girding my loins,” said Rincewind. “That’s what I’m doing. Girding them. Green fire, you want?” “Also to make hot lead run in their bones,” said the captain. “Also their skins to blister and living scorpions without mercy to eat their brains from inside, and—” The leading canoe came alongside and a couple of grapnels thudded into the rail. As the first of the slavers appeared the captain hurried away, drawing his sword. He stopped for a moment and turned to Rincewind. “You gird quickly,” he said. “Or no loins. Hah?” Rincewind turned to Conina, who was leaning on the rail examining her fingernails. “You’d better get on with it,” she said. “That’s fifty green fires and hot leads to go, with a side order for blisters and scorpions. Hold the mercy. ” “This sort of thing is always happening to me,” he moaned. He peered over the rail to what he thought of as the main floor of the boat. The invaders were winning by sheer weight of numbers, using nets and ropes to tangle the struggling crew. They worked in absolute silence, clubbing and dodging, avoiding the use of swords wherever possible. “Musn’t damage the merchandise,” said Conina.

Rincewind watched in horror as the captain went down under a press of dark shapes, screaming, “Green fire! Green fire!” Rincewind backed away. He wasn’t any good at magic, but he’d had a hundred percent success at staying alive up to now and didn’t want to spoil the record. All he needed to do was to learn how to swim in the time it took to dive into the sea. It was worth a try. “What are you waiting for? Let’s go while they’re occupied,” he said to Conina. “I need a sword,” she said. “You’ll be spoiled for choice in a minute. ” “One will be enough. ” Rincewind kicked the Luggage. “Come on,” he snarled. “You’ve got a lot of floating to do. ” The Luggage extended its little legs with exaggerated nonchalance, turned slowly, and settled down beside the girl. “Traitor,” said Rincewind to its hinges. The battle already seemed to be over. Five of the raiders stalked up the ladder to the afterdeck, leaving most of their colleagues to round up the defeated crew below. The leader pulled down his mask and leered briefly and swarthily at Conina; and then he turned and leered for a slightly longer period at Rincewind. “This is a robe,” said Rincewind quickly. “And you’d better watch out, because I’m a wizard. ” He took a deep breath. “Lay a finger on me, and you’ll make me wish you hadn’t. I warn you. ” “A wizard? Wizards don’t make good strong slaves,” mused the leader. “Absolutely right,” said Rincewind. “So if you’ll just see your way clear to letting me go—” The leader turned back to Conina and signaled to one of his companions. He jerked a tattooed thumb toward Rincewind. “Do not kill him too quickly. In fact—” He paused, and treated Rincewind to a smile full of teeth. “Maybe…yes. And why not? Can you sing, wizard?” “I might be able to,” said Rincewind, cautiously. “Why?” “You could be just the man the Seriph needs for a job in the harem. ” A couple of slavers sniggered. “It could be a unique opportunity,” the leader went on, encouraged by this audience appreciation. There was more broadminded approval from behind him. Rincewind backed away. “I don’t think so,” he said, “thanks all the same. I’m not cut out for that kind of thing. ” “Oh, but you could be,” said the leader, his eyes bright. “You could be. ” “Oh, for goodness sake,” muttered Conina. She glanced at the men on either side of her, and then her hands moved. The one stabbed with the scissors was possibly better off than the one she raked with the comb, given the kind of mess a steel comb can make of a face. Then she reached down, snatched up a sword dropped by one of the stricken men, and lunged at the other two. The leader turned at the screams, and saw the Luggage behind him with its lid open. And then Rincewind cannoned into the back of him, pitching him forward into whatever oblivion lay in the multidimensional depths of the chest. There was the start of a bellow, abruptly cut off. Then there was a click like the shooting of the bolt on the gates of Hell. Rincewind backed away, trembling. “A unique opportunity,” he muttered under his breath, having just got the reference. At least he had a unique opportunity to watch Conina fight. Not many men ever got to see it twice. Her opponents started off grinning at the temerity of a slight young girl in attacking them, and then rapidly passed through various stages of puzzlement, doubt, concern and abject gibbeting terror as they apparently became the center of a flashing, tightening circle of steel. She disposed of the last of the leader’s bodyguard with a couple of thrusts that made Rincewind’s eyes water and, with a sigh, vaulted the rail on the main deck. To Rincewind’s annoyance the Luggage barrelled after her, cushioning its fall by dropping heavily onto a slaver, and adding to the sudden panic of the invaders because, while it was bad enough to be attacked with deadly and ferocious accuracy by a rather pretty girl in a white dress with flowers on it, it was even worse for the male ego to be tripped up and bitten by a travel accessory; it was pretty bad for all the rest of the male, too. Rincewind peered over the railing. “Showoff,” he muttered. A throwing knife clipped the wood near his chin and ricocheted past his ear. He raised his hand to the sudden stinging pain, and stared at it in horror before gently passing out. It wasn’t blood in general he couldn’t stand the sight of, it was just his blood in particular that was so upsetting. The market in Sator Square, the wide expanse of cobbles outside the black gates of the University, was in full cry. It was said that everything in Ankh-Morpork was for sale except for the beer and the women, both of which one merely hired. And most of the merchandise was available in Sator market, which over the years had grown, stall by stall, until the newcomers were up against the ancient stones of the University itself; in fact they made a handy display area for bolts of cloth and racks of charms. No one noticed the gates swing back. But a silence rolled out of the University, spreading out across the noisy, crowded square like the first fresh wavelets of the tide trickling over a brackish swamp. In fact it wasn’t true silence at all, but a great roar of anti-noise. Silence isn’t the opposite of sound, it is merely its absence. But this was the sound that lies on the far side of silence, anti-noise, its shadowy decibels throttling the market cries like a fall of velvet. The crowds stared around wildly, mouthing like goldfish and with about as much effect. All heads turned toward the gates. Something else was flowing out besides that cacophony of hush. The stalls nearest the empty gateway began to grind across the cobbles, shedding merchandise. Their owners dived out of the way as the stalls hit the row behind them and scraped relentlessly onward, piling up until a wide avenue of clean, empty stones stretched the whole width of the square. Ardrothy Longstaff, Purveyor of Pies Full of Personality, peered over the top of the wreckage of his stall in time to see the wizards emerge. He knew wizards, or up until now he’d always thought he did. They were vague old boys, harmless enough in their way, dressed like ancient sofas, always ready customers for any of his merchandise that happened to be marked down on account of age and rather more personality than a prudent housewife would be prepared to put up with. But these wizards were something new to Ardrothy. They walked out into Sator Square as if they owned it. Little blue sparks flashed around their feet. They seemed a little taller, somehow. Or perhaps it was just the way they carried themselves. Yes, that was it… Ardrothy had a touch of magic in his genetic makeup, and as he watched the wizards sweep across the square it told him that the very best thing he could do for his health would be to pack his knives, and mincers in his little pack and have it away out of the city at any time in the next ten minutes. The last wizard in the group lagged behind his colleagues and looked around the square with disdain. “There used to be fountains out here,” he said. “You people—be off. ” The traders stared at one another. Wizards normally spoke imperiously, that was to be expected. But there was an edge to the voice that no one had heard before. It had knuckles in it. Ardrothy’s eyes swivelled sideways. Arising out of the ruins of his jellied starfish and clam stall like an avenging angel, dislodging various molluscs from his beard and spitting vinegar, was Miskin Koble, who was said to be able to open oysters with one hand. Years of pulling limpets off rocks and wrestling the giant cockles in Ankh Bay had given him the kind of physical development normally associated with tectonic plates. He didn’t so much stand up as unfold. Then he thudded his way toward the wizard and pointed a trembling finger at the ruins of his stall, from which half a dozen enterprising lobsters were making a determined bid for freedom. Muscles moved around the edges of his mouth like angry eels. “Did you do that?” he demanded.

“Stand aside, oaf,” said the wizard, three words which in the opinion of Ardrothy gave him the ongoing life expectancy of a glass cymbal. “I hates wizards,” said Koble. “I really hates wizards. So I am going to hit you, all right?” He brought his fist back and let fly. The wizard raised an eyebrow, yellow fire sprang up around the shellfish salesman, there was a noise like tearing silk, and Koble had vanished. All that was left was his boots, standing forlornly on the cobbles with little wisps of smoke coming out of them. No one knows why smoking boots always remain, no matter how big the explosion. It seems to be just one of those things. It seemed to the watchful eyes of Ardrothy that the wizard himself was nearly as shocked as the crowd, but he rallied magnificently and gave his staff a flourish. “You people had better jolly well learn from this,” he said. “No one raises their hand to a wizard, do you understand? There are going to be a lot of changes around here. Yes, what do you want?” This last comment was to Ardrothy, who was trying to sneak past unnoticed. He scrabbled quickly in his pie tray. “I was just wondering if your honorship would care to purchase one of these finest pies,” he said hurriedly. “Full of nourish—” “Watch closely, pie-selling person,” said the wizard. He stretched out his hand, made a strange gesture with his fingers, and produced a pie out of the air. It was fat, golden-brown and beautifully glazed. Just by looking at it Ardrothy knew it was packed edge to edge with prime lean pork, with none of those spacious areas of good fresh air under the lid that represented his own profit margin. It was the kind of pie piglets hope to be when they grew up. His heart sank. His ruin was floating in front of him with short-crust pastry on it. “Want a taste?” said the wizard. “There’s plenty more where that came from. ” “Wherever it came from,” said Ardrothy. He looked past the shiny pastry to the face of the wizard, and in the manic gleam of those eyes he saw the world turning upside down. He turned away, a broken man, and set out for the nearest city gate. As if it wasn’t bad enough that wizards were killing people, he thought bitterly, they were taking away their livelihood as well. A bucket of water splashed into Rincewind’s face, jerking him out of a dreadful dream in which a hundred masked women were attempting to trim his hair with broadswords and cutting it very fine indeed. Some people, having a nightmare like that, would dismiss it as castration anxiety, but Rincewind’s subconscious knew being-cut-to-tiny-bits-mortal-dread when it saw it. It saw it most of the time. He sat up. “Are you all right?” said Conina, anxiously. Rincewind swivelled his eyes around the cluttered deck. “Not necessarily,” he said cautiously. There didn’t seem to be any black-clad slavers around, at least vertically. There were a good many crew members, all of them maintaining a respectful distance from Conina. Only the captain stood reasonably close, an inane grin on his face. “They left,” said Conina. “Took what they could and left. ” “They bastards,” said the captain, “but they paddle pretty fast!” Conina winced as he gave her a ringing slap on the back. “She fight real good for a lady,” he added. “Yes!” Rincewind got unsteadily to his feet. The boat was scudding along cheerfully toward a distant smear on the horizon that had to be hubward Klatch. He was totally unharmed. He began to cheer up a bit. The captain gave them both a hearty nod and hurried off to shout orders connected with sails and ropes and things. Conina sat down on the Luggage, which didn’t seem to object. “He said he’s so grateful he’ll take us all the way to Al Khali,” she said. “I thought that’s what we arranged anyway,” said Rincewind. “I saw you give him money, and everything. ” “Yes, but he was planning to overpower us and sell me as a slave when he got there. ” “What, not sell me?” said Rincewind, and then snorted, “Of course, it’s the wizard’s robes, he wouldn’t dare—” “Um. Actually, he said he’d have to give you away,” said Conina, picking intently at an imaginary splinter on the Luggage’s lid. “ Give me away?” “Yes. Um. Sort of like, one free wizard with every concubine sold? Um. ” “I don’t see what vegetables have got to do with it. ” Conina gave him a long, hard stare, and when he didn’t break into a smile she sighed and said, “Why are you wizards always nervous around women?” Rincewind bridled at this slur. “I like that!” he said, “I’ll have you know that—look, anyway, the point is, I get along very well with women in general, it’s just women with swords that upset me. ” He considered this for a while, and added, “Everyone with swords upset me, if it comes to that. ” Conina picked industriously at the splinter. The Luggage gave a contented creak. “I know something else that’ll upset you,” she muttered. “Hmmm?” “The hat’s gone. ” “What?” “I couldn’t help it, they just grabbed whatever they could—” “The slavers have made off with the hat?” “Don’t you take that tone with me! I wasn’t having a quiet sleep at the time—” Rincewind waved his hands frantically. “Nonono, don’t get excited, I wasn’t taking any tone—I want to think about this…” “The captain says they’ll probably go back to Al Khali,” he heard Conina say. “There’s a place where the criminal element hang out, and we can soon—” “I don’t see why we have to do anything,” said Rincewind. “The hat wanted to keep out the way of the University, and I shouldn’t think those slavers ever drop in there for a quick sherry. ” “You’ll let them run off with it?” said Conina, in genuine astonishment. “Well, someone’s got to do it. The way I see it, why me?” “But you said it’s the symbol of wizardry! What wizards all aspire to! You can’t just let it go like that!” “You watch me. ” Rincewind sat back. He felt oddly surprised. He was making a decision. It was his. It belonged to him. No-one was forcing him to make it. Sometimes it seemed that his entire life consisted of getting into trouble because of what other people wanted, but this time he’d made a decision and that was that. He’d get off the boat at Al Khali and find some way of going home. Someone else could save the world, and he wished them luck. He’d made a decision. His brow furrowed. Why didn’t he feel happy about it? Because it’s the wrong bloody decision, you idiot. Right, he thought, I’ve had enough voices in my head. Out. But I belong here. You mean you’re me? Your conscience. Oh. You can’t let the hat be destroyed. It’s the symbol… …all right, I know… …the symbol of magic under the Lore. Magic under the control of mankind. You don’t want to go back to those dark Ians… …What?… Ians… Do I mean aeons? Right. Aeons. Go back aeons to the time when raw magic ruled. The whole framework of reality trembled daily. It was pretty terrible, I can tell me. How do I know? Racial memory. Gosh. Have I got one of those? Well. A part of one. Yes, all right, but why me? In your soul you know you are a true wizard. The word “Wizard” is engraved on your heart. “Yes, but the trouble is I keep meeting people who might try to find out,” said Rincewind miserably. “What did you say?” said Conina. Rincewind stared at the smudge on the horizon and sighed. “Just talking to myself,” he said. Carding surveyed the hat critically. He walked around the table and stared at it from a new angle. At last he said: “It’s pretty good. Where did you get the octarines?” “They’re just very good Ankhstones,” said Spelter. “They fooled you, did they?” It was a magnificent hat. In fact, Spelter had to admit, it looked a lot better than the real thing. The old Archchancellor’s hat had looked rather battered, its gold thread tarnished and unravelling. The replica was a considerable improvement. It had style. “I especially like the lace,” said Carding. “It took ages. ” “Why didn’t you try magic?” Carding waggled his fingers, and grasped the tall cool glass that appeared in mid-air. Under its paper umbrella and fruit salad it contained some sticky and expensive alcohol. “Didn’t work,” said Spelter.

“Just couldn’t seem, um, to get it right. I had to sew every sequin on by hand. ” He picked up the hatbox. Carding coughed into his drink. “Don’t put it away just yet,” he said, and took it out of the bursar’s hands. “I’ve always wanted to try this—” He turned to the big mirror on the bursar’s wall and reverently lowered the hat on his rather grubby locks. It was the ending of the first day of the sourcery, and the wizards had managed to change everything except themselves. They had all tried, on the quiet and when they thought no one else was looking. Even Spelter had a go, in the privacy of his study. He had managed to become twenty years younger with a torso you could crack rocks on, but as soon as he stopped concentrating he sagged, very unpleasantly, back into his old familiar shape and age. There was something elastic about the way you were. The harder you threw it, the faster it came back. The worse it was when it hit, too. Spiked iron balls, broadswords and large heavy sticks with nails in were generally considered pretty fearsome weapons, but they were nothing at all compared to twenty years suddenly applied with considerable force to the back of the head. This was because sourcery didn’t seem to work on things that were instrinsically magical. Nevertheless, the wizards had made a few important improvements. Carding’s robe, for example, had become a silk and lace confection of overpoweringly expensive tastelessness, and gave him the appearance of a big red jelly draped with antimacassars. “It suits me, don’t you think?” said Carding. He adjusted the hat brim, giving it an inappropriately rakish air. Spelter said nothing. He was looking out of the window. There had been a few improvements all right. It had been a busy day. The old stone walls had vanished. There were some rather nice railings now. Beyond them, the city fairly sparkled, a poem in white marble and red tiles. The river Ankh was no longer the silt-laden sewer he’d grown up knowing, but a glittering glass-clear ribbon in which—a nice touch—fat carp mouthed and swam in water pure as snowmelt. * From the air Ankh-Morpork must have been blinding. It gleamed. The detritus of millennia had been swept away. It made Spelter strangely uneasy. He felt out of place, as though he was wearing new clothes that itched. Of course, he was wearing new clothes and they did itch, but that wasn’t the problem. The new world was all very nice, it was exactly how it should be, and yet, and yet—had he wanted to change, he thought, or had he only wanted things rearranged more suitably? “I said, don’t you think it was made for me?” said Carding. Spelter turned back, his face blank. “Um?” “The hat, man. ” “Oh. Um. Very—suitable. ” With a sigh Carding removed the baroque headpiece and carefully replaced it in its box. “We’d better take it to him,” he said. “He’s starting to ask about it. ” “I’m still bothered about where the real hat is,” said Spelter. “It’s in here,” said Carding firmly, tapping the lid. “I mean the, um, real one. ” “This is the real one. ” “I meant—” “This is the Archchancellor’s Hat,” said Carding carefully. “You should know, you made it. ” “Yes, but—” began the bursar wretchedly. “After all, you wouldn’t make a forgery , would you?” “Not as, um, such—” “It’s just a hat. It’s whatever people think it is. People see the Archchancellor wearing it, they think it’s the original hat. In a certain sense, it is. Things are defined by what they do. And people, of course. Fundamental basis of wizardry, is that. ” Carding paused dramatically, and plonked the hatbox into Spelter’s arms. “ Cogitum ergot hatto , you might say. ” Spelter had made a special study of old languages, and did his best. “‘I think, therefore I am a hat?’” he hazarded. “What?” said Carding, as they set off down the stairs to the new incarnation of the Great Hall. “‘I considered I’m a mad hat?’” Spelter suggested. “Just shut up, all right?” The haze still hung over the city, its curtains of silver and gold turned to blood by the light of the setting sun which streamed in through the windows of the hall. Coin was sitting on a stool with his staff across his knees. It occurred to Spelter that he had never seen the boy without it, which was odd. Most wizards kept their staves under the bed, or hooked up over the fireplace. He didn’t like this staff. It was black, but not because that was its color, more because it seemed to be a moveable hole into some other, more unpleasant set of dimensions. It didn’t have eyes but, nevertheless, it seemed to stare at Spelter as if it knew his innermost thoughts, which at the moment was more than he did. His skin prickled as the two wizards crossed the floor and felt the blast of a raw magic flowing outward from the seated figure. Several dozen of the most senior wizards were clustered around the stool, staring in awe at the floor. Spelter craned to see, and saw— The world. It floated in a puddle of black night somehow set into the floor itself, and Spelter knew with a terrible certainty that it was the world, not some image or simple projection. There were cloud patterns and everything. There were the frosty wastes of the Hublands, the Counterweight Continent, the Circle Sea, the Rimfall, all tiny and pastel-colored but nevertheless real… Someone was speaking to him. “Um?” he said, and the sudden drop in metaphorical temperature jerked him back into reality. He realized with horror that Coin had just directed a remark at him. “I’m sorry?” he corrected himself. “It was just that the world…so beautiful…” “Our Spelter is an aesthete,” said Coin, and there was a brief chuckle from one or two wizards who knew what the word meant, “but as to the world, it could be improved. I had said, Spelter, that everywhere we look we can see cruelty and inhumanity and greed, which tell us that the world is indeed governed badly, does it not?” Spelter was aware of two dozen pairs of eyes turning to him. “Um,” he said. “Well, you can’t change human nature. ” There was dead silence. Spelter hesitated. “Can you?” he said. “That remains to be seen,” said Carding. “But if we change the world, then human nature also will change. Is that not so, brothers?” “We have the city,” said one of the wizards. “I myself have created a castle—” “We rule the city, but who rules the world?” said Carding. “There must be a thousand petty kings and emperors and chieftains down there. ” “Not one of whom can read without moving his lips,” said a wizard. “The Patrician could read,” said Spelter. “Not if you cut off his index finger,” said Carding. “What happened to the lizard, anyway? Never mind. The point is, the world should surely be run by men of wisdom and philosophy. It must be guided. We’ve spent centuries fighting amongst ourselves, but together…who knows what we could do?” “Today the city, tomorrow the world,” said someone at the back of the crowd. Carding nodded. “Tomorrow the world, and—” he calculated quickly—“on Friday the universe!” That leaves the weekend free, thought Spelter. He recalled the box in his arms, and held it out toward Coin. But Carding floated in front of him, seized the box in one fluid movement and offered it to the boy with a flourish. “The Archchancellor’s hat,” he said. “Rightfully yours, we think. ” Coin took it. For the first time Spelter saw uncertainty cross his face. “Isn’t there some sort of formal ceremony?” he said. Carding coughed. “I—er, no,” he said. “No, I don’t think so. ” He glanced up at the other senior mages, who shook their heads. “No. We’ve never had one. Apart from the feast, of course. Er. You see, it’s not like a coronation, the Archchancellor, you see, he leads the fraternity of wizards, he’s,” Carding’s voice ran down slowly in the light of that golden gaze, “he’s you see…he’s the…first…among…equals…” He stepped back hurriedly as the staff moved eerily until it pointed toward him. Once again Coin seemed to be listening to an inner voice.

“No,” he said eventually, and when he spoke next his voice had that wide, echoing quality that, if you are not a wizard, you can only achieve with a lot of very expensive audio equipment. “There will be a ceremony. There must be a ceremony, people must understand that wizards are ruling, but it will not be here. I will select a place. And all the wizards who have passed through these gates will attend, is that understood?” “Some of them live far off,” said Carding, carefully. “It will take them some time to travel, so when were you thinking of—” “They are wizards!” shouted Coin. “They can be here in the twinkling of an eye! I have given them the power! Besides,” his voice dropped back to something like normal pitch, “the University is finished. It was never the true home of magic, only its prison. I will build us a new place. ” He lifted the new hat out of its box, and smiled at it. Spelter and Carding held their breath. “But—” They looked around. Hakardly the Lore master had spoken, and now stood with his mouth opening and shutting. Coin turned to him, one eyebrow raised. “You surely don’t mean to close the University?” said the old wizard, his voice trembling. “It is no longer necessary,” said Coin. “It’s a place of dust and old books. It is behind us. Is that not so…brothers?” There was a chorus of uncertain mumbling. The wizards found it hard to imagine life without the old stones of UU. Although, come to think of it, there was a lot of dust, of course, and the books were pretty old… “After all…brothers…who among you has been into your dark library these past few days? The magic is inside you now, not imprisoned between covers. Is that not a joyous thing? Is there not one among you who has done more magic, real magic, in the past twenty-four hours than he has done in the whole of his life before? Is there one among you who does not, in his heart of hearts, truly agree with me?” Spelter shuddered. In his heart of hearts an inner Spelter had woken, and was struggling to make himself heard. It was a Spelter who suddenly longed for those quiet days, only hours ago, when magic was gentle and shuffled around the place in old slippers and always had time for a sherry and wasn’t like a hot sword in the brain and, above all, didn’t kill people. Terror seized him as he felt his vocal chords twang to attention and prepare, despite all his efforts, to disagree. The staff was trying to find him. He could feel it searching for him. It would vanish him, just like poor old Billias. He clamped his jaws together, but it wouldn’t work. He felt his chest heave. His jaw creaked. Carding, shifting uneasily, stood on his foot. Spelter yelped. “Sorry,” said Carding. “Is something the matter, Spelter?” said Coin. Spelter hopped on one leg, suddenly released, his body flooding with relief as his toes flooded with agony, more grateful than anyone in the entire history of the world that seventeen stones of wizardry had chosen his instep to come down heavily on. His scream seemed to have broken the spell. Coin sighed, and stood up. “It has been a good day,” he said. It was two o’clock in the morning. River mists coiled like snakes through the streets of Ankh-Morpork, but they coiled alone. Wizards did not hold with other people staying up after midnight, and so no one did. They slept the troubled sleep of the enchanted, instead. In the Plaza of Broken Moons, once the boutique of mysterious pleasures from whose flare-lit and curtain-hung stalls the late-night reveller could obtain anything from a plate of jellied eels to the venereal disease of his choice, the mists coiled and dripped into chilly emptiness. The stalls had gone, replaced by gleaming marble and a statue depicting the spirit of something or other, surrounded by illuminated fountains. Their dull splashing was the only sound that broke the cholesterol of silence that had the heart of the city in its grip. Silence reigned too in the dark bulk of Unseen University. Except— Spelter crept along the shadowy corridors like a two-legged spider, darting—or at least limping quickly—from pillar to archway, until he reached the forbidding doors of the Library. He peered nervously at the darkness around him and, after some hesitation, tapped very, very lightly. Silence poured from the heavy woodwork. But, unlike the silence that had the rest of the city under its thrall, this was a watchful, alert silence; it was the silence of a sleeping cat that had just opened one eye. When he could bear it no longer Spelter dropped to his hands and knees and tried to peer under the doors. Finally he put his mouth as close as he could to the drafty, dusty gap under the bottommost hinge and whispered: “I say! Um. Can you hear me?” He felt sure that something moved, far back in the darkness. He tried again, his mood swinging between terror and hope with every erratic thump of his heart. “I say? It’s me, um, Spelter. You know? Could you speak to me, please?” Perhaps large leathery feet were creeping gently across the floor in there, or maybe it was only the creaking of Spelter’s nerves. He tried to swallow away the dryness in his throat, and had another go. “Look, all right, but, look, they’re talking about shutting the Library!” The silence grew louder. The sleeping cat had cocked an ear. “What is happening is all wrong!” the bursar confided, and clapped his hand over his mouth at the enormity of what he had said. “Oook?” It was the faintest of noises, like the eructation of cockroaches. Suddenly emboldened, Spelter pressed his lips closer to the crack. “Have you got the, um, Patrician in there?” “Oook. ” “What about the little doggie?” “Oook. ” “Oh. Good. ” Spelter lay full length in the comfort of the night, and drummed his fingers on the chilly floor. “You wouldn’t care to, um, let me in too?” he ventured. “Oook!” Spelter made a face in the gloom. “Well, would you, um, let me come in for a few minutes? We need to discuss something urgently, man to man. ” “Eeek. ” “I meant ape. ” “Oook. ” “Look, won’t you come out, then?” “Oook. ” Spelter sighed. “This show of loyalty is all very well, but you’ll starve in there. ” “Oook oook. ” “ What other way in?” “Oook. ” “Oh, have it your way,” Spelter sighed. But, somehow, he felt better for the conversation. Everyone else in the University seemed to be living in a dream, whereas the Librarian wanted nothing more in the whole world than soft fruit, a regular supply of index cards and the opportunity, every month or so, to hop over the wall of the Patrician’s private menagerie. * It was strangely reassuring. “So you’re all right for bananas and so forth?” he inquired, after another pause. “Oook. ” “Don’t let anyone in, will you? Um. I think that’s frightfully important. ” “Oook. ” “Good. ” Spelter stood up and dusted off his knees. Then he put his mouth to the keyhole and added, “Don’t trust anyone. ” “Oook. ” It was not completely dark in the Library, because the serried rows of magical books gave off a faint octarine glow, caused by thaumaturgical leakage into a strong occult field. It was just bright enough to illuminate the pile of shelves wedged against the door. The former Patrician had been carefully decanted into a jar on the Librarian’s desk. The Librarian himself sat under it, wrapped in his blanket and holding Wuffles on his lap. Occasionally he would eat a banana. Spelter, meanwhile, limped back along the echoing passages of the University, heading for the security of his bedroom. It was because his ears were nervously straining the tiniest of sounds out of the air that he heard, right on the cusp of audibility, the sobbing. It wasn’t a normal noise up here. In the carpeted corridors of the senior wizards’ quarters there were a number of sounds you might hear late at night, such as snoring, the gentle clinking of glasses, tuneless singing and, once in a while, the zip and sizzle of a spell gone wrong. But the sound of someone quietly crying was such a novelty that Spelter found himself edging down the passage that led to the Archchancellor’s suite. The door was ajar.

Telling himself that he really shouldn’t, tensing himself for a hurried dash, Spelter peered inside. Rincewind stared. “What is it?” he whispered. “I think it’s a temple of some sort,” said Conina. Rincewind stood and gazed upwards, the crowds of Al Khali bouncing off and around him in a kind of human Brownian motion. A temple, he thought. Well, it was big, and it was impressive, and the architect had used every trick in the book to make it look even bigger and even more impressive than it was, and to impress upon everyone looking at it that they, on the other hand, were very small and ordinary and didn’t have as many domes. It was the kind of place that looked exactly as you were always going to remember it. But Rincewind felt he knew holy architecture when he saw it, and the frescoes on the big and, of course, impressive walls above him didn’t look at all religious. For one thing, the participants were enjoying themselves. Almost certainly, they were enjoying themselves. Yes, they must be. It would be pretty astonishing if they weren’t. “They’re not dancing, are they?” he said, in a desperate attempt not to believe the evidence of his own eyes. “Or maybe it’s some sort of acrobatics?” Conina squinted upwards in the hard, white sunlight. “I shouldn’t think so,” she said, thoughtfully. Rincewind remembered himself. “I don’t think a young woman like you should be looking at this sort of thing,” he said sternly. Conina gave him a smile. “I think wizards are expressly forbidden to,” she said sweetly. “It’s supposed to turn you blind. ” Rincewind turned his face upwards again, prepared to risk maybe one eye. This sort of thing is only to be expected, he told himself. They don’t know any better. Foreign countries are, well, foreign countries. They do things differently there. Although some things, he decided, were done in very much the same way, only with rather more inventiveness and, by the look of it, far more often. “The temple frescoes of Al Khali are famous far and wide,” said Conina, as they walked through crowds of children who kept trying to sell Rincewind things and introduce him to nice relatives. “Well, I can see they would be,” Rincewind agreed. “Look, push off, will you? No, I don’t want to buy whatever it is. No, I don’t want to meet her. Or him, either. Or it, you nasty little boy. Get off , will you?” The last scream was to the group of children riding sedately on the Luggage, which was plodding along patiently behind Rincewind and making no attempt to shake them off. Perhaps it was sickening for something, he thought, and brightened up a bit. “How many people are there on this continent, do you think?” he said. “I don’t know,” said Conina, without turning round. “Millions, I expect?” “If I were wise, I wouldn’t be here,” said Rincewind, with feeling. They had been in Al Khali, gateway to the whole mysterious continent of Klatch, for several hours. He was beginning to suffer. A decent city should have a bit of fog about it, he considered, and people should live indoors, not spend all their time out on the streets. There shouldn’t be all this sand and heat. As for the wind… Ankh-Morpork had its famous smell, so full of personality that it could reduce a strong man to tears. But Al Khali had its wind, blowing from the vastness of the deserts and continents nearer the rim. It was a gentle breeze, but it didn’t stop and eventually it had the same effect on visitors that a cheese-grater achieves on a tomato. After a while it seemed to have worn away your skin and was rasping directly across the nerves. To Conina’s sensitive nostrils it carried aromatic messages from the heart of the continent, compounded of the chill of deserts, the stink of lions, the compost of jungles and the flatulence of wildebeest. Rincewind, of course, couldn’t smell any of this. Adaptation is a wonderful thing, and most Morporkians would be hard put to smell a burning feather mattress at five feet. “Where to next?” he said. “Somewhere out of the wind?” “My father spent some time in Khali when he was hunting for the Lost City of Ee,” said Conina. “And I seem to remember he spoke very highly of the soak. It’s a kind of bazaar. ” “I suppose we just go and look for the second-hand hat stalls,” said Rincewind. “Because the whole idea is totally—” “What I was hoping was that maybe we could be attacked. That seems the most sensible idea. My father said that very few strangers who entered the soak ever came out again. Some very murderous types hang out there, he said. ” Rincewind gave this due consideration. “Just run that by me again, will you?” he said. “After you said we should be attacked I seemed to hear a ringing in my ears. ” “Well, we want to meet the criminal element, don’t we?” “Not exactly want ,” said Rincewind. “That wasn’t the phrase I would have chosen. ” “How would you put it, then?” “Er. I think the phrase ‘not want’ sums it up pretty well. ” “But you agreed that we should get the hat!” “But not die in the process,” said Rincewind, wretchedly. “That won’t do anyone any good. Not me, anyway. ” “My father always said that death is but a sleep,” said Conina. “Yes, the hat told me that,” said Rincewind, as they turned down a narrow, crowded street between white adobe walls. “But the way I see it, it’s a lot harder to get up in the morning. ” “Look,” said Conina, “there’s not much risk. You’re with me. ” “Yes, and you’re looking forward to it, aren’t you,” said Rincewind accusingly, as Conina piloted them along a shady alley, with their retinue of pubescent entrepreneurs at their heels. “It’s the old herrydeterry at work. ” “Just shut up and try to look like a victim, will you?” “I can do that all right,” said Rincewind, beating off a particularly stubborn member of the Junior Chamber of Commerce, “I’ve had a lot of practice. For the last time, I don’t want to buy anyone , you wretched child!” He looked gloomily at the walls around them. At least there weren’t any of those disturbing pictures here, but the hot breeze still blew the dust around him and he was sick and tired of looking at sand. What he wanted was a couple of cool beers, a cold bath and a change of clothing; it probably wouldn’t make him feel better, but it would at least make feeling awful more enjoyable. Not that there was any beer here, probably. It was a funny thing, but in chilly cities like Ankh-Morpork the big drink was beer, which cooled you down, but in places like this, where the whole sky was an over with the door left open, people drank tiny little sticky drinks which set fire to the back of your throat. And the architecture was all wrong. And they had statues in their temples that, well, just weren’t suitable. This wasn’t the right kind of place for wizards. Of course, they had some local grown alternative, enchanters or some such, but not what you’d call decent magic… Conina strolled ahead of him, humming to herself. You rather like her, don’t you? I can tell, said a voice in his head. Oh blast, thought Rincewind, you’re not my conscience again, are you? Your libido. It’s a bit stuffy in here, isn’t it? You haven’t had it done up since the last time I was around. Look, go away, will you? I’m a wizard! Wizards are ruled by their heads, not by their hearts! And I’m getting votes from your glands, and they’re telling me that as far as your body is concerned your brain is in a minority of one. Yes? But it’s got the casting vote, then. Hah! That’s what you think. Your heart has got nothing to do with this, by the way, it’s merely a muscular organ which powers the circulation of the blood. But look at it like this—you quite like her, don’t you? Well…Rincewind hesitated. Yes, he thought, er… She’s pretty good company, eh? Nice voice? Well, of course… You’d like to see more of her? Well…Rincewind realized with some surprise that, yes, he would.

It wasn’t that he was entirely unused to the company of women, but it always seemed to cause trouble and, of course, it was a well known fact that it was bad for the magical abilities, although he had to admit that his particular magical abilities, being approximately those of a rubber hammer, were shaky enough to start with. Then you’ve got nothing to lose, have you? his libido put in, in an oily tone of thought. It was at this point Rincewind realized that something important was missing. It took him a little while to realize what it was. No one had tried to sell him anything for several minutes. In Al Khali, that probably meant you were dead. He, Conina and the Luggage were alone in a long, shady alley. He could hear the bustle of the city some way away, but immediately around them there was nothing except a rather expectant silence. “They’ve run off,” said Conina. “Are we going to be attacked?” “Could be. There’s been three men following us on the rooftops. ” Rincewind squinted upwards at almost the same time as three men, dressed in flowing black robes, dropped lightly into the alleyway in front of them. When he looked around two more appeared from around a corner. All five were holding long curved swords and, although the lower halves of their faces were masked, it was almost certain that they were grinning evilly. Rincewind rapped sharply on the Luggage’s lid. “Kill,” he suggested. The Luggage stood stock still for a moment, and then plodded over and stood next to Conina. It looked slightly smug and, Rincewind realized with jealous horror, rather embarrassed. “Why, you—” he growled, and gave it a kick—“you handbag. ” He sidled closer to the girl, who was standing there with a thoughtful smile on her face. “What now?” he said. “Are you going to offer them all a quick perm?” The men edged a little closer. They were, he noticed, only interested in Conina. “I’m not armed,” she said. “What happened to your legendary comb?” “Left it on the boat. ” “You’ve got nothing?” Conina shifted slightly to keep as many of the men as possible in her field of vision. “I’ve got a couple of hairclips,” she said out of the corner of her mouth. “Any good?” “Don’t know. Never tried. ” “You got us into this!” “Relax. I think they’ll just take us prisoner. ” “Oh, that’s fine for you to say. You’re not marked down as this week’s special offer. ” The Luggage snapped its lid once or twice, a little uncertain about things. One of the men gingerly extended his sword and prodded Rincewind in the small of the back. “They want to take us somewhere, see?” said Conina. She gritted her teeth. “Oh, no,” she muttered. “What’s the matter now?” “I can’t do it!” “What?” Conina put her head in her hands. “I can’t let myself be taken prisoner without a fight! I can feel a thousand barbarian ancestors accusing me of betrayal!” she hissed urgently. “Pull the other one. ” “No, really. This won’t take a minute. ” There was a sudden blur and the nearest man collapsed in a small gurgling heap. Then Conina’s elbows went back and into the stomachs of the men behind her. Her left hand rebounded past Rincewind’s ear with a noise like tearing silk and felled the man behind him. The fifth made a run for it and was brought down by a flying tackle, hitting his head heavily on the wall. Conina rolled off him and sat up, panting, her eyes bright. “I don’t like to say this, but I feel better for that,” she said. “It’s terrible to know that I betrayed a fine hairdressing tradition, of course. Oh. ” “Yes,” said Rincewind somberly, “I wondered if you’d noticed them. ” Conina’s eyes scanned the line of bowmen who had appeared along the opposite wall. They had that stolid, impassive look of people who have been paid to do a job, and don’t much mind if the job involves killing people. “Time for those hairclips,” said Rincewind. Conina didn’t move. “My father always said that it was pointless to undertake a direct attack against an enemy extensively armed with efficient projectile weapons,” she said. Rincewind, who knew Cohen’s normal method of speech, gave her a look of disbelief. “Well, what he actually said,” she added, “was never enter an arse-kicking contest with a porcupine. ” Spelter couldn’t face breakfast. He wondered whether he ought to talk to Carding, but he had a chilly feeling that the old wizard wouldn’t listen and wouldn’t believe him anyway. In fact he wasn’t quite sure he believed it himself… Yes he was. He’d never forget it, although he intended to make every effort. One of the problems about living in the University these days was that the building you went to sleep in probably wasn’t the same building when you woke up. Rooms had a habit of changing and moving around, a consequence of all this random magic. It built up in the carpets, charging up the wizards to such an extent that shaking hands with somebody was a sure-fire way of turning them into something. The build up of magic, in fact, was overflowing the capacity of the area to hold it. If something wasn’t done about it soon, then even the common people would be able to use it—a chilling thought but, since Spelter’s mind was already so full of chilling thoughts you could use it as an ice tray, not one he was going to spend much time worrying about. Mere household geography wasn’t the only difficulty, though. Sheer pressure of thaumaturgical inflow was even affecting the food. What was a forkful of kedgeree when you lifted it off the plate might well have turned into something else by the time it entered your mouth. If you were lucky, it was inedible. If you were unlucky , it was edible but probably not something you liked to think you were about to eat or, worse, had already eaten half of. Spelter found Coin in what had been, late last night, a broom cupboard. It was a lot bigger now. It was only because Spelter had never heard of aircraft hangars that he didn’t know what to compare it with, although, to be fair, very few aircraft hangars have marble floors and a lot of statuary around the place. A couple of brooms and a small battered bucket in one corner looked distinctly out of place, but not as out of place as the crushed tables in the former Great Hall which, owing to the surging tides of magic now flowing through the place, had shrunk to the approximate size of what Spelter, if he had ever seen one, would have called a small telephone booth. He sidled into the room with extreme caution and took his place among the council of wizards. The air was greasy with the feel of power. Spelter created a chair beside Carding and leaned across to him. “You’ll never believe—” he began. “Quiet!” hissed Carding. “This is amazing!” Coin was sitting on his stool in the middle of the circle, one hand on his staff, the other extended and holding something small, white and egg-like. It was strangely fuzzy. In fact, Spelter thought, it wasn’t something small seen close to. It was something huge , but a long way off. And the boy was holding it in his hand. “What’s he doing?” Spelter whispered. “I’m not exactly sure,” murmured Carding. “As far as we can understand it, he’s creating a new home for wizardry. ” Streamers of colored light flashed about the indistinct ovoid, like a distant thunderstorm. The glow lit Coin’s preoccupied face from below, giving it the semblance of a mask. “I don’t see how we will all fit in,” the bursar said. “Carding, last night I saw—” “It is finished,” said Coin. He held up the egg, which flashed occasionally from some inner light and gave off tiny white prominences. Not only was it a long way off, Spelter thought, it was also extremely heavy; it went right through heaviness and out the other side, into that strange negative realism where lead would be a vacuum. He grabbed Carding’s sleeve again. “Carding, listen, it’s important, listen, when I looked in—” “I really wish you’d stop doing that. ” “But the staff, his staff, it’s not—” Coin stood up and pointed the staff at the wall, where a doorway instantly appeared. He marched out through it, leaving the wizards to follow him.

He went through the Archchancellor’s garden, followed by a gaggle of wizards in the same way that a comet is followed by its tail, and didn’t stop until he reached the banks of the Ankh. There were some hoary old willows here, and the river flowed, or at any rate moved, in a horseshoe bend around a small newthaunted meadow known rather optimistically as Wizards Pleasaunce. On summer evenings, if the wind was blowing toward the river, it was a nice area for an afternoon stroll. The warm silver haze still hung over the city as Coin padded through the damp grass until he reached the center. He tossed the egg, which drifted in a gentle arc and landed with a squelch. He turned to the wizards as they hurried up. “Stand well back,” he commanded. “And be prepared to run. ” He pointed the octiron staff at the half-sunken thing. A bolt of octarine light shot from its tip and struck the egg, exploding into a shower of sparks that left blue and purple after-images. There was a pause. A dozen wizards watched the egg expectantly. A breeze shook the willow trees in a totally unmysterious way. Nothing else happened. “Er—” Spelter began. And then came the first tremor. A few leaves fell out of the trees and some distant water bird took off in fright. The sound started as a low groaning, experienced rather than heard, as though everyone’s feet had suddenly become their ears. The trees trembled, and so did one or two wizards. The mud around the egg began to bubble. And exploded. The ground peeled back like lemon rind. Gouts of steaming mud spattered the wizards as they dived for the cover of the trees. Only Coin, Spelter and Carding were left to watch the sparkling white building arise from the meadow, grass and dirt pouring off it. Other towers erupted from the ground behind them; buttresses grew through the air, linking tower with tower. Spelter whimpered when the soil flowed away from around his feet, and was replaced by flagstones flecked with silver. He lurched as the floor rose inexorably, carrying the three high above the treetops. The rooftops of the University went past and fell away below them. Ankh-Morpork spread out like a map, the river a trapped snake, the plains a misty blur. Spelter’s ears popped, but the climb went on, into the clouds. They emerged drenched and cold into blistering sunlight with the cloud cover spreading away in every direction. Other towers were rising around them, glinting painfully in the sharpness of the day. Carding knelt down awkwardly and felt the floor gingerly. He signalled to Spelter to do the same. Spelter touched a surface that was smoother than stone. It felt like ice would feel if ice was slightly warm, and looked like ivory. While it wasn’t exactly transparent, it gave the impression that it would like to be. He got the distinct feeling that, if he closed his eyes, he wouldn’t be able to feel it at all. He met Carding’s gaze. “Don’t look at, um, me,” he said. “I don’t know what it is either. ” They looked up at Coin, who said: “It’s magic. ” “Yes, lord, but what is it made of?” said Carding. “It is made of magic. Raw magic. Solidified. Curdled. Renewed from second to second. Could you imagine a better substance to build the new home of sourcery?” The staff flared for a moment, melting the clouds. The Discworld appeared below them, and from up here you could see that it was indeed a disc, pinned to the sky by the central mountain of Cori Celesti, where the gods lived. There was the Circle Sea, so close that it might even be possible to dive into it from here; there was the vast continent of Klatch, squashed by perspective. The Rimfall around the edge of the world was a sparkling curve. “It’s too big,” said Spelter under his breath. The world he had lived in hadn’t stretched much further than the gates of the University, and he’d preferred it that way. A man could be comfortable in a world that size. He certainly couldn’t be comfortable about being half a mile in the air standing on something that wasn’t, in some fundamental way, there. The thought shocked him. He was a wizard, and he was worrying about magic. He sidled cautiously back toward Carding, who said: “It isn’t exactly what I expected. ” “Um?” “It looks a lot smaller up here, doesn’t it. ” “Well, I don’t know. Listen, I must tell you—” “Look at the Ramtops, now. You could almost reach out and touch them. ” They stared out across two hundred leagues toward the towering mountain range, glittering and white and cold. It was said that if you travelled hubwards through the secret valleys of the Ramtops, you would find, in the frozen lands under Cori Celesti itself, the secret realm of the Ice Giants, imprisoned after their last great battle with the gods. In those days the mountains had been mere islands in a great sea of ice, and ice lived on them still. Coin smiled his golden smile. “What did you say, Carding?” he said. “It’s the clear air, lord. And they look so close and small. I only said I could almost touch them—” Coin waved him into silence. He extended one thin arm, rolling back his sleeve in the traditional sign that magic was about to be performed without trickery. He reached out, and then turned back with his fingers closed around what was, without any shadow of a doubt, a handful of snow. The two wizards observed it in stunned silence as it melted and dripped onto the floor. Coin laughed. “You find it so hard to believe?” he said. “Shall I pick pearls from rim-most Krull, or sand from the Great Nef? Could your old wizardry do half as much?” It seemed to Spelter that his voice took on a metallic edge. He stared intently at their faces. Finally Carding sighed and said rather quietly, “No. All my life I have sought magic, and all I found was colored lights and little tricks and old, dry books. Wizardry has done nothing for the world. ” “And if I tell you that I intend to dissolve the Orders and close the University? Although, of course, my senior advisors will be accorded all due status. ” Carding’s knuckles whitened, but he shrugged. “There is little to say,” he said. “What good is a candle at noonday?” Coin turned to Spelter. So did the staff. The filigree carvings were regarding him coldly. One of them, near the top of the staff, looked unpleasantly like an eyebrow. “You’re very quiet, Spelter. Do you not agree?” No. The world had sourcery once, and gave it up for wizardry. Wizardry is magic for men, not gods. It’s not for us. There was something wrong with it, and we have forgotten what it was. I liked wizardry. It didn’t upset the world. It fitted. It was right. A wizard was all I wanted to be. He looked down at his feet. “Yes,” he whispered. “Good,” said Coin, in a satisfied tone of voice. He strolled to the edge of the tower and looked down at the street map of Ankh-Morpork far below. The Tower of Art came barely a tenth of the way toward them. “I believe,” he said, “I believe that we will hold the ceremony next week, at full moon. ” “Er. It won’t be full moon for three weeks,” said Carding. “Next week,” Coin repeated. “If I say the moon will be full, there will be no argument. ” He continued to stare down at the model buildings of the University, and then pointed. “What’s that?” Carding craned. “Er. The Library. Yes. It’s the Library. Er. ” The silence was so oppressive that Carding felt something more was expected of him. Anything would be better than that silence. “It’s where we keep the books, you know. Ninety thousand volumes, isn’t it, Spelter?” “Um? Oh. Yes. About ninety thousand, I suppose. ” Coin leaned on the staff and stared. “Burn them,” he said. “All of them. ” Midnight strutted its black stuff along the corridors of Unseen University as Spelter, with rather less confidence, crept cautiously toward the impassive doors of the Library. He knocked, and the sound echoed so loudly in the empty building that he had to lean against the wall and wait for his heart to slow down a bit. After a while he heard a sound like heavy furniture being moved about. “Oook?” “It’s me. ” “Oook?” “Spelter. ” “Oook.

” “Look, you’ve got to get out! He’s going to burn the Library!” There was no reply. Spelter let himself sag to his knees. “He’ll do it, too,” he whispered. “He’ll probably make me do it, it’s that staff, um, it knows everything that’s going on, it knows that I know about it…please help me…” “Oook?” “The other night, I looked into his room…the staff, the staff was glowing , it was standing there in the middle of the room like a beacon and the boy was on the bed sobbing, I could feel it reaching out, teaching him, whispering terrible things, and then it noticed me, you’ve got to help me, you’re the only one who isn’t under the—” Spelter stopped. His face froze. He turned around very slowly, without willing it, because something was gently spinning him. He knew the University was empty. The wizards had all moved into the New Tower, where the lowliest student had a suite more splendid than any senior mage had before. The staff hung in the air a few feet away. It was surrounded by a faint octarine glow. He stood up very carefully and, keeping his back to the stonework and his eyes firmly fixed on the thing, slithered gingerly along the wall until he reached the end of the corridor. At the corner he noted that the staff, while not moving had revolved on its axis to follow him. He gave a little cry, grasped the skirts of his robe, and ran. The staff was in front of him. He slid to a halt and stood there, catching his breath. “You don’t frighten me,” he lied, and turned on his heel and marched off in a different direction, snapping his fingers to produce a torch that burned with a fine white flame (only its penumbra of octarine proclaimed it to be of magical origin). Once again, the staff was in front of him. The light of his torch was sucked into a thin, singing steam of white fire that flared and vanished with a “pop. ” He waited, his eyes watering with blue after-images, but if the staff was still there it didn’t seem to be inclined to take advantage of him. When vision returned he felt he could make out an even darker shadow on his left. The stairway down to the kitchens. He darted for it, leaping down the unseen steps and landing heavily and unexpectedly on uneven flags. A little moonlight filtered through a grating in the distance and somewhere up there, he knew, was a doorway into the outside world. Staggering a little, his ankles aching, the noise of his own breath booming in his ears as though he’d stuck his entire head in a seashell, Spelter set off across the endless dark desert of the floor. Things clanked underfoot. There were no rats here now, of course, but the kitchen had fallen into disuse lately—the University’s cooks had been the best in the world, but now any wizard could conjure up meals beyond mere culinary skill. The big copper pans hung neglected on the wall, their sheen already tarnishing, and the kitchen ranges under the giant chimney arch were filled with nothing but chilly ash… The staff lay across the back door like a bar. It spun up as Spelter tottered toward it and hung, radiating quiet malevolence, a few feet away. Then, quite smoothly, it began to glide toward him. He backed away, his feet slipping on the greasy stones. A thump across the back of his things made him yelp, but as he reached behind him he found it was only one of the chopping blocks. His hand groped desperately across its scarred surface and, against all hope, found a cleaver buried in the wood. In an instinctive gesture as ancient as mankind, Spelter’s fingers closed around its handle. He was out of breath and out of patience and out of space and time and also scared, very nearly, out of his mind. So when the staff hovered in front of him he wrenched the chopper up and around with all the strength he could muster…. And hesitated. All that was wizardly in him cried out against the destruction of so much power, power that perhaps even now could be used, used by him… And the staff swung around so that its axis was pointing directly at him. And several corridors away, the Librarian stood braced with his back against the Library door, watching the blue and white flashes that flickered across the floor. He heard the distant snap of raw energy, and a sound that started low and ended up in zones of pitch that even Wuffles, lying with his paws over his head, could not hear. And then there was a faint, ordinary tinkling noise, such as might be made by a fused and twisted metal cleaver dropping onto flagstones. It was the sort of noise that makes the silence that comes after it roll forward like a warm avalanche. The Librarian wrapped the silence around him like a cloak and stood staring up at the rank on rank of books, each one pulsing faintly in the glow of its own magic. Shelf after shelf looked down * at him. They had heard. He could feel the fear. The orangutan stood statue-still for several minutes, and then appeared to reach a decision. He knuckled his way across to his desk and, after much rummaging, produced a heavy key-ring bristling with keys. Then he went back and stood in the middle of the floor and said, very deliberately, “Oook. ” The books craned forward on their shelves. Now he had their full attention. “What is this place?” said Conina. Rincewind looked around him, and made a guess. They were still in the heart of Al Khali. He could hear the hum of it beyond the walls. But in the middle of the teeming city someone had cleared a vast space, walled it off, and planted a garden so romantically natural that it looked as real as a sugar pig. “It looks like someone has taken twice five miles of inner, city and girdled them around with walls and towers,” he hazarded. “What a strange idea,” said Conina. “Well, some of the religions here—well, when you die, you see, they think you go to this sort of garden, where there’s all this sort of music and, and,” he continued, wretchedly, “sherbet and, and—young women. ” Conina took in the green splendor of the walled garden, with its peacocks, intricate arches and slightly wheezy fountains. A dozen reclining women stared back at her, impassively. A hidden string orchestra was playing the complicated Klatchian bhong music. “I’m not dead,” she said. “I’m sure I would have remembered. Besides, this isn’t my idea of paradise. ” She looked critically at the reclining figures, and added, “I wonder who does their hair?” A sword point prodded her in the small of the back, and the two of them set out along the ornate path toward a small domed pavilion surrounded by olive trees. She scowled. “Anyway, I don’t like sherbet. ” Rincewind didn’t comment. He was busily examining the state of his own mind, and wasn’t happy at the sight of it. He had a horrible feeling that he was falling in love. He was sure he had all the symptoms. There were the sweaty palms, the hot sensation in the stomach, the general feeling that the skin of his chest was made of tight elastic. There was the feeling every time Conina spoke, that someone was running hot steel into his spine. He glanced down at the Luggage, tramping stoically alongside him, and recognized the symptoms. “Not you, too?” he said. Possibly it was only the play of sunlight on the Luggage’s battered lid, but it was just possible that for an instant it looked redder than usual. Of course, sapient pearwood has this sort of weird mental link with its owner…Rincewind shook his head. Still, it’d explain why the thing wasn’t its normal malignant self. “It’d never work,” he said. “I mean, she’s a female and you’re a, well, you’re a—” He paused. “Well, whatever you are, you’re of the wooden persuasion. It’d never work. People would talk. ” He turned and glared at the black-robed guards behind him. “I don’t know what you’re looking at,” he said severely. The Luggage sidled over to Conina, following her so closely that she banged an ankle on it. “Push off,” she snapped, and kicked it again, this time on purpose. Insofar as the Luggage ever had an expression, it looked at her in shocked betrayal.

The pavilion ahead of them was an ornate onion-shaped dome, studded with precious stones and supported on four pillars. Its interior was a mass of cushions on which lay a rather fat, middle-aged man surrounded by three young women. He wore a purple robe interwoven with gold thread; they, as far as Rincewind could see, demonstrated that you could make six small saucepan lids and a few yards of curtain netting go a long way although—he shivered—not really far enough. The man appeared to be writing. He glanced up at them. “I suppose you don’t know a good rhyme for ‘thou’?” he said peevishly. Rincewind and Conina exchanged glances. “Plough?” said Rincewind. “Bough?” “Cow?” suggested Conina, with forced brightness. The man hesitated. “Cow I quite like,” he said, “Cow has got possibilities. Cow might, in fact, do. Do pull up a cushion, by the way. Have some sherbet. Why are you standing there like that?” “It’s these ropes,” said Conina. “I have this allergy to cold steel,” Rincewind added. “Really, how tiresome,” said the fat man, and clapped a pair of hands so heavy with rings that the sound was more of a clang. Two guards stepped forward smartly and cut the bonds, and then the whole battalion melted away, although Rincewind was acutely conscious of dozens of dark eyes watching them from the surrounding foliage. Animal instinct told him that, while he now appeared to be alone with the man and Conina, any aggressive moves on his part would suddenly make the world a sharp and painful place. He tried to radiate tranquillity and total friendliness. He tried to think of something to say. “Well,” he ventured, looking around at the brocaded hangings, the ruby-studded pillars and the gold filigree cushions, “you’ve done this place up nicely. It’s—” he sought for something suitably descriptive—“well, pretty much of a miracle of rare device. ” “One aims for simplicity,” sighed the man, still scribbling busily. “Why are you here? Not that it isn’t always a pleasure to meet fellow students of the poetic muse. ” “We were brought here,” said Conina. “Men with swords,” added Rincewind. “Dear fellows, they do so like to keep in practice. Would you like one of these?” He snapped his fingers at one of the girls. “Not, er, right now,” Rincewind began, but she’d picked up a plate of golden-brown sticks and demurely passed it toward him. He tried one. It was delicious, a sort of sweet crunchy flavor with a hint of honey. He took two more. “Excuse me,” said Conina, “but who are you? And where is this?” “My name is Creosote, Seriph of Al Khali,” said the fat man, “and this is my Wilderness. One does one’s best. ” Rincewind coughed on his honey stick. “Not Creosote as in ‘As rich as Creosote’?” he said. “That was my dear father. I am, in fact, rather richer. When one has a great deal of money, I am afraid, it is hard to achieve simplicity. One does one’s best. ” He sighed. “You could try giving it away,” said Conina. He sighed again. “That isn’t easy, you know. No, one just has to try to do a little with a lot. ” “No, no, but look,” said Rincewind spluttering bits of stick, “they say, I mean, everything you touch turns into gold , for goodness sake. ” “That could make going to the lavatory a bit tricky,” said Conina brightly. “Sorry. ” “One hears such stories about oneself,” said Creosote, affecting not to have heard. “So tiresome. As if wealth mattered. True riches lie in the treasure houses of literature. ” “The Creosote I heard of,” said Conina slowly, “was head of this band of, well, mad killers. The original Assassins, feared throughout hubward Klatch. No offense meant. ” “Ah yes, dear father,” said Creosote junior. “The hashishim. Such a novel ideal. * But not really very efficient. So we hired Thugs instead. ” “Ah. Named after a religious sect,” said Conina knowingly. Creosote gave her a long look. “No,” he said slowly, “I don’t think so. I think we named them after the way they push people’s faces through the back of their heads. Dreadful, really. ” He picked up the parchment he had been writing on, and continued, “I seek a more cerebral life, which is why I had the city center converted into a Wilderness. So much better for the mental flow. One does one’s best. May I read you my latest oeuvre?” “Egg?” said Rincewind, who wasn’t following this. Creosote thrust out one pudgy hand and declaimed as follows: “ A summer palace underneath the bough , A flask of wine, a loaf of bread, some lamb couscous with courgettes, roast peacock tongues, kebabs, iced sherbet, selection of sweets from the trolley and choice of Thou , Singing beside me in the Wilderness , And Wilderness is —” He paused, and picked up his pen thoughtfully. “Maybe cow isn’t such a good idea,” he said. “Now that I come to look at it—” Rincewind glanced at the manicured greenery, carefully arranged rocks and high surrounding walls. One of the Thous winked at him. “This is a Wilderness?” he said. “My landscape gardeners incorporated all the essential features, I believe. They spent simply ages getting the rills sufficiently sinuous. I am reliably informed that they contain prospects of rugged grandeur and astonishing natural beauty. ” “And scorpions,” said Rincewind, helping himself to another honey stick. “I don’t know about that,” said the poet. “Scorpions sound unpoetic to me. Wild honey and locusts seem more appropriate, according to the standard poetic instructions, although I’ve never really developed the taste for insects. ” “I always understood that the kind of locust people ate in wildernesses was the fruit of a kind of tree,” said Conina. “Father always said it was quite tasty. ” “Not insects?” said Creosote. “I don’t think so. ” The Seriph nodded at Rincewind. “You might as well finish them up, then,” he said. “Nasty crunchy things, I couldn’t see the point. ” “I don’t wish to sound ungrateful,” said Conina, over the sound of Rincewind’s frantic coughing. “But why did you have us brought here?” “Good question. ” Creosote looked at her blankly for a few seconds, as if trying to remember why they were there. “You really are a most attractive young woman,” he said. “You can’t play a dulcimer, by any chance?” “How many blades has it got?” said Conina. “Pity,” said the Seriph, “I had one specially imported. ” “My father taught me to play the harmonica,” she volunteered. Creosote’s lips moved soundlessly as he tried out the idea. “No good,” he said. “Doesn’t scan. Thanks all the same, though. ” He gave her another thoughtful look. “You know, you really are most becoming. Has anyone ever told you your neck is as a tower of ivory?” “Never,” said Conina. “Pity,” said Creosote again. He rummaged among his cushions and produced a small bell, which he rang. After a while a tall, saturnine figure appeared from behind the pavilion. He had the look of someone who could think his way through a corkscrew without bending, and a certain something about the eyes which would have made the average rabid rodent tiptoe away, discouraged. That man, you would have said, has got Grand Vizier written all over him. No one can tell him anything about defrauding widows and imprisoning impressionable young men in alleged jewel caves. When it comes to dirty work he probably wrote the book or, more probably, stole it from someone else. He wore a turban with a pointy hat sticking out of it. He had a long thin mustache, of course. “Ah, Abrim,” said Creosote. “Highness?” “My Grand Vizier,” said the Seriph. —thought so—, said Rincewind to himself. “These people, why did we have them brought here?” The vizier twirled his mustache, probably foreclosing another dozen mortgages. “The hat, highness,” he said. “The hat, if you remember. ” “Ah, yes. Fascinating. Where did we put it?” “Hold on,” said Rincewind urgently. “This hat…it wouldn’t be a sort of battered pointy one, with lots of stuff on it? Sort of lace and stuff, and, and—” he hesitated—“no one’s tried to put it on, have they?” “It specifically warned us not to,” said Creosote, “so Abrim got a slave to try it on, of course. He said it gave him a headache.

” “It also told us that you would shortly be arriving,” said the vizier, bowing slightly at Rincewind, “and therefore I—that is to say, the Seriph felt that you might be able to tell us more about this wonderful artifact?” There is a tone of voice known as interrogative, and the vizier was using it; a slight edge to his words suggested that, if he didn’t learn more about the hat very quickly, he had various activities in mind in which further words like “red hot” and “knives” would appear. Of course, all Grand Viziers talk like that all the time. There’s probably a school somewhere. “Gosh, I’m glad you’ve found it,” said Rincewind, “That hat is gngngnh—” “I beg your pardon?” said Abrim, signalling a couple of lurking guards to step forward. “I missed the bit after the young lady—” he bowed at Conina—“elbowed you in the ear. ” “I think,” said Conina, politely but firmly, “you better take us to see it. ” Five minutes later, from its resting place on a table in the Seriph’s treasury, the hat said, At last. What kept you? It is at a time like this, with Rincewind and Conina probably about to be the victims of a murderous attack, and Coin about to address the assembled cowering wizards on the subject of treachery, and the Disc about to fall under a magical dictatorship, that it is worth mentioning the subject of poetry and inspiration. For example, the Seriph, in his bijou wildernessette, has just riffled back through his pages of verse to revise the lines which begin: “ Get up! For morning in the cup of day , Has dropped the spoon that scares the stars away. ” —and he has sighed, because the white-hot lines searing across his imagination never seem to come out exactly as he wants them. It is, in fact, impossible that they ever will. Sadly, this sort of thing happens all the time. It is a well-known established fact throughout the many-dimensional worlds of the multiverse that most really great discoveries are owed to one brief moment of inspiration. There’s a lot of spadework first, of course, but what clinches the whole thing is the sight of, say, a falling apple or a boiling kettle or the water slopping over the edge of the bath. Something goes click inside the observer’s head and then everything falls into place. The shape of DNA, it is popularly said, owes its discovery to the chance sight of a spiral staircase when the scientist’s mind was just at the right receptive temperature. Had he used the elevator, the whole science of genetics might have been a good deal different. * This is thought of as somehow wonderful. It isn’t. It is tragic. Little particles of inspiration sleet through the universe all the time traveling through the densest matter in the same way that a neutrino passes through a candyfloss haystack, and most of them miss. Even worse, most of the ones that hit the exact cerebral target hit the wrong one. For example, the weird dream about a lead doughnut on a mile-high gantry, which in the right mind would have been the catalyst for the invention of repressed-gravitational electricity generation (a cheap and inexhaustible and totally non-polluting form of power which the world in question had been seeking for centuries, and for the lack of which it was plunged into a terrible and pointless war) was in fact had by a small and bewildered duck. By another stroke of bad luck, the sight of a herd of white horses galloping through a field of wild hyacinths would have led a struggling composer to write the famous Flying God Suite , bringing succour and balm to the souls of millions, had he not been at home in bed with shingles. The inspiration therefore fell to a nearby frog, who was not in much of a position to make a startling contribution to the field of tone poetry. Many civilizations have recognized this shocking waste and tried various methods to prevent it, most of them involving enjoyable but illegal attempts to tune the mind into the right wavelength by the use of exotic herbage or yeast products. It never works properly. And so Creosote, who had dreamt the inspiration for a rather fine poem about life and philosophy and how they both look much better through the bottom of a wine glass, was totally unable to do anything about it because he had as much poetic ability as a hyena. Why the gods allow this sort of thing to continue is a mystery. Actually, the flash of inspiration needed to explain it clearly and precisely has taken place, but the creature who received it—a small female bluetit—has never been able to make the position clear, even after some really strenuous coded messages on the tops of milk bottles. By a strange coincidence, a philosopher who had been devoting some sleepless nights to the same mystery woke up that morning with a wonderful new idea for getting peanuts out of bird tables. Which brings us rather neatly onto the subject of magic. A long way out in the dark gulfs of interstellar space, one single inspiration particle is clipping along unaware of its destiny, which is just as well, because its destiny is to strike, in a matter of hours, a tiny area of Rincewind’s mind. It would be a tough destiny even if Rincewind’s creative node was a reasonable size, but the particle’s karma had handed it the problem of hitting a moving target the size of a small raisin over a distance of several hundred lightyears. Life can be very difficult for a little subatomic particle in a great big universe. If it pulls it off, however, Rincewind will have a serious philosophic idea. If it doesn’t, a nearby brick will have an important insight which it will be totally unequipped to deal with. The Seriph’s palace, known to legend as the Rhoxie, occupied most of the center of Al Khali that wasn’t occupied by the wilderness. Most things connected with Creosote were famed in mythology and the arched, domed, many-pillared palace was said to have more rooms than any man had been able to count. Rincewind didn’t know which number he was in. “It’s magic, isn’t it?” said Abrim the vizier. He prodded Rincewind in the ribs. “You’re a wizard,” he said. “Tell me what it does. ” “How do you know I’m a wizard?” said Rincewind desperately. “It’s written on your hat,” said the vizier. “Ah. ” “And you were on the boat with it. My men saw you. ” “The Seriph employs slavers?” snapped Conina. “That doesn’t sound very simple !” “Oh, I employ the slavers. I am the vizier, after all,” said Abrim. “It is rather expected of me. ” He gazed thoughtfully at the girl, and then nodded at a couple of the guards. “The current Seriph is rather literary in his views,” he said. “I, on the other hand, am not. Take her to the seraglio, although,” he rolled his eyes and gave an irritable sigh, “I’m sure the only fate that awaits her there is boredom, and possibly a sore throat. ” He turned to Rincewind. “Don’t say anything,” he said. “Don’t move your hands. Don’t try any sudden feats of magic. I am protected by strange and powerful amulets. ” “Now just hold on a minute—” Rincewind began, and Conina said, “All right. I’ve always wondered what a harem looked like. ” Rincewind’s mouth went on opening and shutting, but no sounds came out. Finally he managed, “Have you?” She waggled an eyebrow at him. It was probably a signal of some sort. Rincewind felt he ought to have understood it, but peculiar passions were stirring in the depths of his being. They weren’t actually going to make him brave, but they were making him angry. Speeded up, the dialogue behind his eyes was going something like this: Ugh. Who’s that? Your conscience. I feel terrible. Look, they’re marching her off to the harem. Rather her than me, thought Rincewind, but without much conviction. Do something! There’s too many guards! They’ll kill me! So they’ll kill you, it’s not the end of the world. It will be for me, thought Rincewind grimly. But just think how good you’ll feel in your next life— Look, just shut up, will I? I’ve had just about enough of me. Abrim stepped across to Rincewind and looked at him curiously. “Who are you talking to?” he said.

“I warn you,” said Rincewind, between clenched teeth, “I have this magical box on legs which is absolutely merciless with attackers, one word from me and—” “I’m impressed,” said Abrim. “Is it invisible?” Rincewind risked a look behind him. “I’m sure I had it when I came in,” he said, and sagged. It would be mistaken to say the Luggage was nowhere to be seen. It was somewhere to be seen, it was just that the place wasn’t anywhere near Rincewind. Abrim walked slowly around the table on which sat the hat, twirling his mustache. “Once again,” he said, “I ask you: this is an artifact of power, I feel it, and you must tell me what it does. ” “Why don’t you ask it?” said Rincewind. “It refuses to tell me. ” “Well, why do you want to know?” Abrim laughed. It wasn’t a nice sound. It sounded as though he had had laughter explained to him, probably slowly and repeatedly, but had never heard anyone actually do it. “You’re a wizard,” he said. “Wizardry is about power. I have taken an interest in magic myself. I have the talent, you know. ” The vizier drew himself up stiffly. “Oh, yes. But they wouldn’t accept me at your University. They said I was mentally unstable, can you believe that?” “No,” said Rincewind, truthfully. Most of the wizards at Unseen had always seemed to him to be several bricks short of a shilling. Abrim seemed pretty normal wizard material. Abrim gave him an encouraging smile. Rincewind looked sideways at the hat. It said nothing. He looked back at the vizier. If the laughter had been weird, the smile made it sound as normal as birdsong. It looked as though the vizier had learned it from diagrams. “Wild horses wouldn’t get me to help you in any way,” he said. “Ah,” said the vizier. “A challenge. ” He beckoned to the nearest guard. “Do we have any wild horses in the stables?” “Some fairly angry ones, master. ” “Infuriate four of them and take them to the turnwise courtyard. And, oh, bring several lengths of chain. ” “Right away, master. ” “Um. Look,” said Rincewind. “Yes?” said Abrim. “Well, if you put it like that…” “You wish to make a point?” “It’s the Archchancellor’s hat, if you must know,” said Rincewind. “The symbol of wizardry. ” “Powerful?” Rincewind shivered. “Very,” he said. “Why is it called the Archchancellor’s hat?” “The Archchancellor is the most senior wizard, you see. The leader. But, look—” Abrim picked up the hat and turned it around and around in his hands. “It is, you might say, the symbol of office?” “Absolutely, but look, if you put it on, I’d better warn you—” Shut up. Abrim leapt back, the hat dropping to the floor. The wizard knows nothing. Send him away. We must negotiate. The vizier stared down at the glittering octarines around the hat. “I negotiate ? With an item of apparel?” I have much to offer, on the right head. Rincewind was appalled. It has already been indicated that he had the kind of instinct for danger usually found only in certain small rodents, and it was currently battering on the side of his skull in an attempt to run away and hide somewhere. “Don’t listen!” he shouted. Put me on , said the hat beguilingly, in an ancient voice that sounded as though the speaker had a mouthful of felt. If there really was a school for viziers, Abrim had come top of the class. “We’ll talk first,” he said. He nodded at the guards, and pointed to Rincewind. “Take him away and throw him in the spider tank,” he said. “No, not spiders, on top of everything else!” moaned Rincewind. The captain of the guard stepped forward and knuckled his forehead respectfully. “Run out of spiders, master,” he said. “Oh. ” The vizier looked momentarily blank. “In that case, lock him in the tiger cage. ” The guard hesitated, trying to ignore the sudden outburst of whimpering beside him. “The tiger’s been ill, master. Backward and forward all night. ” “Then throw this snivelling coward down the shaft of eternal fire!” A couple of the guards exchanged glances over the head of Rincewind, who had sunk to his knees. “Ah. We’ll need a bit of notice of that, master—” “—to get it going again, like. ” The vizier’s fist came down hard on the table. The captain of the guard brightened up horribly. “There’s the snake pit, master,” he said. The other guards nodded. There was always the snake pit. Four heads turned toward Rincewind, who stood up and brushed the sand off his knees. “How do you feel about snakes?” said one of the guards. “Snakes? I don’t like snakes much—” “The snake pit,” said Abrim. “Right. The snake pit,” agreed the guards. “—I mean, some snakes are okay—” Rincewind continued, as two guards grabbed him by the elbows. In fact there was only one very cautious snake, which remained obstinately curled up in a corner of the shadowy pit watching Rincewind suspiciously, possibly because he reminded it of a mongoose. “Hi,” it said eventually. “Are you a wizard?” As a line of snake dialogue this was a considerable improvement on the normal string of esses, but Rincewind was sufficiently despondent not to waste time wondering and simply replied, “It’s on my hat, can’t you read?” “In seventeen languages, actually. I taught myself. ” “Really?” “I sent off for courses. But I try not to read, of course. It’s not in character. ” “I suppose it wouldn’t be. ” It was certainly the most cultured snake voice that Rincewind had ever heard. “It’s the same with the voice, I’m afraid,” the snake added. “I shouldn’t really be talking to you now. Not like this, anyway. I suppose I could grunt a bit. I rather think I should be trying to kill you, in fact. ” “I have curious and unusual powers,” said Rincewind. Fair enough, he thought, an almost total inability to master any form of magic is pretty unusual for a wizard and anyway, it doesn’t matter about lying to a snake. “Gosh. Well, I expect you won’t be in here long, then. ” “Hmm?” “I expect you’ll be levitating out of here like a shot, any minute. ” Rincewind looked up at the fifteen-foot-deep walls of the snake pit, and rubbed his bruises. “I might,” he said cautiously. “In that case, you wouldn’t mind taking me with you, would you?” “Eh?” “It’s a lot to ask, I know, but this pit is, well, it’s the pits. ” “Take you? But you’re a snake, it’s your pit. The idea is that you stay here and people come to you. I mean, I know about these things. ” A shadow behind the snake unfolded itself and stood up. “That’s a pretty unpleasant thing to say about anyone,” it said. The figure stepped forward, into the pool of light. It was a young man, taller than Rincewind. That is to say, Rincewind was sitting down, but the boy would have been taller than him even if he was standing up. To say that he was lean would be to miss a perfect opportunity to use the word “emaciated. ” He looked as though toast racks and deckchairs had figured in his ancestry, and the reason it was so obvious was his clothes. Rincewind looked again. He had been right the first time. The lank-haired figure in front of him was wearing the practically traditional garb for barbarian heroes—a few studded leather thongs, big furry boots, a little leather holdall and goosepimples. There was nothing unusual about that, you’d see a score of similarly-dressed adventurers in any street of Ankh-Morpork, except that you’d never see another one wearing— The young man followed his gaze, looked down, and shrugged. “I can’t help it,” he said. “I promised my mother. ” “ Woolly underwear? ” Strange things were happening in Al Khali that night. There was a certain silveriness rolling in from the sea, which baffled the city’s astronomers, but that wasn’t the strangest thing. There were little flashes of raw magic discharging off sharp edges, like static electricity, but that wasn’t the strangest thing. The strangest thing walked into a tavern on the edge of the city, where the everlasting wind blew the smell of the desert through every unglazed window, and sat down in the middle of the floor. The occupants watched it for some time, sipping their coffee laced with desert orakh.

This drink, made from cacti sap and scorpion venom, is one of the most virulent alcoholic beverages in the universe, but the desert nomads don’t drink it for its intoxicating effects. They use it because they need something to mitigate the effect of Klatchian coffee. Not because you could use the coffee to waterproof roofs. Not because it went through the untrained stomach lining like a hot ball bearing through runny butter. What it did was worse. It made you knurd. * The sons of the desert glanced suspiciously into their thimble-sized coffee-cups, and wondered whether they had overdone the orakh. Were they all seeing the same thing? Would it be foolish to pass a remark? These are the sort of things you need to worry about if you want to retain any credibility as a steely-eyed son of the deep desert. Pointing a shaking finger and saying, “Hey, look, a box just walked in here on hundreds of little legs, isn’t that extraordinary!” would show a terrible and possibly fatal lack of machismo. The drinkers tried not to catch one another’s eye, even when the Luggage slid up to the row of orakh jars against the far wall. The Luggage had a way of standing still that was somehow even more terrible than watching it move about. Finally one of them said, “I think it wants a drink. ” There was a long silence, and then one of the others said, with the precision of a chess Grand Master making a killing move, “What does?” The rest of the drinkers gazed impassively into their glasses. There was no sound for a while other than the plopplopping of a gecko’s footsteps across the sweating ceiling. The first drinker said, “The demon that’s just moved up behind you is what I was referring to, O brother of the sands. ” The current holder of the All-Wadi Imperturbability Championship smiled glassily until he felt a tugging on his robe. The smile stayed where it was but the rest of his face didn’t seem to want to be associated with it. The Luggage was feeling crossed in love and was doing what any sensible person would do in these circumstances, which was get drunk. It had no money and no way of asking for what it wanted, but the Luggage somehow never had much difficulty in making itself understood. The tavern keeper spent a very long lonely night filling a saucer with orakh, before the Luggage rather unsteadily walked out through one of the walls. The desert was silent. It wasn’t normally silent. It was normally alive with the chirruping of crickets, the buzz of mosquitoes, the hiss and whisper of hunting wings skimming across the cooling sands. But tonight it was silent with the thick, busy silence of dozens of nomads folding their tents and getting the hell out of it. “I promised my mother,” said the boy. “I get these colds, you see. ” “Perhaps you should try wearing, well, a bit more clothing?” “Oh, I couldn’t do that. You’ve got to wear all this leather stuff. ” “I wouldn’t call it all ,” said Rincewind. “There’s not enough of it to call it all. Why have you got to wear it?” “So people know I’m a barbarian hero, of course. ” Rincewind leaned his back against the fetid walls of the snake pit and stared at the boy. He looked at two eyes like boiled grapes, a shock of ginger hair, and a face that was a battleground between its native freckles and the dreadful invading forces of acne. Rincewind rather enjoyed times like this. They convinced him that he wasn’t mad because, if he was mad, that left no word at all to describe some of the people he met. Barbarian hero,” he murmured. “It’s all right, isn’t it? All this leather stuff was very expensive. ” “Yes, but, look—what’s your name, lad?” “Nijel—” “You see, Nijel—” “Nijel the Destroyer,” Nijel added. “You see, Nijel—” “—the Destroyer—” “All right, the Destroyer—” said Rincewind desperately. “—son of Harebut the Provision Merchant—” “What?” “You’ve got to be the son of someone,” Nijel explained. “It says it here somewhere—” He half-turned and fumbled inside a grubby fur bag, eventually bringing out a thin, torn and grubby book. “There’s a bit in here about selecting your name,” he muttered. “How come you ended up in this pit, then?” “I was intending to steal from Creosote’s treasury, but I had an asthma attack,” said Nijel, still fumbling through the crackling pages. Rincewind looked down at the snake, which was still trying to keep out of everyone’s way. It had a good thing going in the pit, and knew trouble when it saw it. It wasn’t about to cause any irritation for anyone. It stared right back up at Rincewind and shrugged, which is pretty clever for a reptile with no shoulders. “How long have you been a barbarian hero?” “I’m just getting started. I’ve always wanted to be one, you see, and I thought maybe I could pick it up as I went along. ” Nijel peered short-sightedly at Rincewind. “That’s all right, isn’t it?” “It’s a desperate sort of life, by all accounts,” Rincewind volunteered. “Have you thought what it might be like selling groceries for the next fifty years?” Nijel muttered darkly. Rincewind thought. “Is lettuce involved?” he said. “Oh yes,” said Nijel, shoving the mysterious book back in his bag. Then he started to pay close attention to the pit walls. Rincewind sighed. He liked lettuce. It was so incredibly boring. He had spent years in search of boredom, but had never achieved it. Just when he thought he had it in his grasp his life would suddenly become full of near-terminal interest. The thought that someone could voluntarily give up the prospect of being bored for fifty years made him feel quite weak. With fifty years ahead of him, he thought, he could elevate tedium to the status of an art form. There would be no end to the things he wouldn’t do. “Do you know any lamp wick jokes?” he said, settling himself comfortably on the sand. “I don’t think so,” said Nijel politely, tapping a slab. “I know hundreds. They are very droll. For example, do you know how many trolls it takes to change a lamp wick?” “This slab moves,” said Nijel. “Look, it’s a sort of door. Give me a hand. ” He pushed enthusiastically, his biceps standing out on his arms like peas on a pencil. “I expect it’s some sort of secret passage,” he added. “Come on, use a bit of magic, will you? It’s stuck. ” “Don’t you want to hear the rest of the joke?” said Rincewind, in a pained voice. It was warm and dry down here, with no immediate danger, not counting the snake, which was trying to look inconspicuous. Some people were never satisfied. “I think not right at the moment,” said Nijel. “I think I would prefer a bit of magical assistance. ” “I’m not very good at it,” said Rincewind. “Never got the hang of it, see, it’s more than just pointing a finger at it and saying ‘Kazam—’” There was a sound like a thick bolt of octarine lightning zapping into a heavy rock slab and smashing it into a thousand bits of spitting, white-hot shrapnel, and no wonder. After a while Nijel slowly got to his feet, beating out the small fires in his vest. “Yes,” he said, in the voice of one determined not to lose his self-control. “Well. Very good. We’ll just let it cool down a bit, shall we? And then we, then we, we might as well be going. ” He cleared his throat a bit. “Nnh,” said Rincewind. He was starting fixedly at the end of his finger, holding it out at arm’s length in a manner that suggested he was very sorry he hadn’t got longer arms. Nijel peered into the smouldering hole. “It seems to open into some kind of room,” he said. “Nnh. ” “After you,” said Nijel. He gave Rincewind a gentle push. The wizard staggered forward, bumped his head on the rock and didn’t appear to notice, and then rebounded into the hole. Nijel patted the wall, and his brow wrinkled. “Can you feel something?” he said. “Should the stone be trembling?” “Nnh. ” “Are you all right?” “Nnh. ” Nijel put his ear to the stones. “There’s a very strange noise,” he said. “A sort of humming. ” A bit of dust shook itself free from the mortar over his head and floated down. Then a couple of much heavier rocks danced free from the walls of the pits and thudded into the sand.

Rincewind had already staggered off down the tunnel, making little shocked noise and completely ignoring the stones that were missing him by inches and, in some cases, hitting him by kilograms. If he had been in any state to notice it, he would have known what was happening. The air had a greasy feel and smelled like burning tin. Faint rainbows filmed every point and edge. A magical charge was building up somewhere very close to them, and it was a big one, and it was trying to earth itself. A handy wizard, even one as incapable as Rincewind, stood out like a copper lighthouse. Nijel blundered out of the rumbling, broiling dust and bumped into him standing, surrounded by an octarine corona, in another cave. Rincewind looked terrible. Creosote would have probably noted his flashing eyes and floating hair. He looked like someone who had just eaten a handful of pineal glands and washed them down with a pint of adrenochrome. He looked so high you could bounce intercontinental TV off him. Every single hair stood out from his head, giving off little sparks. Even his skin gave the impression that it was trying to get away from him. His eyes appeared to be spinning horizontally; when he opened his mouth, peppermint sparks flashed from his teeth. Where he had trodden, stone melted or grew ears or turned into something small and scaly and purple and flew away. “I say,” said Nijel, “are you all right?” “Nnh,” said Rincewind, and the syllable turned into a large doughnut. “You don’t look all right,” said Nijel with what might be called, in the circumstances, unusual perspicacity. “Nnh. ” “Why not try getting us out of here?” Nijel added, and wisely flung himself flat on the floor. Rincewind nodded like a puppet and pointed his loaded digit at the ceiling, which melted like ice under a blowlamp. Still the rumbling went on, sending its disquieting harmonics dancing through the palace. It is a well-known factoid that there are frequencies that can cause panic, and frequencies that can cause embarrassing incontinence, but the shaking rock was resonating at the frequency that causes reality to melt and run out at the corners. Nijel regarded the dripping ceiling and cautiously tasted it. “Lime custard,” he said, and added, “I suppose there’s no chance of stairs, is there?” More fire burst from Rincewind’s ravaged fingers, coalescing into an almost perfect escalator, except that possibly no other moving staircase in the universe was floored with alligator skin. Nijel grabbed the gently spinning wizard and leapt aboard. Fortunately they had reached the top before the magic vanished, very suddenly. Sprouting out of the center of the palace, shattering rooftops like a mushroom bursting through an ancient pavement, was a white tower taller than any other building in Al Khali. Huge double doors had opened at its base and out of them, striding along as though they owned the place, were dozens of wizards. Rincewind thought he could recognize a few faces, faces which he’d seen before bumbling vaguely in lecture theaters or peering amiably at the world in the University grounds. They weren’t faces built for evil. They didn’t have a fang between them. But there was some common denominator among their expressions that could terrify a thoughtful person. Nijel pulled back behind a handy wall. He found himself looking into Rincewind’s worried eyes. “Hey, that’s magic!” “I know,” said Rincewind, “It’s not right!” Nijel peered up at the sparkling tower. “But—” “It feels wrong,” said Rincewind. “Don’t ask me why. ” Half a dozen of the Seriph’s guards erupted from an arched doorway and plunged toward the wizards, their headlong rush made all the more sinister by their ghastly battle silences. For a moment their swords flashed in the sunlight, and then a couple of the wizards turned, extended their hands and— Nijel looked away. “Urgh,” he said. A few curved swords dropped onto the cobbles. “I think we should very quietly go away,” said Rincewind. “But didn’t you see what they just turned them into?” “Dead people,” said Rincewind. “I know. I don’t want to think about it. ” Nijel thought he’d never stop thinking about it, especially around 3 a. m. on windy nights. The point about being killed by magic was that it was much more inventive than, say, steel; there were all sorts of interesting new ways to die, and he couldn’t put out of his mind the shapes he’d seen, just for an instant, before the wash of octarine fire had mercifully engulfed them. “I didn’t think wizards were like that,” he said, as they hurried down a passageway. “I thought they were more, well, more silly than sinister. Sort of figures of fun. ” “Laugh that one off, then,” muttered Rincewind. “But they just killed them, without even—” “I wish you wouldn’t go on about it. I saw it as well. ” Nijel drew back. His eyes narrowed. “You’re a wizard, too,” he said accusingly. “Not that kind I’m not,” said Rincewind shortly. “What kind are you, then?” “The non-killing kind. ” “It was the way they looked at them as if it just didn’t matter—” said Nijel, shaking his head. “That was the worst bit. ” “Yes. ” Rincewind dropped the single syllable heavily in front of Nijel’s train of thought, like a tree trunk. The boy shuddered, but at least he shut up. Rincewind actually began to feel sorry for him, which was very unusual—he normally felt he needed all his pity for himself. “Is that the first time you’ve seen someone killed?” he said. “Yes. ” “Exactly how long have you been a barbarian hero?” “Er. What year is this?” Rincewind peered around a corner, but such people as were around and vertical were far too busy panicking to bother about them. “Out on the road, then?” he said quietly. “Lost track of time? I know how it is. This is the Year of the Hyena. ” “Oh. In that case, about—” Nijel’s lips moved soundlessly—“about three days. Look,” he added quickly, “how can people kill like that? Without even thinking about it?” “I don’t know,” said Rincewind, in a tone of voice that suggested he was thinking about it. “I mean, even when the vizier had me thrown in the snake pit, at least he seemed to be taking an interest. ” “That’s good. Everyone should have an interest. ” “I mean, he even laughed!” “Ah. A sense of humor, too. ” Rincewind felt that he could see his future with the same crystal clarity that a man falling off a cliff sees the ground, and for much the same reason. So when Nijel said: “They just pointed their fingers without so much as—,” Rincewind snapped: “Just shut up, will you? How do you think I feel about it? I’m a wizard, too!” “Yes, well, you’ll be all right then,” muttered Nijel. It wasn’t a heavy blow, because even in a rage Rincewind still had muscles like tapioca, but it caught the side of Nijel’s head and knocked him down more by the weight of surprise than its intrinsic energy. “Yes, I’m a wizard all right,” Rincewind hissed. “A wizard who isn’t much good at magic! I’ve managed to survive up till now by not being important enough to die! And when all wizards are hated and feared, exactly how long do you think I’ll last?” “That’s ridiculous!” Rincewind couldn’t have been more taken aback if Nijel had struck him. “What?” “Idiot! All you have to do is stop wearing that silly robe and get rid of that daft had and no one will even know you’re a wizard!” Rincewind’s mouth opened and shut a few times as he gave a very lifelike impression of a goldfish trying to grasp the concept of tap-dancing. “Stop wearing the robe?” he said. “Sure. All those tatty sequins and things, it’s a total giveaway,” said Nijel, struggling to his feet. “Get rid of the hat?” “You’ve got to admit that going around with ‘wizzard’ written on it is a bit of a heavy hint. ” Rincewind gave him a worried grin. “Sorry,” he said, “I don’t quite follow you—” “Just get rid of them. It’s easy enough, isn’t it? Just drop them somewhere and then you could be a, a, well, whatever. Something that isn’t a wizard. ” There was a pause, broken only by the distant sounds of fighting. “Er,” said Rincewind, and shook his head.

“You’ve lost me there…” “Good grief, it’s perfectly simple to understand!” “…not sure I quite catch your drift…” murmured Rincewind, his face ghastly with sweat. “You can just stop being a wizard. ” Rincewind’s lips moved soundlessly as he replayed every word, one at a time, then all at once. “What?” he said, and then he said, “Oh. ” “Got it? Want to try it one more time?” Rincewind nodded gloomily. “I don’t think you understand. A wizard isn’t what you do , it’s what you are. If I wasn’t a wizard, I wouldn’t be anything. ” He took off his hat and twiddled nervously with the loose star on its point, causing a few more cheap sequins to part company. “I mean, it’s got wizard written on my hat,” he said. “It’s very important—” He stopped and stared at the hat. “Hat,” he said vaguely, aware of some importunate memory pressing its nose up against the windows of his mind. “It’s a good hat,” said Nijel, who felt that something was expected of him. “Hat,” said Rincewind again, and then added, “the hat! We’ve got to get the hat!” “You’ve got the hat,” Nijel pointed out. “Not this hat, the other hat. And Conina!” He took a few random steps along a passageway, and then sidled back. “Where do you suppose they are?” he said. “Who?” “There’s a magic hat I’ve got to find. And a girl. ” “Why?” “It might be rather difficult to explain. I think there might be screaming involved somewhere. ” Nijel didn’t have much of a jaw but, such as it was, he stuck it out. “There’s a girl needs rescuing?” he said grimly. Rincewind hesitated. “Someone will probably need rescuing,” he admitted. “It might possibly be her. Or at least in her vicinity. ” “Why didn’t you say so? This is more like it, this is what I was expecting. This is what heroism is all about. Let’s go!” There was another crash, and the sound of people yelling. “Where?” said Rincewind. “Anywhere!” Heroes usually have an ability to rush madly around crumbling palaces they hardly know, save everyone and get out just before the whole place blows up or sinks into the swamp. In fact Nijel and Rincewind visited the kitchens, assorted throne rooms, the stables (twice) and what seemed to Rincewind like several miles of corridor. Occasionally groups of black-clad guards would scurry past them, without so much as a second glance. “This is ridiculous,” said Nijel. “Why don’t we ask someone? Are you all right?” Rincewind leaned against a pillar decorated with embarrassing sculpture and wheezed. “You could grab a guard and torture the information out of him,” he said, gulping air. Nijel gave him an odd look. “Wait here,” he said, and wandered off until he found a servant industriously ransacking a cupboard. “Excuse me,” he said, “which way to the harem?” “Turn left three doors down,” said the man, without looking around. “Right. ” He wandered back again and told Rincewind. “Yes, but did you torture him?” “No. ” “That wasn’t very barbaric of you, was it?” “Well, I’m working up to it,” said Nijel. “I mean, I didn’t say ‘thank you’. ” Thirty seconds later they pushed aside a heavy bead curtain and entered the seraglio of the Seriph of Al Khali. There were gorgeous songbirds in cages of gold filigree. There were tinkling fountains. There were pots of rare orchids through which humming-birds skimmed like tiny, brilliant jewels. There were about twenty young women wearing enough clothes for, say, about half a dozen, huddled together in a silent crowd. Rincewind had eyes for none of this. That is not to say that the sight of several dozen square yards of hip and thigh in every shade from pink to midnight black didn’t start certain tides flowing deep in the crevasses of his libido, but they were swamped by the considerably bigger flood of panic at the sight of four guards turning toward him with scimitars in their hands and the light of murder in their eyes. Without hesitation, Rincewind took a step backwards. “Over to you, friend,” he said. “Right!” Nijel drew his sword and held it out in front of him, his arms trembling at the effort. There were a few seconds of total silence as everyone waited to see what would happen next. And then Nijel uttered the battle cry that Rincewind would never quite forget to the end of his life. “Erm,” he said, “excuse me…” “It seems a shame,” said a small wizard. The others didn’t speak. It was a shame, and there wasn’t a man among them who couldn’t hear the hot whine of guilt all down their backbones. But, as so often happens by that strange alchemy of the soul, the guilt made them arrogant and reckless. “Just shut up, will you?” said the temporary leader. He was called Benado Sconner, but there is something in the air tonight that suggests that it is not worth committing his name to memory. The air is dark and heavy and full of ghosts. The Unseen University isn’t empty, there just aren’t any people there. But of course the six wizards sent to burn down the Library aren’t afraid of ghosts, because they’re so charged with magic that they practically buzz as they walk, they’re wearing robes more splendid than any Archchancellor has worn, their pointy hats are more pointed than any hats have hitherto been, and the reason they’re standing so close together is entirely coincidental. “It’s awfully dark in here,” said the smallest of the wizards. “It’s midnight,” said Sconner sharply, “and the only dangerous things in here are us. Isn’t that right, boys?” There was a chorus of vague murmurs. They were all in awe of Sconner, who was rumored to do positive-thinking exercises. “And we’re not scared of a few old books, are we, lads?” He glowered at the smallest wizard. “You’re not, are you?” he added sharply. “Me? Oh. No. Of course not. They’re just paper, like he said,” said the wizard quickly. “Well, then. ” “There’s ninety thousand of them, mind,” said another wizard. “I always heard there was no end to ’em,” said another. “It’s all down to dimensions, I heard, like what we see is only the tip of the whatever, you know, the thing that is mostly underwater—” “Hippopotamus?” “Alligator?” “Ocean?” “Look, just shut up, all of you!” shouted Sconner. He hesitated. The darkness seemed to suck at the sound of his voice. It packed the air like feathers. He pulled himself together a bit. “Right, then,” he said, and turned toward the forbidding doors of the Library. He raised his hands, made a few complicated gestures in which his fingers, in some eye-watering way, appeared to pass through each other, and shattered the doors into sawdust. The waves of silence poured back again, strangling the sound of falling woodchips. There was no doubt that the doors were smashed. Four forlorn hinges hung trembling from the frame, and a litter of broken benches and shelves lay in the wreckage. Even Sconner was a little surprised. “There,” he said. “It’s as easy as that. You see? Nothing happened to me. Right?” There was a shuffling of curly-toed boots. The darkness beyond the doorway was limned with the indistinct, eye-aching glow of thaumaturgic radiation as possibility particles exceeded the speed of reality in a strong magical field. “Now then,” said Sconner, brightly, “who would like the honor of setting the fire?” Ten silent seconds later he said, “In that case I will do it myself. Honestly, I might as well be talking to the wall. ” He strode through the doorway and hurried across the floor to the little patch of starlight that lanced down from the glass dome high above the center of the Library (although, of course, there has always been considerable debate about the precise geography of the place; heavy concentrations of magic distort time and space, and it is possible that the Library doesn’t even have an edge, never mind a center). He stretched out his arms. “There. See? Absolutely nothing has happened. Now come on in. ” The other wizards did so, with great reluctance and a tendency to duck as they passed through the ravished arch. “Okay,” said Sconner, with some satisfaction.

“Now, has everyone got their matches as instructed? Magical fire won’t work, not on these books, so I want everyone to—” “Something moved up there,” said the smallest wizard. Sconner blinked. “What?” “Something moved up by the dome,” said the wizard, adding by way of explanation, “I saw it. ” Sconner squinted upwards into the bewildering shadows, and decided to exert a bit of authority. “Nonsense,” he said briskly. He pulled out a bundle of foul-smelling yellow matches, and said, “Now, I want you all to pile—” “I did see it, you know,” said the small wizard, sulkily. “All right, what did you see?” “Well, I’m not exactly—” “You don’t know, do you?” snapped Sconner. “I saw someth —” “You don’t know!” repeated Sconner, “You’re just seeing shadows, just trying to undermine my authority, isn’t that it?” Sconner hesitated, and his eyes glazed momentarily. “I am calm,” he intoned, “I am totally in control. I will not let—” “It was —” “Listen, shortarse, you can just jolly well shut up, all right?” One of the other wizards, who had been staring upwards to conceal his embarrassment, gave a strangled little cough. “Er, Sconner—” “And that goes for you too!” Sconner pulled himself to his full, bristling height and flourished the matches. “As I was saying,” he said, “I want you to light the matches and—I suppose I’ll have to show you how to light matches, for the benefit of shortarse there—and I’m not out of the window, you know. Good grief. Look at me. You take a match—” He lit a match, the darkness blossomed into a ball of sulphurous white light, and the Librarian dropped on him like the descent of Man. They all knew the Librarian, in the same definite but diffused way that people know walls and floors and all the other minor but necessary scenery on the stage of life. If they recall him at all, it was as a sort of gentle mobile sigh, sitting under his desk repairing books, or knuckling his way among the shelves in search of secret smokers. Any wizard unwise enough to hazard a clandestine rollup wouldn’t know anything about it until a soft leathery hand reached up and removed the offending homemade, but the Librarian never made a fuss, he just looked extremely hurt and sorrowful about the whole sad business and then ate it. Whereas what was now attempting with considerable effort to unscrew Sconner’s head by the ears was a screaming nightmare with its lips curled back to reveal long yellow fangs. The terrified wizards turned to run and found themselves bumping into bookshelves that had unaccountably blocked the aisles. The smallest wizard yelped and rolled under a table laden with atlases, and lay with his hands over his ears to block out the dreadful sounds as the remaining wizards tried to escape. Eventually there was nothing but silence, but it was that particularly massive silence created by something moving very stealthily, as it might be, in search of something else. The smallest wizard ate the tip of his hat out of sheer terror. The silent mover grabbed him by the leg and pulled him gently but firmly out into the open, where he gibbered a bit with his eyes shut and then, when ghastly teeth failed to meet in his throat, ventured a quick glance. The Librarian picked him up by the scruff of his neck and dangled him reflectively a foot off the ground, just out of reach of a small and elderly wire-haired terrier who was trying to remember how to bite people’s ankles. “Er—” said the wizard, and was then thrown in an almost flat trajectory through the broken doorway, where his fall was broken by the floor. After a while a shadow next to him said, “Well, that’s it, then. Anyone seen that daft bastard Sconner?” And a shadow on the other side of him said, “I think my neck’s broken. ” “Who’s that?” “ That daft bastard ,” said the shadow, nastily. “Oh. Sorry, Sconner. ” Sconner stood up, his whole body now outlined in magical aura. He was trembling with rage as he raised his hands. “I’ll show that wretched throwback to respect his evolutionary superiors—” he snarled. “Get him, lads!” And Sconner was borne to the flagstones again under the weight of all five wizards. “Sorry, but—” “—you know that if you use—” “—magic near the Library, with all the magic that’s in there—” “—get one thing wrong and it’s a critical Mass and then—” “BANG! Goodnight, world!” Sconner growled. The wizards sitting on him decided that getting up was not the wisest thing they could do at this point. Eventually he said, “Right. You’re right. Thank you. It was wrong of me to lose my temper like that. Clouded my judgment. Essential to be dispassionate. You’re absolutely right. Thank you. Get off. ” They risked it. Sconner stood up. “That monkey,” he said, “has eaten its last banana. Fetch—” “Er. Ape, Sconner,” said the smallest wizard, unable to stop himself. “It’s an ape, you see. Not a monkey…” He wilted under the stare. “Who cares? Ape, monkey, what’s the difference?” said Sconner. “What’s the difference, Mr. Zoologist?” “I don’t know, Sconner,” said the wizard meekly. “I think it’s a class thing. ” “Shut up. ” “Yes, Sconner. ” “You ghastly little man,” said Sconner. He turned and added, in a voice as level as a sawblade: “I am perfectly controlled. My mind is as cool as a bald mammoth. My intellect is absolutely in charge. Which one of you sat on my head? No, I must not get angry. I am not angry. I am thinking positively. My faculties are fully engaged—do any of you wish to argue?” “No, Sconner,” they chorused. “Then get me a dozen barrels of oil and all the kindling you can find! That ape’s gonna fry !” From high in the Library roof, home of owls and bats and other things, there was a clink of chain and the sound of glass being broken as respectfully as possible. “They don’t look very worried,” said Nijel, slightly affronted. “How can I put this?” said Rincewind. “When they come to write the list of Great Battle Cries of the World, ‘Erm, excuse me’ won’t be one of them. ” He stepped to one side. “I’m not with him,” he said earnestly to a grinning guard. “I just met him, somewhere. In a pit. ” He gave a little laugh. “This sort of thing happens to me all the time,” he said. The guards stared through him. “Erm,” he said. “Okay,” he said. He sidled back to Nijel. “Are you any good with that sword?” Without taking his eyes off the guards, Nijel fumbled in his pack and handed Rincewind the book. “I’ve read the whole of chapter three,” he said. “It’s got illustrations. ” Rincewind turned over the crumpled pages. The book had been used so hard you could have shuffled it, but what was probably once the front cover showed a rather poor woodcut of a muscular man. He had arms like two bags full of footballs, and he was standing knee-deep in languorous women and slaughtered victims with a smug expression on his face. About him was the legend: Inne Juste 7 Dayes I wille make You a Barbearian Hero ! Below it, in a slightly smaller type, was the name: Cohen the Barbarean. Rincewind rather doubted it. He had met Cohen and, while he could read after a fashion, the old boy had never really mastered the pen and still signed his name with an “X,” which he usually spelled wrong. On the other hand, he gravitated rapidly to anything with money in it. Rincewind looked again at the illustration, and then at Nijel. “Seven days?” “Well, I’m a slow reader. ” “Ah,” said Rincewind. “And I didn’t bother with chapter six, because I promised my mother I’d stick with just the looting and pillaging, until I find the right girl. ” “And this book teaches you how to be a hero?” “Oh, yes. It’s very good. ” Nijel gave him a worried glance. “That’s all right, isn’t it? It cost a lot of money. ” “Well, er. I suppose you’d better get on with it, then. ” Nijel squared his, for want of a better word, shoulders, and waved his sword again. “You four had better just jolly well watch out,” he said, “or…hold on a moment.

” He took the book from Rincewind and riffled through the pages until he found what he was looking for, and continued, “Yes, or ‘the chill winds of fate will blow through your bleached skeletons/the legions of Hell will drown your living soul in acid. ’ There. How d’you like them…excuse me a moment…apples?” There was a metallic chord as four men drew their swords in perfect harmony. Nijel’s sword became a blur. It made a complicated figure eight in the air in front of him, spun over his arm, flicked from hand to hand behind his back, seemed to orbit his chest twice, and leapt like a salmon. One or two of the harem ladies broke into spontaneous applause. Even the guards looked impressed. “That’s a Triple Orcthrust with Extra Flip,” said Nijel proudly. “I broke a lot of mirrors learning that. Look, they’re stopping. ” “They’ve never seen anything like it, I imagine,” said Rincewind weakly, judging the distance to the doorway. “I should think not. ” “Especially the last bit, where it stuck in the ceiling. ” Nijel looked upwards. “Funny,” he said, “it always did that at home, too. I wonder what I’m doing wrong. ” “Search me. ” “Gosh, I’m sorry,” said Nijel, as the guards seemed to realize that the entertainment was over and closed in for the kill. “Don’t blame yourself—” said Rincewind, as Nijel reached up and tried unsuccessfully to free the blade. “Thank you. ” “—I’ll do it for you. ” Rincewind considered his next step. In fact, he considered several steps. But the door was too far away and anyway, by the sound of it, things were not a lot healthier out there. There was only one thing for it. He’d have to try magic. He raised his hand and two of the men fell over. He raised his other hand and the other two fell over. Just as he was beginning to wonder about this, Conina stepped daintily over the prone bodies, idly rubbing the sides of her hands. “I thought you’d never turn up,” she said. “Who’s your friend?” As has already been indicated, the Luggage seldom shows any sign of emotion, or at least any emotion less extreme than blind rage and hatred, and therefore it is hard to gauge its feelings when it woke up, a few miles outside Al Khali, on its lid in a dried-up wadi with its legs in the air. Even a few minutes after dawn the air was like the breath of a furnace. After a certain amount of rocking the Luggage managed to get most of its feet pointing the right way, and stood doing a complicated slow-motion jig to keep as few of them on the burning sand as possible. It wasn’t lost. It always knew exactly where it was. It was always here. It was just that everywhere else seemed to have been temporarily mislaid. After some deliberation the Luggage turned and walked very slowly, into a boulder. It backed away and sat down, rather puzzled. It felt as though it had been stuffed with hot feathers, and it was dimly aware of the benefits of shade and a nice cool drink. After a few false starts it walked to the top of a nearby sand dune, which gave it an unrivalled view of hundreds of other dunes. Deep in its heartwood the Luggage was troubled. It had been spurned. It had been told to go away. It had been rejected. It had also drunk enough orakh to poison a small country. If there is one thing a travel accessory needs more than anything else, it is someone to belong to. The Luggage set off unsteadily across the scorching sand, full of hope. “I don’t think we’ve got time for introductions,” said Rincewind, as a distant part of the palace collapsed with a thump that vibrated the floor. “It’s time we were—” He realized he was talking to himself. Nijel let go of the sword. Conina stepped forward. “Oh, no,” said Rincewind, but it was far too late. The world had suddenly separated into two parts—the bit which contained Nijel and Conina, and the bit which contained everything else. The air between them crackled. Probably, in their half, a distant orchestra was playing, bluebirds were tweeting, little pink clouds were barrelling through the sky, and all the other things that happen at times like this. When that sort of thing is going on, mere collapsing palaces in the next world don’t stand a chance. “Look, perhaps we can just get the introductions over with,” said Rincewind desperately. “Nijel—” “—the Destroyer—” said Nijel dreamily. “All right, Nijel the Destroyer,” said Rincewind, and added, “Son of Harebut the—” “Mighty,” said Nijel. Rincewind gaped a bit, and then shrugged. “Well, whoever,” he conceded. “Anyway, this is Conina. Which is rather a coincidence, because you’ll be interested to know that her father was mmph. ” Conina, without turning her gaze, had extended a hand and held Rincewind’s face in a gentle grip which, with only a slight increase in finger pressure, could have turned his head into a bowling ball. “Although I could be mistaken,” he added, when she took her hand away. “Who knows? Who cares? What does it matter?” They didn’t take any notice. “I’ll just go and see if I can find the hat, shall I?” he said. “Good idea,” murmured Conina. “I expect I shall get murdered, but I don’t mind,” said Rincewind. “Jolly good,” said Nijel. “I don’t expect anyone will even notice I’m gone,” said Rincewind. “Fine, fine,” said Conina. “I shall be chopped into small pieces, I expect,” said Rincewind, walking toward the door at the speed of a dying snail. Conina blinked. “What hat?” she said, and then, “Oh, that hat. ” “I suppose there’s no possible chance that you two might be of some assistance?” Rincewind ventured. Somewhere inside Conina and Nijel’s private world the bluebirds went to roost, the little pink clouds drifted away and the orchestra packed up and sneaked off to do a private gig at a nightclub somewhere. A bit of reality reasserted itself. Conina dragged her admiring gaze away from Nijel’s rapt face and turned it onto Rincewind, where it grew slightly cooler. She sidled across the floor and grabbed the wizard by the arm. “Look,” she said, “you won’t tell him who I really am, will you? Only boys get funny ideas and—well, anyway, if you do I will personally break all your—” “I’ll be far too busy,” said Rincewind, “what with you helping me get the hat and everything. Not that I can imagine what you see in him,” he added, haughtily. “He’s nice. I don’t seem to meet many nice people. ” “Yes, well—” “He’s looking at us!” “So what? You’re not frightened of him, are you?” “Suppose he talks to me!” Rincewind looked blank. Not for the first time in his life, he felt that there were whole areas of human experience that had passed him by, if areas could pass by people. Maybe he had passed them by. He shrugged. “Why did you let them take you off to the harem without a fight?” he said. “I’ve always wanted to know what went on in one. ” There was a pause. “Well?” said Rincewind. “Well, we all sat round, and then after a bit the Seriph came in, and then he asked me over and said that since I was new it would be my turn, and then, you’ll never guess what he wanted me to do. The girls said it’s the only thing he’s interested in. ” “Er. ” “Are you all right?” “Fine, fine,” Rincewind muttered. “Your face has gone all shiny. ” “No, I’m fine, fine. ” “He asked me to tell him a story. ” “What about?” said Rincewind suspiciously. “The other girls said he prefers something with rabbits in it. ” “Ah. Rabbits. ” “Small fluffy white ones. But the only stories I know are the ones father taught me when I was little, and I don’t think they’re really suitable. ” “Not many rabbits?” “Lots of arms and legs being chopped off,” said Conina, and sighed. “That’s why you mustn’t tell him about me you see? I’m just not cut out for a normal life. ” “Telling stories in a harem isn’t bloody normal,” said Rincewind. “It’ll never catch on. ” “He’s looking at us again!” Conina grabbed Rincewind’s arm. He shook her off. “Oh, good grief,” he said, and hurried across the room to Nijel, who grabbed his other arm. “You haven’t been telling her about me, have you?” he demanded. “I’ll never live it down if you’ve told her that I’m only just learning how—” “Nonono. She just wants you to help us.

It’s a sort of quest. ” Nijel’s eyes gleamed. “You mean a geas?” he said. “Pardon?” “It’s in the book. To be a proper hero it says you’ve got to labor under a geas. ” Rincewind’s forehead wrinkled. “Is it a sort of bird?” “I think it’s more a sort of obligation, or something,” said Nijel, but without much certainty. “Sounds more like a kind of bird to me,” said Rincewind, “I’m sure I read it in a bestiary once. Large. Couldn’t fly. Big pink legs, it had. ” His face went blank as his ears digested what they had just heard his lips say. Five seconds later they were out of the room, leaving behind four prone guards and the harem ladies themselves, who settled down for a bit of story-telling. The desert rimwards of Al Khali is bisected by the river Tsort, famed in myth and lies, which insinuates its way through the brown landscapes like a long damp descriptive passage punctuated with sandbanks. And every sandbank is covered with sunbaked logs, and most of the logs are the kind of logs that have teeth, and most of the logs opened one lazy eye at the distant sounds of splashing from upstream, and suddenly most of the logs had legs. A dozen scaly bodies slipped into the turbid waters, which rolled over them again. The dark waters were unruffled, except for a few inconsequential V-shaped ripples. The Luggage paddled gently down the stream. The water was making it feel a little better. It spun gently in the weak current, the focus of several mysterious little swirls that sped across the surface of the water. The ripples converged. The Luggage jerked. Its lid flew open. It shot under the surface with a brief, despairing creak. The chocolate-colored waters of the Tsort rolled back again. They were getting good at it. And the tower of sourcery loomed over Al Khali like a vast and beautiful fungus, the kind that appear in books with little skull-and-crossbones symbols beside them. The Seriph’s guard had fought back, but there were now quite a lot of bewildered frogs and newts around the base of the tower, and they were the fortunate ones. They still had arms and legs, of a sort, and most of their essential organs were still on the inside. The city was under the rule of sourcery…martial lore. Some of the buildings nearest the base of the tower were already turning into the bright white marble that the wizards obviously preferred. The trio stared out through a hole in the palace walls. “Very impressive,” said Conina critically. “Your wizards are more powerful than I thought. ” “Not my wizards,” said Rincewind. “I don’t know whose wizards they are. I don’t like it. All the wizards I knew couldn’t stick one brick on another. ” “I don’t like the idea of wizards ruling everybody,” said Nijel. “Of course, as a hero I am philosophically against the whole idea of wizardry in any case. The time will come when,” his eyes glazed slightly, as if he was trying to remember something he’d seen somewhere, “the time will come when all wizardry has gone from the face of the world and the sons of, of—anyway, we can all be a bit more practical about things,” he added lamely. “Read it in a book, did you?” said Rincewind sourly. “Any geas in it?” “He’s got a point,” said Conina. “I’ve nothing against wizards, but it’s not as if they do much good. They’re just a bit of decoration, really. Up to now. ” Rincewind pulled off his hat. It was battered, stained and covered with rock dust, bits of it had been sheared off, the point was dented and the star was shedding sequins like pollen, but the word ‘Wizzard’ was still just readable under the grime. “See this?” he demanded, red in the face. “Do you see it? Do you? What does it tell you?” “That you can’t spell?” said Nijel. “What? No! It says I’m a wizard, that’s what! Twenty years behind the staff, and proud of it! I’ve done my time, I have! I’ve pas—I’ve sat dozens of exams! If all the spells I’ve read were piled on top of one another, they’d…it’d…you’d have a lot of spells!” “Yes, but—” Conina began. “ Yes? ” “You’re not actually very good at them, are you?” Rincewind glared at her. He tried to think of what to say next, and a small receptor area opened in his mind at the same time as an inspiration particle, its path bent and skewed by a trillion random events, screamed down through the atmosphere and burst silently just at the right spot. “Talent just defines what you do,” he said. “It doesn’t define what you are. Deep down, I mean. When you know what you are, you can do anything. ” He thought a bit more and added, “That’s what makes sourcerers so powerful. The important thing is to know what you really are. ” There was a pause full of philosophy. “Rincewind?” said Conina, kindly. “Hmm?” said Rincewind, who was still wondering how the words got into his head. “You really are an idiot. Do you know that?” “ You will all stand very still. ” Abrim the vizier stepped out of a ruined archway. He was wearing the Archchancellor’s hat. The desert fried under the flame of the sun. Nothing moved except the shimmering air, hot as a stolen volcano, dry as a skull. A basilisk lay panting in the baking shade of a rock, dribbling corrosive yellow slime. For the last five minutes its ears had been detecting the faint thump of hundreds of little legs moving unsteadily over the dunes, which seemed to indicate that dinner was on the way. It blinked its legendary eyes and uncoiled twenty feet of hungry body, winding out and onto the sand like fluid death. The Luggage staggered to a halt and raised its lid threateningly. The basilisk hissed, but a little uncertainly, because it had never seen a walking box before, and certainly never one with lots of alligator teeth stuck in its lid. There were also scraps of leathery hide adhering to it, as though it had been involved in a fight in a handbag factory, and in a way that the basilisk wouldn’t have been able to describe even if it could talk, it appeared to be glaring. Right, the reptile thought, if that’s the way you want to play it. It turned on the Luggage a stare like a diamond drill, a stare that nipped in via the staree’s eyeballs and flayed the brain from the inside, a stare that tore the frail net curtains on the windows of the soul, a stare that— The basilisk realized something was very wrong. An entirely new and unwelcome sensation started to arise just behind its saucer-shaped eyes. It started small, like the little itch in those few square inches of back that no amount of writhing will allow you to scratch, and grew until it became a second, red-hot, internal sun. The basilisk was feeling a terrible, overpowering and irresistible urge to blink… It did something incredibly unwise. It blinked. “He’s talking through his hat,” said Rincewind. “Eh?” said Nijel, who was beginning to realize that the world of the barbarian hero wasn’t the clean, simple place he had imagined in the days when the most exciting thing he had ever done was stack parsnips. “The hat’s talking through him, you mean,” said Conina, and she backed away too, as one tends to do in the presence of horror. “Eh?” “ I will not harm you. You have been of some service ,” said Abrim, stepping forward with his hands out. “ But you are right. He thought he could gain power through wearing me. Of course, it is the other way around. An astonishingly devious and clever mind. ” “So you tried his head on for size?” said Rincewind. He shuddered. He’d worn the hat. Obviously he didn’t have the right kind of mind. Abrim did have the right kind of mind, and now his eyes were gray and colorless, his skin was pale and he walked as though his body was hanging down from his head. Nijel had pulled out his book and was riffling feverishly through the pages. “What on earth are you doing?” said Conina, not taking her eyes off the ghastly figure. “I’m looking up the Index of Wandering Monsters,” said Nijel. “Do you think it’s an Undead? They’re awfully difficult to kill, you need garlic and—” “You won’t find this in there,” said Rincewind slowly. “It’s—it’s a vampire hat. ” “Of course, it might be a Zombie,” said Nijel, running his finger down a page.

“It says here you need black pepper and sea salt, but—” “You’re supposed to fight the bloody things, not eat them,” said Conina. “ This is a mind I can use ,” said the hat. “ Now I can fight back. I shall rally wizardry. There is room for only one magic in this world, and I embody it. Sourcery beware! ” “Oh, no,” said Rincewind under his breath. “ Wizardry has learned a lot in the last twenty centuries. This upstart can be beaten. You three will follow me. ” It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t even an order. It was a sort of forecast. The voice of the hat went straight to the hindbrain without bothering to deal with the consciousness, and Rincewind’s legs started to move of their own accord. The other two also jerked forward, walking with the awkward doll-like jerking that suggested that they, too, were on invisible strings. “Why the oh, no?” said Conina, “I mean, ‘Oh, no’ on general principles I can understand, but was there any particular reason?” “If we get a chance we must run,” said Rincewind. “Did you have anywhere in mind?” “It probably won’t matter. We’re doomed anyway. ” “Why?” said Nijel. “Well,” said Rincewind, “have you ever heard of the Mage Wars?” There were a lot of things on the Disc that owed their origin to the Mage Wars. Sapient pearwood was one of them. The original tree was probably perfectly normal and spent its days drinking groundwater and eating sunshine in a state of blessed unawareness and then the magic wars broke around it and pitchforked its genes into a state of acute perspicacity. It also left it ingrained, as it were, with a bad temper. But sapient pearwood got off lightly. Once, when the level of background magic on the Disc was young and high and found every opportunity to burst on the world, wizards were all as powerful as sourcerers and built their towers on every hilltop. And if there was one thing a really powerful wizard can’t stand, it is another wizard. His instinctive approach to diplomacy is to hex ’em till they glow, then curse them in the dark. That could only mean one thing. All right, two things. Three things. All-out. Thaumaturgical. War. And there were of course no alliances, no sides, no deals, no mercy, no cease. The skies twisted, the seas boiled. The scream and whizz of fireballs turned the night into day, but that was all right because the ensuing clouds of black smoke turned the day into night. The landscape rose and fell like a honeymoon duvet, and the very fabric of space itself was tied in multidimensional knots and bashed on a flat stone down by the river of Time. For example, a popular spell at the time was Pelepel’s Temporal Compressor, which on one occasion resulted in a race of giant reptiles being created, evolving, spreading, flourishing and then being destroyed in the space of about five minutes, leaving only its bones in the earth to mislead forthcoming generations completely. Trees swam, fishes walked, mountains strolled down to the shops for a packet of cigarettes, and the mutability of existence was such that the first thing any cautious person would do when they woke up in the mornings was count their arms and legs. That was, in fact, the problem. All the wizards were pretty evenly matched and in any case lived in high towers well protected with spells, which meant that most magical weapons rebounded and landed on the common people who were trying to scratch an honest living from what was, temporarily, the soil, and lead ordinary, decent (but rather short) lives. But still the fighting raged, battering the very structure of the universe of order, weakening the walls of reality and threatening to topple the whole rickety edifice of time and space into the darkness of the Dungeon Dimensions… One story said that the gods stepped in, but the gods don’t usually take a hand in human affairs unless it amuses them. Another one—and this was the one that the wizards themselves told, and wrote down in their books—was that the wizards themselves got together and settled their differences amicably for the good of mankind. And this was generally accepted as the true account, despite being as internally likely as a lead lifebelt. The truth isn’t easily pinned to a page. In the bathtub of history the truth is harder to hold than the soap, and much more difficult to find… “What happened, then?” said Conina. “It doesn’t matter,” said Rincewind, mournfully. “It’s going to start all over again. I can feel it. I’ve got this instinct. There’s too much magic flowing into the world. There’s going to be a horrible war. It’s all going to happen. The Disc is too old to take it this time. Everything’s been worn too thin. Doom, darkness and destruction bear down on us. The Apocralypse is nigh. ” “Death walks abroad,” added Nijel helpfully. “What?” snapped Rincewind, angry at being interrupted. “I said, Death walks abroad,” said Nijel. “Abroad I don’t mind,” said Rincewind. “They’re all foreigners. It’s Death walking around here I’m not looking forward to. ” “It’s only a metaphor,” said Conina. “That’s all you know. I’ve met him. ” “What did he look like?” said Nijel. “Put it like this—” “Yes?” “He didn’t need a hairdresser. ” Now the sun was a blowlamp nailed to the sky, and the only difference between the sand and red-hot ash was the color. The Luggage plodded erratically across the burning dunes. There were a few traces of yellow slime rapidly drying on its lid. The lonely little oblong was watched, from atop of a stone pinnacle the shape and temperature of a firebrick, by a chimera. * The chimera was an extremely rare species, and this particular one wasn’t about to do anything to help matters. It judged its moment carefully, kicked away with its talons, folded its leathery wings and plummeted down toward its victim. The chimera’s technique was to swoop low over the prey, lightly boiling it with its fiery breath, and then turn and rend its dinner with its teeth. It managed the fire part but then, at the point where experience told the creature it should be facing a stricken and terrified victim, found itself on the ground in the path of a scorched and furious Luggage. The only thing incandescent about the Luggage was its rage. It had spent several hours with a headache, during which it had seemed the whole world had tried to attack it. It had had enough. When it had stamped the unfortunate chimera into a greasy puddle on the sand it paused for a moment, apparently considering its future. It was becoming clear that not belonging to anyone was a lot harder than it had thought. It had vague, comforting recollections of service and a wardrobe to call its own. It turned around very slowly, pausing frequently to open its lid. It might have been sniffing the air, if it had a nose. At last it made up its mind, if it had a mind. The hat and its wearer also strode purposefully across the rubble that had been the legendary Rhoxie to the foot of the tower of sourcery, their unwilling entourage straggling along behind them. There were doors at the foot of the tower. Unlike those of Unseen University, which were usually propped wide open, they were tightly shut. They seemed to glow. “ You three are privileged to be here ,” said the hat through Abrim’s slack mouth. “ This is the moment when wizardry stops running ,” he glanced witheringly at Rincewind, “ and starts fighting back. You will remember it for the rest of your lives. ” “What, until lunchtime?” said Rincewind weakly. “ Watch closely ,” said Abrim. He extended his hands. “If we get a chance,” whispered Rincewind to Nijel, “we run, right?” “Where to?” “From,” said Rincewind, “the important word is from. ” “I don’t trust this man,” said Nijel. “I try not to judge from first impressions, but I definitely think he’s up to no good. ” “He had you thrown in a snake pit!” “Perhaps I should have taken the hint. ” The vizier started to mutter.

Even Rincewind, whose few talents included a gift for languages, didn’t recognize it, but it sounded like the kind of language designed specifically for muttering, the words curling out like scythes at ankle height, dark and red and merciless. They made complicated swirls in the air, and then drifted gently toward the doors of the tower. Where they touched the white marble it turned black and crumbled. As the remains drifted to the ground a wizard stepped through and looked Abrim up and down. Rincewind was used to the dressy ways of wizards, but this one was really impressive, his robe so padded and crenellated and buttressed in fantastic folds and creases that it had probably been designed by an architect. The matching hat looked like a wedding cake that had collided intimately with a Christmas tree. The actual face, peering through the small gap between the baroque collar and the filigreed fringe of the brim, was a bit of a disappointment. At some time in the past it had thought its appearance would be improved by a thin, scruffy mustache. It had been wrong. “That was our bloody door!” it said. “You’re really going to regret this!” Abrim folded his arms. This seemed to infuriate the other wizard. He flung up his arms, untangled his hands from the lace on his sleeves, and sent a flare screaming across the gap. It struck Abrim in the chest and rebounded in a gout of incandescence, but when the blue after-images allowed Rincewind to see he saw Abrim, unharmed. His opponent frantically patted out the last of the little fires in his own clothing and looked up with murder in his eyes. “You don’t seem to understand,” he rasped. “It’s sourcery you’re dealing with now. You can’t fight sourcery. ” “ I can use sourcery ,” said Abrim. The wizard snarled and lofted a fireball, which burst harmlessly inches from Abrim’s dreadful grin. A look of acute puzzlement passed across the other one’s face. He tried again, sending lines of blue-hot magic lancing straight from infinity toward Abrim’s heart. Abrim waved them away. “ Your choice is simple ,” he said. “ You can join me, or you can die. ” It was at this point that Rincewind became aware of a regular scraping sound close to his ear. It had an unpleasant metallic ring. He half-turned, and felt the familiar and very uncomfortable prickly feeling of Time slowing down around him. Death paused in the act of running a whetstone along the edge of his scythe and gave him a nod of acknowledgment, as between one professional and another. He put a bony digit to his lips, or rather, to the place where his lips would have been if he’d had lips. All wizards can see Death, but they don’t necessarily want to. There was a popping in Rincewind’s ears and the specter vanished. Abrim and the rival wizard were surrounded by a corona of randomized magic, and it was evidently having no effect on Abrim. Rincewind drifted back into the land of the living just in time to see the man reach out and grab the wizard by his tasteless collar. “ You cannot defeat me ,” he said in the hat’s voice. “ I have had two thousand years of harnessing power to my own ends. I can draw my power from your power. Yield to me or you won’t even have time to regret it. ” The wizard struggled and, unfortunately, let pride win over caution. “Never!” he said. “ Die ,” suggested Abrim. Rincewind had seen many strange things in his life, most of them with extreme reluctance, but he had never seen anyone actually killed by magic. Wizards didn’t kill ordinary people because a) they seldom noticed them and b) it wasn’t considered sporting and c) besides, who’d do all the cooking and growing food and things. And killing a brother wizard with magic was well-nigh impossible on account of the layers of protective spells that any cautious wizard maintained about his person at all times. * The first thing a young wizard learns at Unseen University—apart from where his peg is, and which way to the lavatory—is that he must protect himself at all times. Some people think this is paranoia, but it isn’t. Paranoids only think everyone is out to get them. Wizards know it. The little wizard was wearing the psychic equivalent of three feet of tempered steel and it was being melted like butter under a blowlamp. It streamed away, vanished. If there are words to describe what happened to the wizard next then they’re imprisoned inside a wild thesaurus in the Unseen University Library. Perhaps it’s best left to the imagination, except that anyone able to imagine the kind of shape that Rincewind saw writhing painfully for a few seconds before it mercifully vanished must be a candidate for the famous white canvas blazer with the optional long sleeves. “ So perish all enemies ,” said Abrim. He turned his face up to the heights of the tower. “ I challenge ,” he said. “ And those who will not face me must follow me, according to the Lore. ” There was a long, thick pause caused by a lot of people listening very hard. Eventually, from the top of the tower, a voice called out uncertainly, “Whereabouts in the Lore?” “ I embody the Lore. ” There was a distant whispering and then the same voice called out, “The Lore is dead. Sourcery is above the Lo—” The sentence ended in a scream because Abrim raised his left hand and sent a thin beam of green light in the precise direction of the speaker. It was at about this moment that Rincewind realized that he could move his limbs himself. The hat had temporarily lost interest in them. He glanced sideways at Conina. In instant, unspoken agreement they each grasped one of Nijel’s arms and turned and ran, and didn’t stop until they’d put several walls between them and the tower. Rincewind ran expecting something to hit him in the back of the neck. Possibly the world. All three landed in the rubble and lay there panting. “You needn’t have done that,” muttered Nijel. “I was just getting ready to really give him a seeing-to. How can I ever—” There was an explosion behind them and shafts of multi-colored fire screamed overhead, striking sparks off the masonry. Then there was a sound like an enormous cork being pulled out of a small bottle, and a peal of laughter that, somehow, wasn’t very amusing. The ground shook. “What’s going on?” said Conina. “Magical war,” said Rincewind. “Is that good?” “No. ” “But surely you want wizardry to triumph?” said Nijel. Rincewind shrugged, and ducked as something unseen and big whirred overhead making a noise like a partridge. “I’ve never seen wizards fight,” said Nijel. He started to scramble up the rubble and screamed as Conina grabbed him by the leg. “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” she said. “Rincewind?” The wizard shook his head gloomily, and picked up a pebble. He tossed it up above the ruined wall, where it turned into a small blue teapot. It smashed when it hit the ground. “The spells react with one another,” he said. “There’s no telling what they’ll do. ” “But we’re safe behind this wall?” said Conina. Rincewind brightened a bit. “Are we?” he said. “I was asking you. ” “Oh. No. I shouldn’t think so. It’s just ordinary stone. The right spell and…phooey. ” “Phooey?” “Right. ” “Shall we run away again?” “It’s worth a try. ” They made it to another upright wall a few seconds before a randomly spitting ball of yellow fire landed where they had been lying and turned the ground into something awful. The whole area around the tower was a tornado of sparkling air. “We need a plan,” said Nijel. “We could try running again,” said Rincewind. “That doesn’t solve anything!” “Solves most things,” said Rincewind. “How far do we have to go to be safe?” said Conina. Rincewind risked a look around the wall. “Interesting philosophical question,” he said. “I’ve been a long way, and I’ve never been safe. ” Conina sighed and stared at a pile of rubble nearby. She stared at it again. There was something odd there, and she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. “I could rush at them,” said Nijel, vaguely. He stared yearningly at Conina’s back. “Wouldn’t work,” said Rincewind. “Nothing works against magic. Except stronger magic.

And then the only thing that beats stronger magic is even stronger magic. And next thing you know…” “Phooey?” suggested Nijel. “It happened before,” said Rincewind. “Went on for thousands of years until not a—” “Do you know what’s odd about that heap of stone?” said Conina. Rincewind glanced at it. He screwed up his eyes. “What, apart from the legs?” he said. It took several minutes to dig the Seriph out. He was still clutching a wine bottle, which was almost empty, and blinked at them all in vague recognition. “Powerful,” he said, and then after some effort added, “stuff, this vintage. Felt,” he continued, “as though the place fell on me. ” “It did,” said Rincewind. “Ah. That would be it, then. ” Creosote focused on Conina, after several attempts, and rocked backwards. “My word,” he said, “the young lady again. Very impressive. ” “I say—” Nijel began. “Your hair,” said the Seriph, rocking slowly forward again, “is like, is like a flock of goats that graze upon the side of Mount Gebra. ” “Look here—” “Your breasts are like, like,” the Seriph swayed sideways a little, and gave a brief, sorrowful glance at the empty bottle, “are like the jewelled melons in the fabled gardens of dawn. ” Conina’s eyes widened. “They are?” she said. “No,” said the Seriph, “doubt about it. I know jewelled melons when I see them. As the white does in the meadows of the water margin are your thighs, which—” “Erm, excuse me—” said Nijel, clearing his throat with malice aforethought. Creosote swayed in his direction. “Hmm?” he said. “Where I come from,” said Nijel stonily, “we don’t talk to ladies like that. ” Conina sighed as Nijel shuffled protectively in front of her. It was, she reflected, absolutely true. “In fact,” he went on, sticking out his jaw as far as possible, which still made it appear like a dimple, “I’ve a jolly good mind—” “Open to debate,” said Rincewind, stepping forward. “Er, sir, sire, we need to get out. I suppose you wouldn’t know the way?” “Thousands of rooms,” said the Seriph, “in here, you know. Not been out in years. ” He hiccuped. “Decades. Ians. Never been out, in fact. ” His face glazed over in the act of composition. “The bird of Time has but, um, a little way to walk and lo! the bird is on its feet. ” “It’s a geas,” muttered Rincewind. Creosote swayed at him. “Abrim does all the ruling, you see. Terrible hard work. ” “He’s not,” said Rincewind, “making a very good job of it just at present. ” “And we’d sort of like to get away,” said Conina, who was still turning over the phrase about the goats. “And I’ve got this geas,” said Nijel, glaring at Rincewind. Creosote patted him on the arm. “That’s nice,” he said. “Everyone should have a pet. “So if you happen to know if you own any stables or anything…” prompted Rincewind. “Hundreds,” said Creosote. “I own some of the finest, most…finest horses in the world. ” His brow wrinkled. “So they tell me. ” “But you wouldn’t happen to know where they are?” “Not as such,” the Seriph admitted. A random spray of magic turned the nearby wall into arsenic meringue. “I think we might have been better off in the snake pit,” said Rincewind, turning away. Creosote took another sorrowful glance at his empty wine bottle. “I know where there’s a magic carpet,” he said. “No,” said Rincewind, raising his hands protectively. “Absolutely not. Don’t even—” “It belonged to my grandfather—” “A real magic carpet?” said Nijel. “Listen,” said Rincewind urgently. “I get vertigo just listening to tall stories. ” “Oh, quite,” the Seriph burped gently, “genuine. Very pretty pattern. ” He squinted at the bottle again, and sighed. “It was a lovely blue color,” he added. “And you wouldn’t happen to know where it is?” said Conina slowly, in the manner of one creeping up very carefully to a wild animal that might take fright at any moment. “In the treasury. I know the way there. I’m extremely rich, you know. Or so they tell me. ” He lowered his voice and tried to wink at Conina, eventually managing it with both eyes. “We could sit on it,” he said, breaking into a sweat. “And you could tell me a story…” Rincewind tried to scream through gritted teeth. His ankles were already beginning to sweat. “I’m not going to ride on a magic carpet!” he hissed. “I’m afraid of grounds!” “You mean heights,” said Conina. “And stop being silly. ” “I know what I mean! It’s the grounds that kill you!” The battle of Al Khali was a hammer-headed cloud, in whose roiling depths weird shapes could be heard and strange sounds were seen. Occasional misses seared across the city. Where they landed things were… different. For example, a large part of the soak had turned into an impenetrable forest of giant yellow mushrooms. No one knew what effect this had on its inhabitants, although possibly they hadn’t noticed. The temple of Offler the Crocodile God, patron deity of the city, was now a rather ugly sugary thing constructed in five dimensions. But this was no problem because it was being eaten by a herd of giant ants. On the other hand, not many people were left to appreciate this statement against uncontrolled civic alteration, because most of them were running for their lives. They fled across the fertile fields in a steady stream. Some had taken to boats, but this method of escape had ceased when most of the harbor area turned into a swamp in which, for no obvious reason, a couple of small pink elephants were building a nest. Down below the panic on the roads the Luggage paddled slowly up one of the reed-lined drainage ditches. A little way ahead of it a moving wave of small alligators, rats and snapping turtles was pouring out of the water and scrambling frantically up the bank, propelled by some vague but absolutely accurate animal instinct. The Luggage’s lid was set in an expression of grim determination. It didn’t want much out of the world, except for the total extinction of every other lifeform, but what it needed more than anything else now was its owner. It was easy to see that the room was a treasury by its incredible emptiness. Doors hung off hooks. Barred alcoves had been smashed in. Lots of smashed chests lay around, and this gave Rincewind a pang of guilt and he wondered, for about two seconds, where the Luggage had got to. There was a respectful silence, as there always is when large sums of money have just passed away. Nijel wandered off and prodded some of the chests in a forlorn search for secret drawers, as per the instructions in Chapter Eleven. Conina reached down and picked up a small copper coin. “How horrible,” said Rincewind eventually. “A treasury with no treasure in it. ” The seriph stood and beamed. “Not to worry,” he said. “But all your money has been stolen!” said Conina. “The servants, I expect,” said Creosote. “Very disloyal of them. ” Rincewind gave him an odd look. “Doesn’t it worry you?” “Not much. I never really spent anything. I’ve often wondered what being poor was like. ” “You’re going to get a huge opportunity to find out. ” “Will I need training?” “It comes naturally,” said Rincewind. “You pick it up as you go along. ” There was a distant explosion and part of the ceiling turned to jelly. “Erm, excuse me,” said Nijel, “this carpet…” “Yes,” said Conina, “the carpet. ” Creosote gave them a benevolent, slightly tipsy smile. “Ah, yes. The carpet. Push the nose of the statue behind you, peach-buttocked jewel of the desert dawn. ” Conina, blushing, performed this act of minor sacrilege on a large green statue of Offler the Crocodile God. Nothing happened. Secret compartments assiduously failed to open. “Um. Try the left hand. ” She gave it an experimental twist. Creosote scratched his head. “Maybe it was the right hand…” “I should try and remember, if I were you,” said Conina sharply, when that didn’t work either. “There aren’t many bits left that I’d care to pull. ” “What’s that thing there?” said Rincewind. “You’re really going to hear about it if it isn’t the tail,” said Conina, and gave it a kick. There was a distant metallic groaning noise, like a saucepan in pain. The statue shuddered.

It was followed by a few heavy clonks somewhere inside the wall, and Offler the Crocodile God grated ponderously aside. There was a tunnel behind him. “My grandfather had this built for our more interesting treasure,” said Creosote. “He was very”—he groped for a word—“ingenious. ” “If you think I’m setting foot in there—” Rincewind began. “Stand aside,” said Nijel, loftily. “I will go first. ” “There could be traps—” said Conina doubtfully. She shot the Seriph a glance. “Oh, probably, O gazelle of Heaven,” he said. “I haven’t been in there since I was six. There were some slabs you shouldn’t tread on, I think. ” “Don’t worry about that,” said Nijel, peering into the gloom of the tunnel. “I shouldn’t think there’s a booby trap that I couldn’t spot. ” “Had a lot of experience at this sort of thing, have you?” said Rincewind sourly. “Well, I know Chapter Fourteen by heart. It had illustrations,” said Nijel, and ducked into the shadows. They waited for several minutes in what would have been a horrified hush if it wasn’t for the muffled grunts and occasional thumping noises from the tunnel. Eventually Nijel’s voice echoed back down to them from a distance. “There’s absolutely nothing,” he said. “I’ve tried everything. It’s as steady as a rock. Everything must have seized up, or something. ” Rincewind and Conina exchanged glances. “He doesn’t know the first thing about traps,” she said. “When I was five, my father made me walk all the way down a passage that he’d rigged up, just to teach me—” “He got through, didn’t he?” said Rincewind. There was a noise like a damp finger dragged across glass, but amplified a billion times, and the floor shook. “Anyway, we haven’t got a lot of choice,” he added, and ducked into the tunnel. The others followed him. Many people who had gotten to know Rincewind had come to treat him as a sort of two-legged miner’s canary * and tended to assume that if Rincewind was still upright and not actually running then some hope remained. “This is fun,” said Creosote. “Me, robbing my own treasury. If I catch myself I can have myself flung into the snake pit. ” “But you could throw yourself on your mercy,” said Conina, running a paranoid eye over the dusty stonework. “Oh, no. I think I would have to teach me a lesson, as an example to myself. ” There was a little click above them. A small slab slid aside and a rusty metal hook descended slowly and jerkily. Another bar creaked out of the wall and tapped Rincewind on the shoulder. As he swung around, the first hook hung a yellowing notice on his back and retracted into the roof. “What’d it do? What’d it do?” screamed Rincewind, trying to read his own shoulderblades. “It says, Kick Me ,” said Conina. A section of wall slid up beside the petrified wizard. A large boot on the end of a complicated series of metal joints gave a half-hearted wobble and then the whole thing snapped at the knee. The three of them looked at it in silence. Then Conina said, “We’re dealing here with a warped brain, I can tell. ” Rincewind gingerly unhooked the sign and let it drop. Conina pushed past him and stalked along the passage with an air of angry caution, and when a metal hand extended itself on a spring and waggled in a friendly fashion she didn’t shake it but instead traced its moulting wiring to a couple of corroded electrodes in a big glass jar. “Your grandad was a man with a sense of humor?” she said. “Oh, yes. Always liked a chuckle,” said Creosote. “Oh, good,” said Conina. She prodded gingerly at a flagstone which, to Rincewind, looked no different to any of its fellows. With a sad little springy noise a moulting feather duster wobbled out of the wall at armpit height. “I think I would have quite liked to meet the old Seriph,” she said, through gritted teeth, “although not to shake him by the hand. You’d better give me a leg up here, wizard. ” “Pardon?” Conina pointed irritably to a half-open stone doorway just ahead of them. “I want to look up there,” she said. “You just put your hands together for me to stand on, right? How do you manage to be so useless?” “Being useful always gets me into trouble,” muttered Rincewind, trying to ignore the warm flesh brushing against his nose. He could hear her rooting around above the door. “I thought so,” she said. “What is it? Fiendishly sharp spears poised to drop?” “No. ” “Spiked grill ready to skewer—?” “It’s a bucket,” said Conina flatly, giving it a push. “What, of scalding, poisonous—?” “Whitewash. Just a lot of old, dried-up whitewash. ” Conina jumped down. “That’s grandfather for you,” said Creosote. “Never a dull moment. ” “Well, I’ve just about had enough,” Conina said firmly, and pointed to the far end of the tunnel. “Come on, you two. ” They were about three feet from the far end when Rincewind felt a movement in the air above him. Conina struck him in the small of the back, shoving him forward into the room beyond. He rolled when he hit the floor, and something nicked his foot at the same time as a loud thump deafened him. The entire roof, a huge block of stone four feet thick, had dropped into the tunnel. Rincewind crawled forward through the dust clouds and, with a trembling finger, traced the lettering on the side of the slab. “ Laugh This One Off , he said, He sat back. “That’s grandad,” said Creosote happily, “always a—” He intercepted Conina’s gaze, which had the force of a lead pipe, and wisely shut up. Nijel emerged from the clouds, coughing. “I say, what happened?” he said. “Is everyone all right? It didn’t do that when I went through. ” Rincewind sought for a reply, and couldn’t find anything better than, “Didn’t it?” Light filtered into the deep room from tiny barred windows up near the roof. There was no way out except by walking through the several hundred tons of stone that blocked the tunnel or, to put it in another way, which was the way Rincewind put it, they were undoubtedly trapped. He relaxed a bit. At least there was no mistaking the magic carpet. It lay rolled up on a raised slab in the middle of the room. Next to it was a small, sleek oil lamp and—Rincewind craned to see—a small gold ring. He groaned. A faint octarine corona hung over all three items, indicating that they were magical. When Conina unrolled the carpet a number of small objects tumbled onto the floor, including a brass herring, a wooden ear, a few large square sequins and a lead box with a preserved soap bubble in it. “What on earth are they?” said Nijel. “Well,” said Rincewind, “before they tried to eat that carpet, they were probably moths. ” “Gosh. ” “That’s what you people never understand,” said Rincewind, wearily. “You think magic is just something you can pick up and use, like a, a—” “Parsnip?” said Nijel. “Wine bottle?” said the Seriph. “Something like that,” said Rincewind cautiously, but rallied somewhat and went on, “But the truth is, is—” “Not like that?” “More like a wine bottle?” said the Seriph hopefully. “Magic uses people,” said Rincewind hurriedly. “It affects you as much as you affect it, sort of thing. You can’t mess around with magical things without it affecting you. I just thought I’d better warn you. ” “Like a wine bottle,” said Creosote, “that—” “— drinks you back ,” said Rincewind. “So you can put down that lamp and ring for a start, and for goodness’ sake don’t rub anything. ” “My grandfather built up the family fortunes with them,” said Creosote wistfully. “His wicked uncle locked him in a cave, you know. He had to set himself up with what came to hand. He had nothing in the whole world but a magic carpet, a magic lamp, a magic ring and a grotto full of assorted jewels. ” “Came up the hard way, did he?” said Rincewind. Conina spread the carpet on the floor. It had a complex pattern of golden dragons on a blue background.

They were extremely complicated dragons, with long beards, ears and wings, and they seemed to be frozen in motion, caught in transition from one state to another, suggesting that the loom which wove them had rather more dimensions than the usual three, but the worst thing about it was that if you looked at it long enough the pattern became blue dragons on a gold background, and a terrible feeling stole over you that if you kept on trying to see both types of dragon at once your brains would trickle out of your ears. Rincewind tore his gaze away with some difficulty as another distant explosion rocked the building. “How does it work?” he said. Creosote shrugged. “I’ve never used it,” he said. “I suppose you just say ‘up’ and ‘down’ and things like that. ” “How about ‘fly through the wall’?” said Rincewind. All three of them looked up at the high, dark and, above all, solid walls of the room. “We could try sitting on it and saying ‘rise,’” Nijel volunteered. “And then, before we hit the roof, we could say, well, ‘stop. ’” He considered this for a bit, and then added, “If that’s the word. ” “Or, ‘drop,’” said Rincewind, “or ‘descend,’ ‘dive,’ ‘fall,’ ‘sink. ’ Or ‘plunge. ’” “‘Plummet,’” suggested Conina gloomily. “Of course,” said Nijel, “with all this wild magic floating around, you could try using some of it. ” “Ah—” said Rincewind, and, “Well—” “You’ve got ‘wizzard’ written on your hat,” said Creosote. “Anyone can write things on their hat,” said Conina. “You don’t want to believe everything you read. ” “Now hold on a minute,” said Rincewind hotly. They held on a minute. They held on for a further seventeen seconds. “Look, it’s a lot harder than you think,” he said. “What did I tell you?” said Conina. “Come on, let’s dig the mortar out with our fingernails. ” Rincewind waved her into silence, removed his hat, pointedly blew the dust off the star, put the hat on again, adjusted the brim, rolled up his sleeves, flexed his fingers and panicked. In default of anything better to do, he leaned against the stone. It was vibrating. It wasn’t that it was being shaken; it felt like the throbbing was coming from inside the wall. It was very much the same sort of trembling he had felt back at the University, just before the sourcerer arrived. The stone was definitely very unhappy about something. He sidled along the wall and put his ear to the next stone, which was a smaller, wedge-shaped stone cut to fit an angle of the wall, not a big, distinguished stone, but a bantam stone, patiently doing its bit for the greater good of the wall as a whole. It was also shaking. “Shh!” said Conina. “I can’t hear anything,” said Nijel loudly. Nijel was one of those people who, if you say ‘don’t look now,’ would immediately swivel his head like an owl on a turntable. These are the same people who, when you point out, say, an unusual crocus just beside them, turn around aimlessly and put their foot down with a sad little squashy noise. If they were lost in a trackless desert you could find them by putting down, somewhere on the sand, something small and fragile like a valuable old mug that had been in your family for generations, and then hurrying back as soon as you heard the crash. Anyway. “That’s the point! What happened to the war?” A little cascade of mortar poured down from the ceiling onto Rincewind’s hat. “Something’s acting on the stones,” he said quietly. “They’re trying to break free. ” “We’re right underneath quite a lot of them,” observed Creosote. There was a grinding noise above them and a shaft of daylight lanced down. To Rincewind’s surprise it wasn’t accompanied by sudden death from crushing. There was another silicon creak, and the hole grew. The stones were falling out, and they were falling up. “I think,” he said, “that the carpet might be worth a try at this point. ” The wall beside him shook itself like a dog and drifted apart, its masonry giving Rincewind several severe blows as it soared away. The four of them landed on the blue and gold carpet in a storm of flying rock. “We’ve got to get out of here,” said Nijel, keeping up his reputation for acute observation. “Hang on,” said Rincewind. “I’ll say—” “You won’t,” snapped Conina, kneeling beside him. “ I’ll say. I don’t trust you. ” “But you’ve—” “Shut up,” said Conina. She patted the carpet. “Carpet—rise,” she commanded. There was a pause. “Up. ” “Perhaps it doesn’t understand the language,” said Nijel. “Lift. Levitate. Fly. ” “Or it could be, say, sensitive to one particular voice—” “Shut. Up. ” “You tried up,” said Nijel. “Try ascend. ” “Or soar,” said Creosote. Several tons of flagstone swooped past an inch from his head. “If it was going to answer to them it would have done so, wouldn’t it?” said Conina. The air around her was thick with dust as the flying stones ground together. She thumped the carpet. “Take off, you blasted mat! Arrgh!” A piece of cornice clipped her shoulder. She rubbed the bruise irritably, and turned to Rincewind, who was sitting with his knees under his chin and his hat pulled down over his head. “Why doesn’t it work?” she said. “You’re not saying the right words,” he said. “It doesn’t understand the language?” “Language hasn’t got anything to do with it. You’ve neglected something fundamental. ” “Well?” “Well what?” sniffed Rincewind. “Look, this isn’t the time to stand on your dignity!” “You keep on trying, don’t you mind me. ” “Make it fly!” Rincewind pulled his hat further over his ears. “Please?” said Conina. The hat rose a bit. “We’d all be terribly bucked,” said Nijel. “Hear, hear,” said Creosote. The hat rose some more. “You’re quite sure?” said Rincewind. “Yes!” Rincewind cleared his throat. “Down,” he commanded. The carpet rose from the ground and hovered expectantly a few feet over the dust. “How did—” Conina began, but Nijel interrupted her. “Wizards are privy to arcane knowledge, that’s probably what it is,” he said. “Probably the carpet’s got a geas on it to do the opposite of anything that’s said. Can you make it go up further?” “Yes, but I’m not going to,” said Rincewind. The carpet drifted slowly forward and, as happens so often at times like this, a rolling of masonry bounced right across the spot where it had lain. A moment later they were out in the open air, the storm of stone behind them. The palace was pulling itself to pieces, and the pieces were funnelling up into the air like a volcanic eruption in reverse. The sourcerous tower had completely disappeared, but the stones were dancing toward the spot where it had stood and… “They’re building another tower!” said Nijel. “Out of my palace, too,” said Creosote. “The hat’s won,” said Rincewind. “That’s why it’s building its own tower. It’s a sort of reaction. Wizards always used to build a tower around themselves, like those…what do you call those things you find at the bottom of rivers?” “Frogs. ” “Stones. ” “Unsuccessful gangsters. ” “Caddis flies is what I meant,” said Rincewind. “When a wizard set out to fight, the first thing he always did was build a tower. ” “It’s very big,” said Nijel. Rincewind nodded glumly. “Where are we going?” said Conina. Rincewind shrugged. “Away,” he said. The outer palace wall drifted just below them. As they passed over it began to shake, and small bricks began to loop toward the storm of flying rock that buzzed around the new tower. Eventually Conina said, “All right. How did you get the carpet to fly? Does it really do the opposite of what you command?” “No. I just paid attention to certain fundamental details of laminar and spatial arrangements. ” “You’ve lost me there,” she admitted. “You want it in non-wizard talk?” “Yes. ” “You put it on the floor upside down,” said Rincewind. Conina sat very still for a while. Then she said, “I must say this is very comfortable. It’s the first time I’ve ever flown on a carpet. ” “It’s the first time I’ve ever flown one,” said Rincewind vaguely. “You do it very well,” she said. “Thank you. ” “You said you were frightened of heights. ” “Terrified. ” “You don’t show it. ” “I’m not thinking about it.

” Rincewind turned and looked at the tower behind them. It had grown quite a lot in the last minute, blossoming at the top into a complexity of turrets and battlements. A swarm of tiles was hovering over it, individual tiles swooping down and clinking into place like ceramic bees on a bombing run. It was impossibly high—the stones at the bottom would have been crushed if it wasn’t for the magic that crackled through them. Well, that was just about it as far as organized wizardry was concerned. Two thousand years of peaceful magic had gone down the drain, the towers were going up again, and with all this new raw magic floating around something was going to get very seriously hurt. Probably the universe. Too much magic could wrap time and space around itself, and that wasn’t good news for the kind of person who had grown used to things like effects following things like causes. And, of course, it would be impossible to explain things to his companions. They didn’t seem to grasp ideas properly; more particularly, they didn’t seem able to get the hang of doom. They suffered from the terrible delusion that something could be done. They seemed prepared to make the world the way they wanted it or die in the attempt, and the trouble with dying in the attempt was that you died in the attempt. The whole point about the old University organization was that it kept a sort of peace between wizards who got along with one another about as easily as cats in a sack, and now the gloves were off anyone who tried to interfere was going to end up severely scratched. This wasn’t the old, gentle, rather silly magic that the Disc was used to; this was magic war, white-hot and searing. Rincewind wasn’t very good at precognition; in fact he could barely see into the present. But he knew with weary certainty that at some point in the very near future, like thirty seconds or so, someone would say: “Surely there’s something we could do?” The desert passed below them, lit by the low rays of the setting sun. “There don’t seem to be many stars,” said Nijel. “Perhaps they’re scared to come out. ” Rincewind looked up. There was a silver haze high in the air. “It’s raw magic settling out of the atmosphere,” he said. “It’s saturated. ” Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twen— “Surely there’s—” Conina began. “There isn’t,” said Rincewind flatly, but with just the faintest twinge of satisfaction. “The wizards will fight each other until there’s one victor. There isn’t anything anyone else can do. ” “I could do with a drink,” said Creosote. “I suppose we couldn’t stop somewhere where I could buy an inn?” “What with?” said Nijel. “You’re poor, remember?” “Poor I don’t mind,” said the Seriph. “It’s sobriety that is giving me difficulties. ” Conina prodded Rincewind gently in the ribs. “Are you steering this thing?” she said. “No. ” “Then where is it going?” Nijel peered downwards. “By the look of it,” he said, “it’s going hubwards. Towards the Circle Sea. ” “ Someone must be guiding it. ” Hallo, said a friendly voice in Rincewind’s head. You’re not my conscience again, are you? thought Rincewind. I’m feeling really bad. Well, I’m sorry, Rincewind thought, but none of this is my fault. I’m just a victim of circuses. I don’t see why I should take the blame. Yes, but you could do something about it. Like what? You could destroy the sourcerer. All this would collapse then. I wouldn’t stand a chance. Then at least you could die in the attempt. That might be preferable to letting magical war break out. “Look, just shut up, will you?” said Rincewind. “What?” said Conina. “Um?” said Rincewind, vaguely. He looked down blankly at the blue and gold pattern underneath him, and added, “You’re flying this, aren’t you? Through me! That’s sneaky!” “What are you talking about?” “Oh. Sorry. Talking to myself. ” “I think,” said Conina, “that we’d better land. ” They glided down toward a crescent of beach where the desert reached the sea. In a normal light it would have been blinding white with a sand made up of billions of tiny shell fragments, but at this time of day it was blood-red and primordial. Ranks of driftwood, carved by the waves and bleached by the sun, were piled up on the tideline like the bones of ancient fish or the biggest floral art accessory counter in the universe. Nothing stirred, apart from the waves. There were a few rocks around, but they were firebrick hot and home to no mollusc or seaweed. Even the sea looked arid. If any proto-amphibian emerged onto a beach like this, it would have given up there and then, gone back into the water and told all its relatives to forget the legs, it wasn’t worth it. The air felt as though it had been cooked in a sock. Even so, Nijel insisted that they light a fire. “It’s more friendly,” he said. “Besides, there could be monsters. ” Conina looked at the oily wavelets, rolling up the beach in what appeared to be a half-hearted attempt to get out of the sea. “In that?” she said. “You never can tell. ” Rincewind mooched along the waterline, distractedly picking up stones and throwing them in the sea. One or two were thrown back. After a while Conina got a fire going, and the bone-dry, salt-saturated wood sent blue and green flames roaring up under a fountain of sparks. The wizard went and sat in the dancing shadows, his back against a pile of whitened wood, wrapped in a cloud of such impenetrable gloom that even Creosote stopped complaining of thirst and shut up. Conina woke up after midnight. There was a crescent moon on the horizon and a thin, chilly mist covered the sand. Creosote was snoring on his back. Nijel, who was theoretically on guard, was sound asleep. Conina lay perfectly still, every sense seeking out the thing that had awaken her. Finally she heard it again. It was a tiny, diffident clinking noise, barely audible above the muted slurp of the sea. She got up, or rather, she slid into the vertical as bonelessly as a jellyfish, and flicked Nijel’s sword out of his unresisting hand. Then she sidled through the mist without causing so much as an extra swirl. The fire sank down further into its bed of ash. After a while Conina came back, and shook the other two awake. “Warrizit?” “I think you ought to see this,” she hissed. “I think it could be important. ” “I just shut my eyes for a second—” Nijel protested. “Never mind about that. Come on. ” Creosote squinted around the impromptu campsite. “Where’s the wizard fellow?” “You’ll see. And don’t make a noise. It could be dangerous. ” They stumbled after her knee-deep in vapor, toward the sea. Eventually Nijel said, “Why dangerous—” “Shh! Did you hear it?” Nijel listened. “Like a sort of ringing noise?” “Watch…” Rincewind walked jerkily up the beach, carrying a large round rock in both hands. He walked past them without a word, his eyes staring straight ahead. They followed him along the cold beach until he reached a bare area between the dunes, where he stopped and, still moving with all the grace of a clothes horse, dropped the rock. It made a clinking noise. There was a wide circle of other stones. Very few of them had actually stayed on top of another one. The three of them crouched down and watched him. “Is he asleep?” said Creosote. Conina nodded. “What’s he trying to do?” “I think he’s trying to build a tower. ” Rincewind lurched back into the ring of stones and, with great care, placed another rock on empty air. It fell down. “He’s not very good at it, is he,” said Nijel. “It is very sad,” said Creosote. “Maybe we ought to wake him up,” said Conina. “Only I heard that if you wake up sleepwalkers their legs fall off, or something. What do you think?” “Could be risky, with wizards,” said Nijel. They tried to make themselves comfortable on the chilly sand. “It’s rather pathetic, isn’t it?” said Creosote. “It’s not as if he’s really a proper wizard. ” Conina and Nijel tried to avoid one another’s gaze. Finally the boy coughed, and said, “I’m not exactly a barbarian hero, you know. You may have noticed.

” They watched the toiling figure of Rincewind for a while, and then Conina said, “If it comes to that, I think I lack a certain something when it comes to hairdressing. ” They both stared fixedly at the sleepwalker, busy with their own thoughts and red with mutual embarrassment. Creosote cleared his throat. “If it makes anyone feel better,” he said, “I sometimes perceive that my poetry leaves a lot to be desired. ” Rincewind carefully tried to balance a large rock on a small pebble. It fell off, but he appeared to be happy with the result. “Speaking as a poet,” said Conina carefully, “what would you say about this situation?” Creosote shifted uneasily. “Funny old thing, life,” he said. “Pretty apt. ” Nijel lay back and looked up at the hazy stars. Then he sat bolt upright. “Did you see that?” he demanded. “What?” “It was a sort of flash, a kind of—” The hubward horizon exploded into a silent flower of color, which expanded rapidly through all the hues of the conventional spectrum before flashing into brilliant octarine. It etched itself on their eyeballs before fading away. After a while there was a distant rumble. “Some sort of magical weapon,” said Conina, blinking. A gust of warm wind picked up the mist and streamed it past them. “Blow this,” said Nijel, getting to his feet. “I’m going to wake him up, even if it means we end up carrying him. ” He reached out for Rincewind’s shoulder just as something went past very high overhead, making a noise like a flock of geese on nitrous oxide. It disappeared into the desert behind them. Then there was a sound that would have set false teeth on edge, a flash of green light, and a thump. “I’ll wake him up,” said Conina. “You get the carpet. ” She clambered over the ring of rocks and took the sleeping wizard gently by the arm, and this would have been a textbook way of waking a somnambulist if Rincewind hadn’t dropped the rock he was carrying on his foot. He opened his eyes. “Where am I?” he said. “On the beach. You’ve been…er…dreaming. ” Rincewind blinked at the mist, the sky, the circle of stones, Conina, the circle of stones again, and finally back at the sky. “What’s been happening?” he said. “Some sort of magical fireworks. ” “Oh. It’s started, then. ” He lurched unsteadily out of the circle, in a way that suggested to Conina that perhaps he wasn’t quite awake yet, and staggered back toward the remains of the fire. He walked a few steps and then appeared to remember something. He looked down at his foot, and said, “Ow. ” He’d almost reached the fire when the blast from the last spell reached them. It had been aimed at the tower in Al Khali, which was twenty miles away, and by now the wavefront was extremely diffuse. It was hardly affecting the nature of things as it surged over the dunes with a faint sucking noise; the fire burned red and green for a second, one of Nijel’s sandals turned into a small and irritated badger, and a pigeon flew out of the Seriph’s turban. Then it was past and boiling out over the sea. “What was that ?” said Nijel. He kicked the badger, who was sniffing at his foot. “Hmm?” said Rincewind. “ That! ” “Oh, that,” said Rincewind. “Just the backwash of a spell. They probably hit the tower in Al Khali. ” “It must have been pretty big to affect us here. ” “It probably was. ” “Hey, that was my palace,” said Creosote weakly. “I mean, I know it was a lot, but it was all I had. ” “Sorry. ” “But there were people in the city!” “They’re probably all right,” said Rincewind. “Good. ” “Whatever they are. ” “What?” Conina grabbed his arm. “Don’t shout at him,” she said. “He’s not himself. ” “Ah,” said Creosote dourly, “an improvement. ” “I say, that’s a bit unfair,” Nijel protested. “I mean, he got me out of the snake pit and, well, he knows a lot—” “Yes, wizards are good at getting you out of the sort of trouble that only wizards can get you into,” said Creosote. “Then they expect you to thank them. ” “Oh, I think—” “It’s got to be said,” said Creosote, waving his hands irritably. He was briefly illuminated by the passage of another spell across the tormented sky. “Look at that!” he snapped. “Oh, he means well. They all mean well. They probably all think the Disc would be a better place if they were in charge. Take it from me, there’s nothing more terrible than someone out to do the world a favor. Wizards! When all’s said and done, what good are they? I mean, can you name me something worthwhile any wizard’s done?” “I think that’s a bit cruel,” said Conina, but with an edge in her voice that suggested that she could be open to persuasion on the subject. “Well, they make me sick,” muttered Creosote, who was feeling acutely sober and didn’t like it much. “I think we’ll all feel better if we try to get a bit more sleep,” said Nijel diplomatically. “Things always look better by daylight. Nearly always, anyway. ” “My mouth feels all horrible, too,” muttered Creosote, determined to cling onto the remnant of his anger. Conina turned back to the fire, and became aware of a gap in the scenery. It was Rincewind-shaped. “He’s gone!” In fact Rincewind was already half a mile out over the dark sea, squatting on the carpet like an angry buddha, his mind a soup of rage, humiliation and fury, with a side order of outrage. He hadn’t wanted much, ever. He’d stuck with wizardry even though he wasn’t any good at it, he’d always done his best, and now the whole world was conspiring against him. Well, he’d show them. Precisely who ‘they’ were and what they were going to be shown was merely a matter of detail. He reached up and touched his hat for reassurance, even as it lost its last few sequins in the slipstream. The Luggage was having problems of its own. The area around the tower of Al Khali, under the relentless magical bombardment, was already drifting beyond that reality horizon where time, space and matter lose their separate identities and start wearing one another’s clothes. It was quite impossible to describe. Here is what it looked like. It looked like a piano sounds shortly after being dropped down a well. It tasted yellow, and felt Paisley. It smelled like a total eclipse of the moon. Of course, nearer to the tower it got really weird. Expecting anything unprotected to survive in that would be like expecting snow on a supernova. Fortunately the Luggage didn’t know this, and slid through the maelstrom with raw magic crystallizing on its lid and hinges. It was in a foul mood but, again, there was nothing very unusual about this, except that the crackling fury earthing itself spectacularly all over the Luggage in a multi-colored corona gave it the appearance of an early and very angry amphibian crawling out of a burning swamp. It was hot and stuffy inside the tower. There were no internal floors, just a series of walkways around the walls. They were lined with wizards, and the central space was a column of octarine light that creaked loudly as they poured their power into it. At its base stood Abrim, the octarine gems on the hat blazing so brightly that they looked more like holes cut through into a different universe where, in defiance of probability, they had come out inside a sun. The vizier stood with his hands out, fingers splayed, eyes shut, mouth a thin line of concentration, balancing the forces. Usually a wizard could control power only to the extent of his own physical capability, but Abrim was learning fast. You made yourself the pinch in the hourglass, the fulcrum on the balance, the roll around the sausage. Do it right and you were the power, it was part of you and you were capable of— Has it been pointed out that his feet were several inches off the ground? His feet were several inches off the ground. Abrim was pulling together the potency for a spell that would soar away into the sky and beset the Ankh tower with a thousand screaming demons when there came a thunderous knock at the door. There is a mantra to be said on these occasions.

It doesn’t matter if the door is a tent flap, a scrap of hide on a windblown yurt, three inches of solid oak with great iron nails in it or a rectangle of chipboard with mahogany veneer, a small light over it made of horrible bits of colored glass and a bell-push that plays a choice of twenty popular melodies that no music lover would want to listen to even after five years’ sensory deprivation. One wizard turned to another and duly said: “I wonder who that can be at this time of night?” There was another series of thumps on the woodwork. “There can’t be anyone alive out there,” said the other wizard, and he said it nervously, because if you ruled out the possibility of it being anyone alive that always left the suspicion that perhaps it was someone dead. This time the banging rattled the hinges. “One of us had better go out,” said the first wizard. “Good man. ” “Ah. Oh. Right. ” He set off slowly down the short, arched passage. “I’ll just go and see who it is, then?” he said. “First class. ” It was a strange figure that made its hesitant way to the door. Ordinary robes weren’t sufficient protection in the high-energy field inside tower, and over his brocade and velvet the wizard wore a thick, padded overall stuffed with rowan shavings and embroidered with industrial-grade sigils. He’d affixed a smoked glass visor to his pointy hat and his gauntlets, which were extremely big, suggested that he was a wicket keeper in a game of cricket played at supersonic speeds. The actinic flashes and pulsations from the great work in the main hall cast harsh shadows around him as he fumbled for the bolts. He pulled down the visor and opened the door a fraction. “We don’t want any—” he began, and ought to have chosen his words better, because they were his epitaph. It was some time before his colleague noticed his continued absence, and wandered down the passage to find him. The door had been thrown wide open, the thaumatic inferno outside roaring against the web of spells that held it in check. In fact the door hadn’t been pushed completely back; he pulled it aside to see why, and gave a little whimper. There was a noise behind him. He turned around. “Wha—” he began, which is a pretty poor syllable on which to end a life. High over the Circle Sea Rincewind was feeling like a bit of an idiot. This happens to everyone sooner or later. For example, in a tavern someone jogs your elbow and you turn around quickly and give a mouthful of abuse to, you become slowly aware, the belt buckle of a man who, it turns out, was probably hewn rather than born. Or a little car runs into the back of yours and you rush out to show a bunch of fives to the driver who, it becomes apparent as he goes on unfolding more body like some horrible conjuring trick, must have been sitting on the back seat. Or you might be leading your mutinous colleagues to the captain’s cabin and you hammer on the door and he sticks his great head out with a cutlass in either hand and you say “We’re taking over the ship, you scum, and the lads are right with me!” and he says “What lads?” and you suddenly feel a great emptiness behind you and you say “Um…” In other words, it’s the familiar hot sinking feeling experienced by everyone who has let the waves of their own anger throw them far up on the beach of retribution, leaving them, in the poetic language of the everyday, up shit creek. Rincewind was still angry and humiliated and so forth, but these emotions had died down a bit and something of his normal character had reasserted itself. It was not very pleased to find itself on a few threads of blue and gold wool high above the phosphorescent waves. He’d been heading for Ankh-Morpork. He tried to remember why. Of course, it was where it had all started. Perhaps it was the presence of the University, which was so heavy with magic it lay like a cannonball on the incontinence blanket of the Universe, stretching reality very thin. Ankh was where things started, and finished. It was also his home, such as it was, and it called to him. It has already been indicated that Rincewind appeared to have a certain amount of rodent in his ancestry, and in times of stress he felt an overpowering urge to make a run for his burrow. He let the carpet drift for a while on the air currents while dawn, which Creosote would probably have referred to as pink-fingered, made a ring of fire around the edge of the Disc. It spread its lazy light over a world that was subtly different. Rincewind blinked. There was a weird light. No, now he came to think about it, not weird but wyrd, which was much weirder. It was like looking at the world through a heat haze, but a haze that had a sort of life of its own. It danced and stretched, and gave more than a hint that it wasn’t just an optical illusion but that it was reality itself that was being tensed and distended, like a rubber balloon trying to contain too much gas. The wavering was greatest in the direction of Ankh-Morpork, where flashes and fountains of tortured air indicated that the struggle hadn’t abated. A similar column hung over Al Khali, and then Rincewind realized that it wasn’t the only one. Wasn’t that a tower over in Quirm, where the Circle Sea opened onto the great Rim Ocean? And there were others. It had all gone critical. Wizardry was breaking up. Goodbye to the University, the levels, the Orders; deep in his heart, every wizard knew that the natural unit of wizardry was one wizard. The towers would multiply and fight until there was one tower left, and then the wizards would fight until there was one wizard. By then, he’d probably fight himself. The whole edifice that operated as the balance wheel of magic was falling to bits. Rincewind resented that, deeply. He’d never been any good at magic, but that wasn’t the point. He knew where he fitted. It was right at the bottom, but at least he fitted. He could look up and see the whole delicate machine ticking away, gently, browsing off the natural magic generated by the turning of the Disc. All he had was nothing, but that was something, and now it had been taken away. Rincewind turned the carpet until it was facing the distant gleam that was Ankh-Morpork, which was a brilliant speck in the early morning light, and a part of his mind that wasn’t doing anything else wondered why it was so bright. There also seemed to be a full moon, and even Rincewind, whose grasp of natural philosophy was pretty vague, was sure there had been one of those only the other day. Well, it didn’t matter. He’d had enough. He wasn’t going to try to understand anything anymore. He was going home. Except that wizards can never go home. This is one of the ancient and deeply meaningful sayings about wizards and it says something about most of them that they have never been able to work out what it means. Wizards aren’t allowed to have wives but they are allowed to have parents, and many of them go back to the old home town for Hogswatch Night or Soul Cake Thursday, for a bit of a sing-song and the heart-warming sight of all their boyhood bullies hurriedly avoiding them in the street. It’s rather like the other saying they’ve never been able to understand, which is that you can’t cross the same river twice. Experiments with a long-legged wizard and a small river say you can cross the same river thirty, thirty-five times a minute. Wizards don’t like philosophy very much. As far as they are concerned, one hand clapping makes a noise like “cl. ” In this particular case, though, Rincewind couldn’t go home because it actually wasn’t there anymore. There was a city straddling the river Ankh, but it wasn’t one he’d ever seen before; it was white and clean and didn’t smell like a privy full of dead herrings. He landed in what had once been the Plaza of Broken Moons, and also in a state of some shock. There were fountains. There had been fountains before, of course, but they had oozed rather than played and they had looked like thin soup. There were milky flagstones underfoot, with little glittery bits in them.

And, although the sun was sitting on the horizon like half a breakfast grapefruit, there was hardly anyone around. Normally Ankh was permanently crowded, the actual shade of the sky being a mere background detail. Smoke drifted over the city in long greasy coils from the crown of boiling air above the University. It was the only movement, apart from the fountains. Rincewind had always been rather proud of the fact that he always felt alone, even in the teeming city, but it was even worse being alone when he was by himself. He rolled up the carpet and slung it over one shoulder and padded through the haunted streets toward the University. The gates hung open to the wind. Most of the building looked half ruined by misses and ricochets. The tower of sourcery, far too high to be real, seemed to be unscathed. Not so the old Tower of Art. Half the magic aimed at the tower next door seemed to have rebounded on it. Parts of it had melted and started to run; some parts glowed, some parts had crystalized, a few parts seemed to have twisted partly out of the normal three dimensions. It made you feel sorry even for stone that it should have to undergo such treatment. In fact nearly everything had happened to the tower except actual collapse. It looked so beaten that possibly even gravity had given up on it. Rincewind sighed, and padded around the base of the tower toward the Library. Towards where the Library had been. There was the arch of the doorway, and most of the walls were still standing, but a lot of the roof had fallen in and everything was blackened by soot. Rincewind stood and stared for a long time. Then he dropped the carpet and ran, stumbling and sliding through the rubble that half-blocked the doorway. The stones were still warm underfoot. Here and there the wreckage of a bookcase still smouldered. Anyone watching would have seen Rincewind dart backward and forward across the shimmering heaps, scrabbling desperately among them, throwing aside charred furniture, pulling aside lumps of fallen roof with less than superhuman strength. They would have seen him pause once or twice to get his breath back, then dive in again, cutting his hands on shards of half-molten glass from the dome of the roof. They would have noticed that he seemed to be sobbing. Eventually his questing fingers touched something warm and soft. The frantic wizard heaved a charred roof beam aside, scrabbled through a drift of fallen tiles and peered down. There, half squashed by the beam and baked brown by the fire, was a large bunch of overripe, squashy bananas. He picked one up, very carefully, and sat and watched it for some time until the end fell off. Then he ate it. “We shouldn’t have let him go like that,” said Conina. “How could we have stopped him, oh, beauteous doe-eyed eaglet?” “But he may do something stupid!” “I should think that is very likely,” said Creosote primly. “While we do something clever and sit on a baking beach with nothing to eat or drink, is that it?” “You could tell me a story,” said Creosote, trembling slightly. “Shut up. ” The Seriph ran his tongue over his lips. “I suppose a quick anecdote is out of the question?” he croaked. Conina sighed. “There’s more to life than narrative, you know. ” “Sorry. I lost control a little, there. ” Now that the sun was well up the crushed-shell beach glowed like a salt flat. The sea didn’t look any better by daylight. It moved like thin oil. Away on either side the beach stretched in long, excruciatingly flat curves, supporting nothing but a few clumps of withered dune grass which lived off the moisture in the spray. There was no sign of any shade. “The way I see it,” said Conina, “this is a beach, and that means sooner or later we’ll come to a river, so all we have to do is keep walking in one direction. ” “And yet, delightful snow on the slopes of Mount Eritor, we do not know which one. ” Nijel sighed, and reached into his bag. “Erm,” he said, “excuse me. Would this be any good? I stole it. Sorry. ” He held out the lamp that had been in the treasury. “It’s magic, isn’t it?” he said hopefully. “I’ve heard about them, isn’t it worth a try?” Creosote shook his head. “But you said your grandfather used it to make his fortune!” said Conina. ‘A lamp,” said the Seriph, “he used a lamp. Not this lamp. No, the real lamp was a battered old thing, and one day this wicked pedlar came around offering new lamps for old and my great-grandmother gave it to him for this one. The family kept it in the vault as a sort of memorial to her. A truly stupid woman. It doesn’t work, of course. ” “You tried it?” “No, but he wouldn’t have given it away if it was any good, would he?” “Give it a rub,” said Conina. “It can’t do any harm. ” “I wouldn’t,” warned Creosote. Nijel held the lamp gingerly. It had a strangely sleek look, as if someone had set out to make a lamp that could go fast. He rubbed it. The effects were curiously unimpressive. There was a half-hearted pop and a puff of wispy smoke near Nijel’s feet. A line appeared in the beach several feet away from the smoke. It spread quickly to outline a square of sand, which vanished. A figure barrelled out of the beach, jerked to a stop, and groaned. It was wearing a turban, an expensive tan, a small gold medallion, shiny shorts and advanced running shoes with curly toes. It said, “I want to get this absolutely straight. Where am I?” Conina recovered first. “It’s a beach,” she said. “Yah,” said the genie. “What I mean was, which lamp? What world?” “Don’t you know?” The creature took the lamp out of Nijel’s unresisting grasp. “Oh, this old thing,” he said. “I’m on time share. Two weeks every August but, of course, usually one can never get away. ” “Got a lot of lamps, have you?” said Nijel. “I am somewhat over-committed on lamps,” the genie agreed. “In fact I am thinking of diversifying into rings. Rings are looking big at the moment. There’s a lot of movement in rings. Sorry, people; what can I do you for?” The last phrase was turned in that special voice which people use for humorous self-parody, in the mistaken hope that it will make them sound less like a prat. “We—” Conina began. “I want a drink,” snapped Creosote. “And you are supposed to say that my wish is your command. ” “Oh, absolutely no one says that sort of thing anymore,” said the genie, and produced a glass out of nowhere. He treated Creosote to a brilliant smile lasting a small percentage of one second. “We want you to take us across the sea to Ankh-Morpork,” said Conina firmly. The genie looked blank. Then he pulled a very thick book * from the empty air and consulted it. “It sounds a really neat concept,” he said eventually. “Let’s do lunch next Tuesday, okay?” “Do what?” “I’m a little energetic right now. ” “ You’re a little —?” Conina began. “Great,” said the genie, sincerely, and glanced at his wrist. “Hey, is that the time?” He vanished. The three of them looked at the lamp in thoughtful silence, and then Nijel said, “Whatever happened to, you know, the fat guys with the baggy trousers and I Hear And Obey O Master?” Creosote snarled. He’d just drunk his drink. It had turned out to be water with bubbles in it and a taste like warm flatirons. “I’m bloody well not standing for it,” snarled Conina. She snatched the lamp from his hand and rubbed it as if she was sorry she wasn’t holding a handful of emery cloth. The genie reappeared at a different spot, which still managed to be several feet away from the weak explosion and obligatory cloud of smoke. He was now holding something curved and shiny to his ear, and listening intently. He looked hurriedly at Conina’s angry face and contrived to suggest, by waggling his eyebrows and waving his free hand urgently, that he was currently and inconveniently tied up by irksome matters which, regretfully, prevented him giving her his full attention as of now but, as soon as he had disentangled himself from this importunate person, she could rest assured that her wish, which was certainly a wish of tone and brilliance, would be his command.

“I shall smash the lamp,” she said quietly. The genie flashed her a smile and spoke hastily into the thing he was cradling between his chin and his shoulder. “Fine,” he said. “Great. It’s a slice, believe me. Have your people call my people. Stay beyond, okay? Bye. ” He lowered the instrument. “Bastard,” he said vaguely. “I really shall smash the lamp,” said Conina. “Which lamp is this?” said the genie hurriedly. “How many have you got?” said Nijel. “I always thought genies had just the one. ” The genie explained wearily that in fact he had several lamps. There was a small but well-appointed lamp where he lived during the week, another rather unique lamp in the country, a carefully restored peasant rushlight in an unspoilt wine-growing district near Quirm, and just recently a set of derelict lamps in the docks area of Ankh-Morpork that had great potential, once the smart crowd got there, to become the occult equivalent of a suite of offices and a wine bar. They listened in awe, like fish who had inadvertently swum into a lecture on how to fly. “Who are your people the other people have got to call?” said Nijel, who was impressed, although he didn’t know why or by what. “Actually, I don’t have any people yet,” said the genie, and gave a grimace that was definitely upwardly-mobile at the corners. “But I will. ” “Everyone shut up,” said Conina firmly, “and you , take us to Ankh-Morpork. ” “I should, if I were you,” said Creosote. “When the young lady’s mouth looks like a letter box, it’s best to do what she says. ” The genie hesitated. “I’m not very deep on transport,” he said. “Learn,” said Conina. She was tossing the lamp from hand to hand. “Teleportation is a major headache,” said the genie, looking desperate. “Why don’t we do lun—” “Right, that’s it,” said Conina. “Now I just need a couple of big flat rocks—” “Okay, okay. Just hold hands, will you? I’ll give it my best shot, but this could be one big mistake—” The astro-philosophers of Krull once succeeded in proving conclusively that all places are one place and that the distance between them is an illusion, and this news was an embarrassment to all thinking philosophers because it did not explain, among other things, signposts. After years of wrangling the whole thing was then turned over to Ly Tin Wheedle, arguably the Disc’s greatest philosopher * who after some thought proclaimed that although it was indeed true that all places were one place, that place was very large. And so psychic order was restored. Distance is, however, an entirely subjective phenomenon and creatures of magic can adjust it to suit themselves. They are not necessarily very good at it. Rincewind sat dejectedly in the blackened ruins of the Library, trying to put his finger on what was wrong with them. Well, everything, for a start. It was unthinkable that the Library should be burned. It was the largest accumulation of magic on the Disc. It underpinned wizardry. Every spell ever used was written down in it somewhere. Burning them was, was, was… There weren’t any ashes. Plenty of wood ashes, lots of chains, lots of blackened stone, lots of mess. But thousands of books don’t burn easily. They would leave bits of cover and piles of feathery ash. And there wasn’t any. Rincewind stirred the rubble with his toe. There was only the one door into the Library. Then there were the cellars—he could see the stairs down to them, choked with garbage—but you couldn’t hide all the books down there. You couldn’t teleport them out either, they would be resistant to such magic; anyone who tried something like that would end up wearing his brains outside his hat. There was an explosion overhead. A ring of orange fire formed about halfway up the tower of sourcery, ascended quickly and soared off toward Quirm. Rincewind slid around on his makeshift seat and stared up at the Tower of Art. He got the distinct impression that it was looking back at him. It was totally without windows, but for a moment he thought he saw a movement up among the crumbling turrets. He wondered how old the tower really was. Older than the University, certainly. Older than the city, which had formed about it like screen around a mountain. Maybe older than geography. There had been a time when the continents were different, Rincewind understood, and then they’d sort of shuffled more comfortably together like puppies in a basket. Perhaps the tower had been washed up on the waves of rock, from somewhere else. Maybe it had been there before the Disc itself, but Rincewind didn’t like to consider that, because it raised uncomfortable questions about who built it and what for. He examined his conscience. It said: I’m out of options. Please yourself. Rincewind stood up and brushed the dust and ash off his robe, removing quite a lot of the moulting red plush as well. He removed his hat, made a preoccupied attempt at straightening the point, and replaced it on his head. Then he walked unsteadily toward the Tower of Art. There was a very old and quite small door at the base. He wasn’t at all surprised when it opened as he approached. “Strange place,” said Nijel. “Funny curve to the walls. ” “Where are we?” said Conina. “And is there any alcohol?” said Creosote. “Probably not,” he added. “And why is it rocking?” said Conina. “I’ve never been anywhere with metal walls before. ” She sniffed. “Can you smell oil?” she added, suspiciously. The genie reappeared, although this time without the smoke and erratic trapdoor effects. It was noticeable that he tried to keep as far away from Conina as politely possible. “Everyone okay?” he said. “Is this Ankh?” she said. “Only when we wanted to go there, we rather hoped you’d put us somewhere with a door. ” “You’re on your way,” said the genie. “In what?” Something about the way in which the spirit hesitated caused Nijel’s mind to leap a tall conclusion from a standing start. He looked down at the lamp in his hands. He gave it an experimental jerk. The floor shook. “Oh, no,” he said. “It’s physically impossible. ” “We’re in the lamp ?” said Conina. The room trembled again as Nijel tried to look down the spout. “Don’t worry about it,” said the genie. “In fact, don’t think about it if possible. ” He explained—although “explained” is probably too positive a word, and in this case really means failed to explain but at some length—that it was perfectly possible to travel across the world in a small lamp being carried by one of the party, the lamp itself moving because it was being carried by one of the people inside it, because of a) the fractal nature of reality, which meant that everything could be thought of as being inside everything else and b) creative public relations. The trick relied on the laws of physics failing to spot the flaw until the journey was complete. “In the circumstances it is best not to think about it, yuh?” said the genie. “Like not thinking about pink rhinoceroses,” said Nijel, and gave an embarrassed laugh as they stared at him. “It was a sort of game we had,” he said. “You had to avoid thinking of pink rhinoceroses. ” He coughed. “I didn’t say it was a particularly good game. ” He squinted down the spout again. “No,” said Conina, “not very. ” “Uh,” said the genie, “Would anyone like coffee? Some sounds? A quick game of Significant Quest? * “Drink?” said Creosote. “White wine?” “Foul muck. ” The genie looked shocked. “Red is bad for—” it began. “—but any port in a storm,” said Creosote hurriedly. “Or sauterne, even. But no umbrella in it. ” It dawned on the Seriph that this wasn’t the way to talk to the genie. He pulled himself together a bit. “No umbrella, by the Five Moons of Nasreem. Or bits of fruit salad or olives or curly straws or ornamental monkeys, I command thee by the Seventeen Siderites of Sarudin. ” “I’m not an umbrella person,” said the genie sulkily. “It’s pretty sparse in here,” said Conina, “Why don’t you furnish it.

” “What I don’t understand,” said Nijel, “is, if we’re all in the lamp I’m holding, then the me in the lamp is holding a smaller lamp and in that lamp—” The genie waved his hands urgently. “Don’t talk about it!” he commanded. “Please!” Nijel’s honest brow wrinkled. “Yes, but,” he said, “is there a lot of me, or what?” “It’s all cyclic, but stop drawing attention to it, yuh?…Oh, shit. ” There was the subtle, unpleasant sound of the universe suddenly catching on. It was dark in the tower, a solid core of antique darkness that had been there since the dawn of time and resented the intrusion of the upstart daylight that nipped in around Rincewind. He felt the air move as the door shut behind him and the dark poured back, filling up the space where the light had been so neatly that you couldn’t have seen the join even if the light had still been there. The interior of the tower smelled of antiquity, with a slight suspicion of raven droppings. It took a great deal of courage to stand there in that dark. Rincewind didn’t have that much, but stood there anyway. Something started to snuffle around his feet, and Rincewind stood very still. The only reason he didn’t move was for fear of treading on something worse. Then a hand like an old leather glove touched his, very gently, and a voice said: “Oook. ” Rincewind looked up. The dark yielded, just once, to a vivid flash of light. And Rincewind saw. The whole tower was lined with books. They were squeezed on every step of the rotting spiral staircase that wound up inside. They were piled up on the floor, although something about the way in which they were piled suggested that the word “huddled” would be more appropriate. They had lodged—all right, they had perched—on every crumbling ledge. They were observing him, in some covert way that had nothing to do with the normal six senses. Books are pretty good at conveying meaning, not necessarily their own personal meanings of course, and Rincewind grasped the fact that they were trying to tell him something. There was another flash. He realized that it was magic from the sourcerer’s tower, reflected down from the distant hole that led onto the roof. At least it enabled him to identify Wuffles, who was wheezing at his right foot. That was a bit of a relief. Now if he could just put a name to the soft, repetitive slithering noise near his left ear… There was a further obliging flash, which found him looking directly into the little yellow eyes of the Patrician, who was clawing patiently at the side of his glass jar. It was a gentle, mindless scrabbling, as if the little lizard wasn’t particularly trying to get out but was just vaguely interested in seeing how long it would take to wear the glass away. Rincewind looked down at the pear-shaped bulk of the Librarian. “There’s thousands of them,” he whispered, his voice being sucked away and silenced by the massed ranks of books. “How did you get them all in here?” “Oook oook. ” “They what?” “Oook,” repeated the Librarian, making vigorous flapping motions with his bald elbows. “Fly?” “Oook. ” “Can they do that?” “Oook,” nodded the Librarian. “That must have been pretty impressive. I’d like to see that one day. ” “Oook. ” Not every book had made it. Most of the important grimoires had got out but a seven-volume herbal had lost its index to the flames and many a trilogy was mourning for its lost volume. Quite a few books had scorch marks on their bindings; some had lost their covers and trailed their stitching unpleasantly on the floor. A match flared, and pages rippled uneasily around the walls. But it was only the Librarian, who lit a candle and shambled across the floor at the base of a menacing shadow big enough to climb skyscrapers. He had set up a rough table against one wall and it was covered with arcane tools, pots of rare adhesives and a bookbinder’s vice which was already holding a stricken folio. A few weak lines of magic fire crawled across it. The ape pushed the candlestick into Rincewind’s hand, picked up a scalpel and a pair of tweezers, and bent low over the trembling book. Rincewind went pale. “Um,” he said, “er, do you mind if I go away? I faint at the sight of glue. ” The Librarian shook his head and jerked a preoccupied thumb toward a tray of tools. “Oook,” he commanded. Rincewind nodded miserably and obediently handed him a pair of long-nosed scissors. The wizard winced as a couple of damaged pages were snipped free and dropped to the floor. “What are you doing to it?” he managed. “Oook. ” “An appendectomy? Oh. ” The ape jerked his thumb again, without looking up. Rincewind fished a needle and thread out of the ranks on the tray and handed them over. There was silence broken only by the scritching sound of thread being pulled through paper until the Librarian straightened up and said: “Oook. ” Rincewind pulled out his handkerchief and mopped the ape’s brow. “Oook. ” “Don’t mention it. Is it—going to be all right?” The Librarian nodded. There was also a general, almost inaudible sigh of relief from the tier of books above them. Rincewind sat down. The books were frightened. In fact they were terrified. The presence of the sourcerer made their spines creep, and the pressure of their attention closed in around him like a vise. “All right,” he mumbled, “but what can I do about it?” “Oook. ” The Librarian gave Rincewind a look that would have been exactly like a quizzical look over the top of a pair of half-moon spectacles, if he had been wearing any, and reached for another broken book. “I mean, you know I’m no good at magic. ” “Oook. ” “The sourcery that’s about now, it’s terrible stuff. I mean, it’s the original stuff, from right back in the dawn of time. Or around breakfast, at any rate. ” “Oook. ” “It’ll destroy everything eventually, won’t it?” “Oook. ” “It’s about time someone put a stop to this sourcery, right?” “Oook. ” “Only it can’t be me, you see. When I came here I thought I could do something, but that tower! It’s so big! It must be proof against all magic! If really powerful wizards won’t do anything about it, how can I?” “Oook,” agreed the Librarian, sewing a ruptured spine. “So, you see, I think someone else can save the world this time. I’m no good at it. ” The ape nodded, reached across and lifted Rincewind’s hat from his head. “Hey!” The Librarian ignored him, picked up a pair of shears. “Look, that’s my hat, if you don’t mind don’t you dare do that to my —” He leapt across the floor and was rewarded with a thump across the side of the head, which would have astonished him if he’d had time to think about it; the Librarian might shuffle around the place like a good-natured wobbly balloon, but underneath that oversized skin was a framework of superbly-cantilevered bone and muscle that could drive a fistful of calloused knuckles through a thick oak plank. Running into the Librarian’s arm was like hitting a hairy iron bar. Wuffles started to bounce up and down, yelping with excitement. Rincewind screamed a hoarse, untranslatable yell of fury, bounced off the wall, snatched up a fallen rock as a crude club, kicked forward and stopped dead. The Librarian was crouched in the center of the floor with the shears touching—but not yet cutting—the hat. And he was grinning at Rincewind. They stood like a frozen tableau for some seconds. Then the ape dropped the shears, flicked several imaginary flecks of dust off the hat, straightened the point, and placed it on Rincewind’s head. A few shocked moments after this Rincewind realized that he was holding up, at arm’s length, a very large and extremely heavy rock. He managed to force it away on one side before it recovered from the shock and remembered to fall on him. “I see,” he said, sinking back against the wall and rubbing his elbows. “And all that’s supposed to tell me something, is it? A moral lesson, let Rincewind confront his true self, let him work out what he’s really prepared to fight for. Eh? Well, it was a very cheap trick. And I’ve news for you. If you think it worked—” he snatched the hat brim—“if you think it worked.

If you think I’ve. You’ve got another thought. Listen, it’s. If you think. ” His voice stuttered into silence. Then he shrugged. “All right. But when you get down to it, what can I actually do?” The Librarian replied with an expansive gesture that indicated, as clearly as if he had said “oook,” that Rincewind was a wizard with a hat, a library of magical books and a tower. This could be regarded as everything a magical practitioner could need. An ape, a small terrier with halitosis and a lizard in a jar were optional extras. Rincewind felt a slight pressure on his foot. Wuffles, who was extremely slow on the uptake, had fastened his toothless gums on the toe of Rincewind’s boot and was giving it a vicious suck. He picked the little dog up by the scruff of its neck and the bristly stub that, for the want of a better word, it called its tail, and gently lifted it sideways. “Okay,” he said. “You’d better tell me what’s been happening here. ” From the Carrack Mountains, overlooking the vast cold Sto Plain in the middle of which Ankh-Morpork sprawled like a bag of dropped groceries, the view was particularly impressive. Mishits and ricochets from the magical battle were expanding outward and upwards, in a bowl-shaped cloud of curdled air at the heart of which strange lights flashed and sparkled. The roads leading away from it were packed with refugees, and every inn and wayside tavern was crowded out. Or nearly every one. No one seemed to want to stop at the rather pleasant little pub nestling among trees just off the road to Quirm. It wasn’t that they were frightened to go inside, it was just that, for the moment, they weren’t being allowed to notice it. There was a disturbance in the air about half a mile away and three figures dropped out of nowhere into a thicket of lavender. They lay supine in the sunshine among the broken, fragrant branches, until their sanity came back. Then Creosote said, “Where are we, do you suppose?” “It smells like someone’s underwear drawer,” said Conina. “Not mine,” said Nijel, firmly. He eased himself up gently and added, “Has anyone seen the lamp?” “Forget it. It’s probably been sold to build a wine-bar,” said Conina. Nijel scrabbled around among the lavender stems until his hands found something small and metallic. “Got it!” he declared. “Don’t rub it!” said the other two, in harmony. They were too late anyway, but that didn’t much matter, because all that happened when Nijel gave it a cautious buff was the appearance of some small smoking red letters in mid-air. “‘Hi,’” Nijel read aloud. “‘Do not put down the lamp, because your custom is important to us. Please leave a wish after the tone and, very shortly, it will be our command. In the meantime, have a nice eternity. ’” He added, “You know, I think he’s a bit over-committed. ” Conina said nothing. She was staring out across the plains to the broiling storm of magic. Occasionally some of it would detach and soar away to some distant tower. She shivered, despite the growing heat of the day. “We ought to get down there as soon as possible,” she said. “It’s very important. ” “Why?” said Creosote. One glass of wine hadn’t really restored him to his former easygoing nature. Conina opened her mouth, and—quite unusually for her—shut it again. There was no way to explain that every gene in her body was dragging her onward, telling her that she should get involved; visions of swords and spiky balls on chains kept invading the hairdressing salons of her consciousness. Nijel, on the other hand, felt no such pounding. All he had to drive him onward was imagination, but he did have enough of that to float a medium-sized war galley. He looked toward the city with what would have been, but for his lack of chin, an expression of set-jawed determination. Creosote realized that he was outnumbered. “Do they have any drink down there?” he said. “Lots,” said Nijel. “That might do for a start,” the Seriph conceded. “All right, lead on, O peach-breasted daughter of—” “And no poetry. ” They untangled themselves from the thicket and walked down the hillside until they reached the road which, before very long, went past the aforementioned tavern or, as Creosote persisted in calling it, caravanserai. They hesitated about going in. It didn’t seem to welcome visitors. But Conina, who by breeding and upbringing tended to skulk around the back of buildings, found four horses tethered in the yard. They considered them carefully. “It would be stealing,” said Nijel, slowly. Conina opened her mouth to agree and the words “Why not?” slid past her lips. She shrugged. “Perhaps we should leave some money—” Nijel suggested. “Don’t look at me,” said Creosote. “—or maybe write a note and leave it under the bridle. Or something. Don’t you think?” By way of an answer Conina vaulted up onto the largest horse, which by the look of it belonged to a soldier. Weaponry was slung all over it. Creosote hoisted himself uneasily onto the second horse, a rather skittish bay, and sighed. “She’s got that letter-box look,” he said. “I should do what she says. ” Nijel regarded the other two horses suspiciously. One of them was very large and extremely white, not the offwhite which was all that most horses could manage, but a translucent, ivory white tone which Nijel felt an unconscious urge to describe as “shroud. ” It also gave him a distinct impression that it was more intelligent than he was. He selected the other one. It was a bit thin, but docile, and he managed to get on after only two tries. They set off. The sound of their hoofbeats barely penetrated the gloom inside the tavern. The innkeeper moved like someone in a dream. He knew he had customers, he’d even spoken to them, he could even see them sitting around a table by the fire, but if asked to describe who he’d talked to and what he had seen he’d have been at a loss. This is because the human brain is remarkably good at shutting out things it doesn’t want to know. His could currently have shielded a bank vault. And the drinks! Most of them he’d never heard of, but strange bottles kept appearing on the shelves above the beer barrels. The trouble was that whenever he tried to think about it, his thoughts just slid away… The figures around the table looked up from their cards. One of them raised a hand. It’s stuck on the end of his arm and it’s got five fingers, the innkeeper’s mind said. It must be a hand. One thing the innkeeper’s brain couldn’t shut out was the sound of the voices. This one sounded as though someone was hitting a rock with a roll of sheet lead. B AR PERSON. The innkeeper groaned faintly. The thermic lances of horror were melting their way steadily through the steel door of his mind. L ET ME SEE, NOW. T HAT’S A—WHAT WAS IT AGAIN ? “A Bloody Mary. ” This voice made a simple drinks order sound like the opening of hostilities. O H, YES. A ND — “ Mine was a small egg nog ,” said Pestilence. A N EGG NOG. “ With a cherry in it. ” G OOD , lied the heavy voice. A ND THAT’LL BE A SMALL PORT WINE FOR ME AND , the speaker glanced across the table at the fourth member of the quartet and sighed, YOU’D BETTER BRING ANOTHER BOWL OF PEANUTS. About three hundred yards down the road the horse thieves were trying to come to terms with a new experience. “Certainly a smooth ride,” Nijel managed eventually. “And a lovely—a lovely view,” said Creosote, his voice lost in the slipstream. “But I wonder,” said Nijel, “if we have done exactly the right thing. ” “We’re moving, aren’t we?” demanded Conina. “Don’t be petty. ” “It’s just that, well, looking at cumulus clouds from above is—” “Shut up. ” “Sorry. ” “Anyway, they’re stratus. Strato-cumulus at most. ” “Right,” said Nijel miserably. “Does it make any difference?” said Creosote, who was lying flat on his horse’s neck with his eyes shut. “About a thousand feet. ” “Oh. ” “Could be seven hundred and fifty,” conceded Conina. “Ah. ” The tower of sourcery trembled. Colored smoke rolled through its vaulted rooms and shining corridors.

In the big room at the very tip, where the air was thick and greasy and tasted of burning tin, many wizards had passed out with the sheer mental effort of the battle. But enough remained. They sat in a wide circle, locked in concentration. It was just possible to see the shimmering in the air as the raw sourcery swirled out of the staff in Coin’s hand and into the center of the octogram. Outlandish shapes appeared for a brief instant and vanished. The very fabric of reality was being put through the wringer in there. Carding shuddered and turned away in case he saw anything he really couldn’t ignore. The surviving senior wizards had a simulacrum of the Disc hovering in front of them. As Carding looked at it again the little red glow over the city of Quirm flared and went out. The air creaked. “There goes Quirm,” murmured Carding. “That just leaves Al Khali,” said one of the others. “There’s some clever power there. ” Carding nodded glumly. He’d quite liked Quirm, which was a—had been a pleasant little city overlooking the Rim Ocean. He dimly recalled being taken there, once, when he was small. For a moment he gazed sadly into the past. It had wild geraniums, he recalled, filling the sloping cobbled streets with their musky fragrance. “Growing out of the walls,” he said out loud. “Pink. They were pink. ” The other wizards looked at him oddly. One or two, of a particularly paranoid frame of mind even for wizards, glanced suspiciously at the walls. “Are you all right?” said one of them. “Um?” said Carding. “Oh. Yes, Sorry. Miles away. ” He turned back to look at Coin, who was sitting off to one side of the circle with the staff across his knees. The boy appeared to be asleep. Perhaps he was. But Carding knew in the tormented pit of his soul that the staff didn’t sleep. It was watching him, testing his mind. It knew. It even knew about the pink geraniums. “I never wanted it to be like this,” he said softly. “All we really wanted was a bit of respect. ” “Are you sure you’re all right?” Carding nodded vaguely. As his colleagues resumed their concentration he glanced sideways at them. Somehow, all his old friends had gone. Well, not friends. A wizard never had friends, at least not friends who were wizards. It needed a different word. Ah yes, that was it. Enemies. But a very decent class of enemies. Gentlemen. The cream of their profession. Not like these people, for all that they seemed to have risen in the craft since the sourcerer had arrived. Other things besides the cream floated to the top, he reflected sourly. He turned his attention to Al Khali, probing with his mind, knowing that the wizards there were almost certainly doing the same, seeking constantly for a point of weakness. He thought: Am I a point of weakness? Spelter tried to tell me something. It was about the staff. A man should lean on his staff, not the other way around…it’s steering him, leading him…I wish I’d listened to Spelter…this is wrong, I’m a point of weakness… He tried again, riding the surges of power, letting them carry his mind into the enemy tower. Even Abrim was making use of sourcery, and Carding let himself modulate the wave, insinuating himself past the defenses erected against him. The image of the interior of the Al Khali tower appeared, focused… … the Luggage trundled along the glowing corridors. It was exceedingly angry now. It had been awoken from hibernation, it had been scorned, it had been briefly attacked by a variety of mythological and now extinct lifeforms, it had a headache and now, as it entered the Great Hall, it detected the hat. The horrible hat, the cause of everything it was currently suffering. It advanced purposefully … Carding, testing the resistance of Abrim’s mind, felt the man’s attention waver. For a moment he saw through the enemy’s eyes, saw the squat oblong cantering across the stone. For a moment Abrim attempted to shift his concentration and then, no more able to help himself than is a cat when it sees something small and squeaky run across the floor, Carding struck. Not much. It didn’t need much. Abrim’s mind was attempting to balance and channel huge forces, and it needed hardly any pressure to topple it from its position. Abrim extended his hands to blast the Luggage, gave the merest beginnings of a scream, and imploded. The wizards around him thought they saw him grow impossibly small in a fraction of a second and vanish, leaving a black after-image… The more intelligent of them started to run… And the magic he had been controlling surged back out and flooded free in one great, randomized burst that blew the hat to bits, took out the entire lower levels of the tower and quite a large part of what remained of the city. So many wizards in Ankh had been concentrating on the hall that the sympathetic resonance blew them across the room. Carding ended up on his back, his hat over his eyes. They hauled him out and dusted him off and carried him to Coin and the staff, amid cheers—although some of the older wizards forbore to cheer. But he didn’t seem to pay any attention. He stared sightlessly down at the boy, and then slowly raised his hands to his ears. “Can’t you hear them?” he said. The wizards fell silent. Carding still had power, and the tone of his voice would have quelled a thunderstorm. Coin’s eyes glowed. “I hear nothing,” he said. Carding turned to the rest of the wizards. “Can’t you hear them?” They shook their heads. One of them said, “Hear what, brother?” Carding smiled, and it was a wide, mad smile. Even Coin took a step backwards. “You’ll hear them soon enough,” he said. “You’ve made a beacon. You’ll all hear them. But you won’t hear them for long. ” He pushed aside the younger wizards who were holding his arms and advanced on Coin. “You’re pouring sourcery into the world and other things are coming with it,” he said. “Others have given them a pathway but you’ve given them an avenue !” He sprang forward and snatched the black staff out of Coin’s hands and swung it up in the air to smash it against the wall. Carding went rigid as the staff struck back. Then his skin began to blister… Most of the wizards managed to turn their heads away. A few—and there are always a few like that—watched in obscene fascination. Coin watched, too. His eyes widened in wonder. One hand went to his mouth. He tried to back away. He couldn’t. “ They’re cumulus. ” “Marvelous,” said Nijel weakly. W EIGHT DOESN’T COME INTO IT. M Y STEED HAS CARRIED ARMIES. M Y STEED HAS CARRIED CITIES. Y EA, HE HATH CARRIED ALL THINGS IN THEIR DUE TIME , said Death. B UT HE’S NOT GOING TO CARRY YOU THREE. “Why not?” I T’S A MATTER OF THE LOOK OF THE THING. “It’s going to look pretty good, then, isn’t it,” said War testily, “the One Horseman and Three Pedestrians of the Apocralypse. ” “ Perhaps you could ask them to wait for us? ” said Pestilence, his voice sounding like something dripping out of the bottom of a coffin. I HAVE THINGS TO ATTEND TO , said Death. He made a little clicking noise with his teeth. I’ M SURE YOU’LL MANAGE. Y OU NORMALLY DO. War watched the retreating horse. “Sometimes he really gets on my nerves. Why is he always so keen to have the last word?” he said. “ Force of habit, I suppose. ” They turned back to the tavern. Neither spoke for some time, and then War said, “Where’s Famine?” “ Went to find the kitchen. ” “Oh. ” War scuffed one armored foot in the dust, and thought about the distance to Ankh. It was a very hot afternoon. The Apocralypse could jolly well wait. “One for the road?” he suggested. “ Should we? ” said Pestilence, doubtfully. “ I thought we were expected. I mean, I wouldn’t like to disappoint people. ” “We’ve got time for a quick one, I’m sure,” War insisted. “Pub clocks are never right. We’ve got bags of time. All the time in the world. ” Carding slumped forward and thudded on the shining white floor. The staff rolled out of his hands and upended itself. Coin prodded the limp body with his foot. “I did warn him,” he said. “I told him what would happen if he touched it again.

What did he mean, them ?” There was an outbreak of coughing and a considerable inspection of fingernails. “What did he mean?” Coin demanded. Ovin Hakardly, lecturer in Lore, once again found that the wizards around him were parting like morning mist. Without moving he appeared to have stepped forward. His eyes swivelled backwards and forward like trapped animals. “Er,” he said. He waved his thin hands vaguely. “The world, you see, that is, the reality in which we live, in fact, it can be thought of as, in a manner of speaking, a rubber sheet. ” He hesitated, aware that the sentence was not going to appear in anyone’s book of quotable quotes. “In that,” he added hurriedly, “it is distorted, uh, distended by the presence of magic in any degree and, if I may make a point here, too much magical potentiality, if foregathered in one spot, forces our reality, um, downwards, although of course one should not take the term literally (because in no sense do I seek to suggest a physical dimension) and it has been postulated that a sufficient exercise of magic can, shall we say, um, break through the actuality at its lowest point and offer, perhaps, a pathway to the inhabitants or, if I may use a more correct term, denizens of the lower plane (which is called by the loose-tongued the Dungeon Dimensions) who, because perhaps of the difference in energy levels, are naturally attracted to the brightness of this world. Our world. ” There was the typical long pause which usually followed Hakardly’s speeches, while everybody mentally inserted commas and stitched the fractured clauses together. Coin’s lips moved silently for a while. “Do you mean magic attracts these creatures?” he said eventually. His voice was quite different now. It lacked its former edge. The staff hung in the air above the prone body of Carding, rotating slowly. The eyes of every wizard in the place were on it. “So it appears,” said Hakardly. “Students of such things say their presence is heralded by a coarse susurration. ” Coin looked uncertain. “They buzz,” said one of the other wizards helpfully. The boy knelt down and peered closely at Carding. “He’s very still,” he said cautiously. “Is anything bad happening to him?” “It may be,” said Hakardly, guardedly. “He’s dead. ” “I wish he wasn’t. ” “It is a view, I suspect, which he shares. ” “But I can help him,” said Coin. He held out his hands and the staff glided into them. If it had a face, it would have smirked. When he spoke next his voice once again had the cold distant tones of someone speaking in a steel room. “If failure had no penalty success would not be a prize,” he said. “Sorry?” said Hakardly. “You’ve lost me there. ” Coin turned on his heel and strode back to his chair. “We can fear nothing,” he said, and it sounded more like a command. “What of these Dungeon Dimensions? If they should trouble us, away with them! A true wizard will fear nothing! Nothing!” He jerked to his feet again and strode to the simulacrum of the world. The image was perfect in every detail, down to a ghost of Great A’Tuin paddling slowly through the interstellar deeps a few inches above the floor. Coin waved his hand through it disdainfully. “Ours is a world of magic,” he said. “And what can be found in it that can stand against us?” Hakardly thought that something was expected of him. “Absolutely no one,” he said. “Except for the gods, of course. ” There was a dead silence. “The gods?” said Coin quietly. “Well, yes. Certainly. We don’t challenge the gods. They do their job, we do ours. No sense in—” “Who rules the Disc? Wizards or gods?” Hakardly thought quickly. “Oh, wizards. Of course. But, as it were, under the gods. ” When one accidentally puts one boot in a swamp it is quite unpleasant. But not as unpleasant as pushing down with the other boot and hearing that, too, disappear with a soft sucking noise. Hakardly pressed on. “You see, wizardry is more—” “Are we not more powerful than the gods, then?” said Coin. Some of the wizards at the back of the crowd began to shuffle their feet. “Well. Yes and no,” said Hakardly, up to his knees in it now. The truth was that wizards tended to be somewhat nervous about the gods. The beings who dwelt on Cori Celesti had never made their feelings plain on the subject of ceremonial magic, which after all had a certain godness about it, and wizards tended to avoid the whole subject. The trouble with gods was that if they didn’t like something they didn’t just drop hints, so common sense suggested that it was unwise to put the gods in a position where they had to decide. “There seems to be some uncertainty?” said Coin. “If I may counsel—” Hakardly began. Coin waved a hand. The walls vanished. The wizards stood at the top of the tower of sourcery, and as one man their eyes turned to the distant pinnacle of Cori Celesti, home of the gods. “When you’ve beaten everyone else, there’s only the gods left to fight,” said Coin. “Have any of you seen the gods?” There was a chorus of hesitant denials. “I will show them to you. ” “You’ve got room for another one in there, old son,” said War. Pestilence swayed unsteadily. “ I’m sure we should be getting along ,” he muttered, without much conviction. “Oh, go on. ” “ Just a half, then. And then we really must be going. ” War slapped him on the back and glared at Famine. “And we’d better have another fifteen bags of peanuts,” he added. “Oook,” the Librarian concluded. “Oh,” said Rincewind. “It’s the staff that’s the problem, then. ” “Oook. ” “Hasn’t anyone tried to take it away from him?” “Oook. ” “What happened to them, then?” “ Eeek. ” Rincewind groaned. The Librarian had put his candle out because the presence of the naked flame was unsettling the books, but now that Rincewind had grown accustomed to the dark, he realized it wasn’t dark at all. The soft octarine glow from the books filled the inside of the tower with something that, while it wasn’t exactly light, was a blackness you could see by. Now and again the ruffle of stiff pages floated down from the gloom. “So, basically, there’s no way our magic could defeat him, isn’t that right?” The Librarian oooked disconsolate agreement and continued to spin around gently on his bottom. “Pretty pointless, then. It may have struck you that I am not exactly gifted in the magical department. I mean, any duel is going to go on the lines of ‘Hallo, I’m Rincewind’ closely followed by bazaam!” “Oook. ” “Basically, what you’re saying is that I’m on my own. ” “Oook. ” “Thanks. ” By their own faint glow Rincewind regarded the books that had stacked themselves around the inner walls of the ancient tower. He sighed and marched briskly to the door, but slowed down noticeably as he reached it. “I’ll be off, then,” he said. “Oook. ” “To face who knows what dreadful perils,” Rincewind added. “To lay down my life in the service of mankind—” “Eeek. ” “All right, bipeds—” “Woof. ” “—and quadrapeds, all right. ” He glanced at the Patrician’s jamjar, a beaten man. “And lizards,” he added. “Can I go now?” A gale was howling down out of a clear sky as Rincewind toiled toward the tower of sourcery. Its high white doors were shut so tightly it was barely possible to see their outline in the milky surface of the stone. He hammered on it for a bit, but nothing much happened. The doors seemed to absorb the sound. “Fine thing,” he muttered to himself, and remembered the carpet. It was lying where he had left it, which was another sign that Ankh had changed. In the thieving days before the sourcerer nothing stayed for long where you left it. Nothing printable, anyway. He rolled it out on the cobbles so that the golden dragons writhed against the blue ground, unless of course the blue dragons were flying against a golden sky. He sat down. He stood up. He sat down again and hitched up his robe and, with some effort, unrolled one of his socks. Then he replaced his boot and wandered around for a bit until he found, among the rubble, a half-brick. He inserted the half-brick into the sock and gave the sock a few thoughtful swings. Rincewind had grown up in Morpork.

What a Morpork citizen liked to have on his side in a fight was odds of about twenty to one, but failing that a sockful of half-brick and a dark alley to lurk in was generally considered a better bet than any two magic swords you cared to name. He sat down again. “Up,” he commanded. The carpet did not respond. Rincewind peered at the pattern, then lifted a corner of the carpet and tried to make out if the underside was any better. “All right,” he conceded, “down. Very, very carefully. Down. ” “Sheep,” slurred War. “It was sheep. ” His helmeted head hit the bar with a clang. He raised it again. “Sheep. ” “Nonono,” said Famine, raising a thin finger unsteadily. “Some other domess…dummist…tame animal. Like pig. Heifer. Kitten? Like that. Not sheep. ” “ Bees ,” said Pestilence, and slid gently out of his seat. “Okay,” said War, ignoring him, “right. Once again, then. From the top. ” He rapped the side of his glass for the note. “We are poor little…unidentified domesticated animals…that have lost our way…” he quavered. “ Baabaabaa ,” muttered Pestilence, from the floor. War shook his head. “It isn’t the same, you know,” he said. “Not without him. He used to come in beautifully on the bass. ” “ Baabaabaa ,” Pestilence repeated. “Oh, shut up,” said War, and reached uncertainly for a bottle. The gale buffeted the top of the tower, a hot, unpleasant wind that whispered with strange voices and rubbed the skin like fine sandpaper. In the center of it Coin stood with the staff over his head. As dust filled the air the wizards saw the lines of magic force pouring from it. They curved up to form a vast bubble that expanded until it must have been larger than the city. And shapes appeared in it. They were shifting and indistinct, wavering horribly like visions in a distorting mirror, no more substantial than smoke rings or pictures in the clouds, but they were dreadfully familiar. There, for a moment, was the fanged snout of Offler. There, clear for an instant in the writhing storm, was Blind Io, chief of the gods, with his orbiting eyes. Coin muttered soundlessly and the bubble began to contract. It bulged and jerked obscenely as the things inside fought to get out, but they could not stop the contraction. Now it was bigger than the University grounds. Now it was taller than the tower. Now it was twice the height of a man, and smoke gray. Now it was an iridescent pearl, the size of…well, the size of a large pearl. The gale had gone, replaced by a heavy, silent calm. The very air groaned with the strain. Most of the wizards were flat on the floor, pressed there by the unleashed forces that thickened the air and deadened sound like a universe of feathers, but every one of them could hear his own heart beating loud enough to smash the tower. “Look at me,” Coin commanded. They turned their eyes upwards. There was no way they could disobey. He held the glistening thing in one hand. The other held the staff, which had smoke pouring from its ends. “The gods,” he said. “Imprisoned in a thought. And perhaps they were never more than a dream. ” His voice become older, deeper. “Wizards of Unseen University,” it said, “have I not given you absolute dominion?” Behind them the carpet rose slowly over the side of the tower, with Rincewind trying hard to keep his balance. His eyes were wide with the sort of terror that comes naturally to anyone standing on a few threads and several hundred feet of empty air. He lurched off the hovering thing and onto the tower, swinging the loaded sock around his head in wide, dangerous sweeps. Coin saw him reflected in the astonished stares of the assembled wizards. He turned carefully and watched the wizard stagger erratically toward him. “Who are you?” he said. “I have come,” said Rincewind thickly, “to challenge the sourcerer. Which one is he?” He surveyed the prostrate wizardry, hefting the half-brick in one hand. Hakardly risked a glance upwards and made frantic eyebrow movements at Rincewind who, even at the best of times, wasn’t much good at interpreting non-verbal communication. This wasn’t the best of times. “With a sock?” said Coin. “What good is a sock?” The arm holding the staff rose. Coin looked down at it in mild astonishment. “No, stop,” he said. “I want to talk to this man. ” He stared at Rincewind, who was swaying back and forth under the influence of sleeplessness, horror and the after-effects of an adrenaline overdose. “Is it magical?” he said, curiously. “Perhaps it is the sock of an Archchancellor? A sock of force?” Rincewind focused on it. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I think I bought it in a shop or something. Um. I’ve got another one somewhere. ” “But in the end it has something heavy?” “Um. Yes,” said Rincewind. He added, “It’s a half-brick. ” “But it has great power. ” “Er. You can hold things up with it. If you had another one, you’d have a brick. ” Rincewind spoke slowly. He was assimilating the situation by a kind of awful osmosis, and watching the staff turn ominously in the boy’s hand. “So. It is a brick of ordinariness, within a sock. The whole becoming a weapon. ” “Um. Yes. ” “How does it work?” “Um. You swing it, and then you. Hit something with it. Or sometimes the back of your hand, sometimes. ” “And then perhaps it destroys a whole city?” said Coin. Rincewind stared into Coin’s golden eyes, and then at his sock. He had pulled it on and off several times a year for years. It had darns he’d grown to know and lo—well, know. Some of them had whole families of darns of their own. There were a number of descriptions that could be applied to the sock, but slayer-of-cities wasn’t among them. “Not really,” he said at last. “It sort of kills people but leaves buildings standing. ” Rincewind’s mind was operating at the speed of continental drift. Parts of it were telling him that he was confronting the sourcerer, but they were in direct conflict with other parts. Rincewind had heard quite a lot about the power of the sourcerer, the staff of the sourcerer, the wickedness of the sourcerer and so on. The only thing no one had mentioned was the age of the sourcerer. He glanced toward the staff. “And what does that do?” he said slowly. And the staff said, You must kill this man. The wizards, who had been cautiously struggling upright, flung themselves flat again. The voice of the hat had been bad enough, but the voice of the staff was metallic and precise; it didn’t sound as though it was offering advice but simply stating the way the future had to be. It sounded quite impossible to ignore. Coin half-raised his arm, and hesitated. “Why?” he said. You do not disobey me. “You don’t have to,” said Rincewind hurriedly. “It’s only a thing. ” “I do not see why I should hurt him,” said Coin. “He looks so harmless. Like an angry rabbit. ” He defies us. “Not me,” said Rincewind, thrusting the arm with the sock behind his back and trying to ignore the bit about the rabbit. “Why should I do everything you tell me?” said Coin to the staff. “I always do everything you tell me, and it doesn’t help people at all. ” People must fear you. Have I taught you nothing? “But he looks so funny. He’s got a sock,” said Coin. He screamed, and his arm jerked oddly. Rincewind’s hair stood on end. You will do as you are commanded. “I won’t. ” You know what happens to boys who are bad. There was a crackle and a smell of scorched flesh. Coin dropped to his knees. “Here, hang on a minute—” Rincewind began. Coin opened his eyes. They were gold still, but flecked with brown. Rincewind swung his sock around in a wide humming arc that connected with the staff halfway along its length. There was a brief explosion of brick dust and burnt wool and the staff spun out of the boy’s hand. Wizards scattered as it tumbled end over end across the floor. It reached the parapet, bounced upwards and shot over the edge. But, instead of falling, it steadied itself in the air, spun in its own length and sped back again trailing octarine sparks and making a noise like a buzzsaw.

Rincewind pushed the stunned boy behind him, threw away the ravaged sock and whipped his hat off, flailing wildly as the staff bored toward him. It caught him on the side of the head, delivering a shock that almost welded his teeth together and toppled him like a thin and ragged tree. The staff turned again in mid-air, glowing red-hot now, and swept back for another and quite definitely final run. Rincewind struggled up on his elbows and watched in horrified fascination as it swooped through the chilly air which, for some reason he didn’t understand, seemed to be full of snowflakes. And became tinged with purple, blotched with blue. Time slowed and ground to a halt like an underwound phonograph. Rincewind looked up at the tall black figure that had appeared a few feet away. It was, of course, Death. He turned his glowing eyesockets toward Rincewind and said, in a voice like the collapse of undersea chasms, G OOD AFTERNOON. He turned away as if he had completed all necessary business for the time being, stared at the horizon for a while, and started to tap one foot idly. It sounded like a bagful of maracas. “Er,” said Rincewind. Death appeared to remember him. I’ M SORRY ? he said politely. “I always wondered how it was going to be,” said Rincewind. Death took an hourglass out from the mysterious folds of his ebon robes and peered at it. D ID YOU ? he said, vaguely. “I suppose I can’t complain,” said Rincewind virtuously. “I’ve had a good life. Well, quite good. ” He hesitated. “Well, not all that good. I suppose most people would call it pretty awful. ” He considered it further. “ I would,” he added, half to himself. W HAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, MAN ? Rincewind was nonplussed. “Don’t you make an appearance when a wizard is about to die?” O F COURSE. A ND I MUST SAY YOU PEOPLE ARE GIVING ME A BUSY DAY. “How do you manage to be in so many places at the same time?” G OOD ORGANIZATION. Time returned. The staff, which had been hanging in the air a few feet away from Rincewind, started to scream forward again. And there was a metallic thud as Coin caught it one-handedly in mid-flight. The staff uttered a noise like a thousand fingernails dragging across glass. It thrashed wildly up and down, flailing at the arm that held it, and bloomed into evil green flame along its entire length. So. At the last, you fail me. Coin groaned but held on as the metal under his fingertips went red, then white. He thrust the arm out in front of him, and the force streaming from the staff roared past him and drew sparks from his hair and whipped his robe up into weird and unpleasant shapes. He screamed and whirled the staff around and smashed it on the parapet, leaving a long bubbling line in the stone. Then he threw it away. It clattered against the stones and rolled to a halt, wizards scattering out of its path. Coin sagged to his knees, shaking. “I don’t like killing people,” he said. “I’m sure it can’t be right. ” “Hold onto that thought,” said Rincewind fervently. “What happens to people after they’re dead?” said Coin. Rincewind glanced up at Death. “I think this one’s for you,” he said. H E CANNOT SEE OR HEAR ME , said Death, UNTIL HE WANTS TO. There was a little clinking noise. The staff was rolling back toward Coin, who looked down at it in horror. Pick me up. “You don’t have to,” said Rincewind again. You cannot resist me. You cannot defeat yourself , said the staff. Coin reached out very slowly, and picked it up. Rincewind glanced at his sock. It was a stub of burnt wool, its brief career as a weapon of war having sent it beyond the help of any darning needle. Now kill him. Rincewind held his breath. The watching wizards held their breath. Even Death, who had nothing to hold but his scythe, held it tensely. “No,” said Coin. You know what happens to boys who are bad. Rincewind saw the sourcerer’s face go pale. The staff’s voice changed. Now it wheedled. Without me, who would there be to tell you what to do? “That is true,” said Coin slowly. See what you have achieved. Coin stared slowly around at the frightened faces. “I am seeing,” he said. I taught you everything I know. “I am thinking,” said Coin, “that you do not know enough. ” Ingrate! Who gave you your destiny? “You did,” said the boy. He raised his head. “I realize that I was wrong,” he added, quietly. Good — “I did not throw you far enough!” Coin got to his feet in one movement and swung the staff over his head. He stood still as a statue, his hand lost in a ball of light that was the color of molten copper. It turned green, ascended through shades of blue, hovered in the violet and then seared into pure octarine. Rincewind shaded his eyes against the glare and saw Coin’s hand, still whole, still gripping tight, with beads of molten metal glittering between his fingers. He slithered away, and bumped into Hakardly. The old wizard was standing like a statue, with his mouth open. “What’ll happen?” said Rincewind. “He’ll never beat it,” said Hakardly hoarsely. “It’s his. It’s as strong as him. He’s got the power, but it knows how to channel it. ” “You mean they’ll cancel each other out?” “Hopefully. ” The battle was hidden in its own infernal glow. Then the floor began to tremble. “They’re drawing on everything magical,” said Hakardly. “We’d better leave the tower. ” “Why?” “I imagine it will vanish soon enough. ” And, indeed, the white flagstones around the glow looked as though they were unravelling and disappearing into it. Rincewind hesitated. “Aren’t we going to help him?” he said. Hakardly stared at him, and then at the iridescent tableau. His mouth opened and shut once or twice. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Yes, but just a bit of help on his side, you’ve seen what that thing is like—” “I’m sorry. ” “He helped you. ” Rincewind turned on the other wizards, who were scurrying away. “All of you. He gave you what you wanted, didn’t he?” “We may never forgive him,” said Hakardly. Rincewind groaned. “What will be left when it’s all over?” he said. “What will be left?” Hakardly looked down. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. The octarine light had grown brighter and was beginning to turn black around the edge. It wasn’t the black that is merely the opposite of light, though; it was the grainy, shifting blackness that glows beyond the glare and has no business in any decent reality. And it buzzed. Rincewind did a little dance of uncertainty as his feet, legs, instincts and incredibly well-developed sense of self-preservation overloaded his nervous system to the point where, just as it was on the point of fusing, his conscience finally got its way. He leapt into the fire and reached the staff. The wizards fled. Several of them levitated down from the tower. They were a lot more perspicacious than those that used the stairs because, about thirty seconds later, the tower vanished. The snow continued to fall around a column of blackness, which buzzed. And the surviving wizards who dared to look back saw, tumbling slowly down the sky, a small object trailing flames behind it. It crashed into the cobbles, where it smouldered for a bit before the thickening snow put it out. Pretty soon it became just a small mound. A little while later a squat figure swung itself across the courtyard on its knuckles, scrabbled in the snow, and hauled the thing out. It was, or rather it had been, a hat. Life had not been kind to it. A large part of the wide brim had been burned off, the point was entirely gone, and the tarnished silver letters were almost unreadable. Some of them had been torn off in any case. Those that were left spelled out: WIZD. The Librarian turned around slowly. He was entirely alone, except for the towering column of burning blackness and the steadily falling flakes. The ravaged campus was empty. There were a few other pointy hats that had been trampled by terrified feet, and no other sign that people had been there. All the wizards were wazards. “ War? ” “Wazzat?” “ Wasn’t there ,” Pestilence groped for his glass, “ something? ” “Wazzat?” “We ought to be…there’s something we ought to be doing,” said Famine. “S’right.

Got an appointment. ” “ The —” Pestilence gazed reflectively into his drink. “ Thingy. ” They stared gloomily at the bar counter. The innkeeper had long ago fled. There were several bottles still unopened. “Okra,” said Famine, eventually. “That was it. ” “ Nah. ” “The Apos…the Apostrophe,” said War, vaguely. They shook their heads. There was a lengthy pause. “ What does ‘apocrustic’ mean? ” said Pestilence, gazing intently into some inner world. “Astringent,” said War, “I think. ” “It’s not that, then?” “Shouldn’t think so,” said Famine, glumly. There was another long, embarrassed silence. “Better have ’nother drink,” said War, pulling himself together. “ S’right. ” About fifty miles away and several thousand feet up, Conina at last managed to control her stolen horse and brought it to a gentle trot on the empty air, displaying some of the most determined nonchalance the Disc had ever seen. “Snow?” she said. Clouds were roaring soundlessly from the direction of the Hub. They were fat and heavy and shouldn’t be moving so fast. Blizzards trailed beneath them, covering the landscape like a sheet. It didn’t look like the kind of snow that whispers down gently in the pit of the night and in the morning turns the landscape into a glittering wonderland of uncommon and ethereal beauty. It looked like the kind of snow that intends to make the world as bloody cold as possible. “Bit late in the year,” said Nijel. He glanced downwards, and then immediately closed his eyes. Creosote watched in delighted astonishment. “Is that how it happens?” he said. “I’ve only heard about it in stories. I thought it sprouted out of the ground somehow. Bit like mushrooms, I thought. ” “Those clouds aren’t right,” said Conina. “Do you mind if we go down now?” said Nijel weakly. “Somehow it didn’t look so bad when we were moving. ” Conina ignored this. “Try the lamp,” she commanded. “I want to know about this. ” Nijel fumbled in his pack and produced the lamp. The voice of the genie sounded rather tinny and far off, and said: “If you would care to relax a little…trying to connect you. ” There then followed some tinkly little music, the kind that perhaps a Swiss chalet would make if you could play it, before a trapdoor outlined itself in the air and the genie himself appeared. He looked around him, and then at them. “Oh, wow,” he said. “Something’s happening to the weather,” said Conina. “Why?” “You mean you don’t know?” said the genie. “We’re asking you, aren’t we?” “Well, I’m no judge, but it rather looks like the Apocralypse, yuh?” “ What? ” The genie shrugged. “The gods have vanished, okay?” he said. “And according to, you know, legend, that means—” “The Ice Giants,” said Nijel, in a horrified whisper. “Speak up,” said Creosote. “The Ice Giants,” Nijel repeated loudly, with a trace of irritation. “The gods keep them imprisoned, see. At the Hub. But at the end of the world they’ll break free at last, and ride out on their dreadful glaciers and regain their ancient domination, crushing out the flames of civilization until the world lies naked and frozen under the terrible cold stars until Time itself freezes over. Or something like that, apparently. ” “But it isn’t time for the Apocralypse,” said Conina desperately. “I mean, a dreadful ruler has to arise, there must be a terrible war, the four dreadful horsemen have to ride, and then the Dungeon Dimensions will break into the world—” She stopped, her face nearly as white as the snow. “Being buried under a thousand-foot ice sheet sounds awfully like it, anyway,” said the genie. He reached forward and snatched his lamp out of Nijel’s hands. “Mucho apologies,” he said, “but it’s time to liquidize my assets in this reality. See you around. Or something. ” He vanished up to the waist, and then with a faint last cry of “Shame about lunch,” disappeared entirely. The three riders peered through the veils of driving snow toward the Hub. “It may be my imagination,” said Creosote, “but can either of you hear a sort of creaking and groaning?” “Shut up,” said Conina distractedly. Creosote leaned over and patted her hand. “Cheer up,” he said, “it’s not the end of the world. ” He thought about this statement for a bit, and then added, “Sorry. Just a figure of speech. ” “What are we going to do ?” she wailed. Nijel drew himself up. “I think,” he said, “that we should go and explain. ” They turned toward him with the kind of expression normally reserved for messiahs or extreme idiots. “Yes,” he said, with a shade more confidence. “We should explain. ” “Explain to the Ice Giants?” said Conina. “Yes. ” “Sorry,” said Conina, “have I got this right? You think we should go and find the terrifying Ice Giants and sort of tell them that there are a lot of warm people out here who would rather they didn’t sweep across the world crushing everyone under mountains of ice, and could they sort of reconsider things? Is that what you think we should do?” “Yes. That’s right. You’ve got it exactly. ” Conina and Creosote exchanged glances. Nijel remained sitting proudly in the saddle, a faint smile on his face. “Is your geese giving you trouble?” said the Seriph. “Geas,” said Nijel calmly. “It’s not giving me trouble, it’s just that I must do something brave before I die. ” “That’s it though,” said Creosote. “That’s the whole rather sad point. You’ll do something brave, and then you’ll die. ” “What alternative have we got?” said Nijel. They considered this. “I don’t think I’m much good at explaining,” said Conina, in a small voice. “I am,” said Nijel, firmly. “I’m always having to explain. ” The scattered particles of what had been Rincewind’s mind pulled themselves together and drifted up through the layers of dark unconsciousness like a three-day corpse rising to the surface. It probed its most recent memories, in much the same way that one might scratch a fresh scab. He could recall something about a staff, and a pain so intense that it appeared to insert a chisel between every cell in his body and hammer on it repeatedly. He remembered the staff fleeing, dragging him after it. And then there had been that dreadful bit where Death had appeared and reached past him, and the staff had twisted and become suddenly alive and Death had said, I PSLORE THE RED , I HAVE YOU NOW. And now there was this. By the feel of it Rincewind was lying on sand. It was very cold. He took the risk of seeing something horrible and opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was his left arm and, surprisingly, his hand. It was its normal grubby self. He had expected to see a stump. It seemed to be nighttime. The beach, or whatever it was, stretched on toward a line of distant low mountains, under night sky frosted with a million stars. A little closer to him there was a rough line in the silvery sand. He lifted his head slightly and saw the scatter of molten droplets. They were octiron, a metal so intrinsically magical that no forge on the Disc could even warm it up. “Oh,” he said. “We won, then. ” He flopped down again. After a while his right hand came up automatically and patted the top of his head. Then it patted the sides of his head. Then it began to grope, with increasing urgency, in the sand around him. Eventually it must have communicated its concern to the rest of Rincewind, because he pulled himself upright and said, “Oh, bugger. ” There seemed to be no hat anywhere. But he could see a small white shape lying very still in the sand a little way away and, further off— A column of daylight. It hummed and swayed in the air, a three-dimensional hole into somewhere else. Occasional flurries of snow blew out of it. He could see skewed images in the light, that might be buildings or landscapes warped by the weird curvature. But he couldn’t see them very clearly, because of the tall, brooding shadows that surrounded it. The human mind is an astonishing thing. It can operate on several levels at once. And, in fact, while Rincewind had been wasting his intellect in groaning and looking for his hat, an inner part of his brain had been observing, assessing, analyzing and comparing.

Now it crept up to his cerebellum, tapped it on the shoulder, thrust a message into its hand and ran for it. The message ran something like this: I hope I find me well. The last trial of magic has been too much for the tortured fabric of reality. It has opened a hole. I am in the Dungeon Dimensions. And the things in front of me are…the Things. It has been nice knowing me. The particular thing nearest Rincewind was at least twenty feet high. It looked like a dead horse that had been dug up after three months and then introduced to a range of new experiences, at least one of which had included an octopus. It hadn’t noticed Rincewind. It was too busy concentrating on the light. Rincewind crawled back to the still body of Coin and nudged it gently. “Are you alive?” he said. “If you’re not, I’d prefer it if you didn’t answer. ” Coin rolled over and stared up at him with puzzled eyes. After a while he said, “I remember—” “Best not to,” said Rincewind. The boy’s hand groped vaguely in the sand beside him. “It isn’t here anymore,” said Rincewind, quietly. The hand stopped its searching. Rincewind helped Coin to sit up. He looked blankly at the cold silver sand, then at the sky, then at the distant Things, and then at Rincewind. “I don’t know what to do,” he said. “No harm in that. I’ve never known what to do,” said Rincewind with hollow cheerfulness. “Been completely at a loss my whole life. ” He hesitated. “I think it’s called being human, or something. ” “But I’ve always known what to do!” Rincewind opened his mouth to say that he’d seen some of it, but changed his mind. Instead he said, “Chin up. Look on the bright side. It could be worse. ” Coin took another look around. “In what respect, exactly?” he said, his voice a shade more normal. “Um. ” “What is this place?” “It’s a sort of other dimension. The magic broke through and we went with it, I think. ” “And those things?” They regarded the Things. “I think they’re Things. They’re trying to get back through the hole,” said Rincewind. “It isn’t easy. Energy levels, or something. I remember we had a lecture on them once. Er. ” Coin nodded, and reached out a thin pale hand toward Rincewind’s forehead. “Do you mind—?” he began. Rincewind shuddered at the touch. “Mind what?” he said. —if I have a look in your head? “Aargh. ” It’s rather a mess in here. No wonder you can’t find things. “Ergh. ” You ought to have a clear out. “Oogh. ” “Ah. ” Rincewind felt the presence retreat. Coin frowned. “We can’t let them get through,” he announced. “They have horrible powers. They’re trying to will the hole bigger, and they can do it. They’ve been waiting to break into our world for—” he frowned—“ ians? ” “Aeons,” said Rincewind. Coin opened his other hand, which had been tightly clenched, and showed Rincewind the small gray pearl. “Do you know what this is?” he said. “No. What is it?” “I—can’t remember. But we should put it back. ” “Okay. Just use sourcery. Blow them to bits and let’s go home. ” “No. They live on magic. It’d only make them worse. I can’t use magic. ” “Are you sure?” said Rincewind. “I’m afraid your memory was very clear on the subject. ” “Then what shall we do?” “ I don’t know! ” Rincewind thought about this and then, with an air of finality, started to take off his last sock. “No half-bricks,” he said, to no one in particular. “Have to use sand. ” “You’re going to attack them with a sockful of sand?” “No. I’m going to run away from them. The sockful of sand is for when they follow. ” People were returning to Al Khali, where the ruined tower was a smoking heap of stones. A few brave souls turned their attention to the wreckage, on the basis that there might be survivors who could be rescued or looted or both. And, among the rubble, the following conversation might have been heard: “There’s something moving under here!” “Under that? By the two beards of Imtal, you are mishearing. It must weigh a ton. ” “Over here, brothers!” And then sounds of much heaving would have been heard, and then: “It’s a box!” “It could be treasure, do you think?” “It’s growing legs, by the Seven Moons of Nasreem!” “ Five moons—” “Where’d it go? Where’d it go?” “Never mind about that, it’s not important. Let’s get this straight, according to the legend it was five moons—” In Klatch they take their mythology seriously. It’s only real life they don’t believe. The three horsepersons sensed the change as they descended through the heavy snowclouds at the Hub end of the Sto Plain. There was a sharp scent in the air. “Can’t you smell it?” said Nijel, “I remember it when I was a boy, when you lay in bed on that first morning in winter, and you could sort of taste it in the air and—” The clouds parted below them and there, filling the high plains country from end to end, were the herds of the Ice Giants. They stretched for miles in every direction, and the thunder of their stampede filled the air. The bull glaciers were in the lead, bellowing their vast creaky calls and throwing up great sheets of earth as they plowed relentlessly forward. Behind them pressed the great mass of cows and their calves, skimming over land already ground down to the bedrock by the leaders. They bore as much resemblance to the familiar glaciers the world thought it knew as a lion dozing in the shade bears to three hundred pounds of wickedly coordinated muscle bounding toward you with its mouth open. “…and…and…when you went to the window,” Nijel’s mouth, lacking any further input from his brain, ran down. Moving, jostling ice packed the plain, roaring forward under a great cloud of clammy steam. The ground shook as the leaders passed below, and it was obvious to the onlookers that whoever was going to stop this would need more than a couple of pounds of rock salt and a shovel. “Go on, then,” said Conina, “explain. I think you’d better shout. Nijel looked distractedly at the herd. “I think I can see some figures,” said Creosote helpfully. “Look, on top of the leading…things. ” Nijel peered through the snow. There were indeed beings moving around on the backs of the glaciers. They were human, or humanoid, or at least humanish. They didn’t look very big. That turned out to be because the glaciers themselves were very big, and Nijel wasn’t very good at perspective. As the horses flew lower over the leading glacier, a huge bull heavily crevassed and scarred by moraine, it became apparent that one reason why the Ice Giants were known as the Ice Giants was because they were, well, giants. The other was that they were made of ice. A figure the size of a large house was crouched at the crest of the bull, urging it to greater efforts by means of a spike on a long pole. It was craggy, in fact it was more nearly faceted, and glinted green and blue in the light; there was a thin band of silver in its snowy locks, and its eyes were tiny and black and deep set, like lumps of coal. * There was a splintering crash ahead as the leading glaciers smacked into a forest. Birds rattled up in panic. Snow and splinters rained down around Nijel as he galloped on the air alongside the giant. He cleared his throat. “Erm,” he said, “excuse me?” Ahead of the boiling surf of earth, snow and smashed timber a herd of caribou was running in blind panic, their rear hooves a few feet from the tumbling mess. Nijel tried again. “I say?” he shouted. The giant’s head turned toward him. “Vot you vant?” it said. “Go avay, hot person. ” “Sorry, but is this really necessary?” The giant looked at him in frozen astonishment. It turned around slowly and regarded the rest of the herd, which seemed to stretch all the way to the Hub. It looked at Nijel again. “Yarss,” it said, “I tink so. Othervise, why ve do it?” “Only there’s a lot of people out there who would prefer you not to, you see,” said Nijel, desperately. A rock spire loomed briefly ahead of the glacier, rocked for a second and then vanished. He added, “Also children and small furry animals. ” “They vill suffer in the cause of progress. Now is the time ve reclaim the vorld,” rumbled the giant. “Whole vorld of ice.

According to inevitability of history and triumph of thermodynamics. ” “Yes, but you don’t have to,” said Nijel. “Ve vant to,” said the giant. “The gods are gone, ve throw off shackles of outmoded superstition. ” “Freezing the whole world solid doesn’t sound very progressive to me,” said Nijel. “ Ve like it. ” “Yes, yes,” said Nijel, in the maniacally glazed tones of one who is trying to see all sides of the issue and is certain that a solution will be found if people of goodwill will only sit around a table and discuss things rationally like sensible human beings. “But is this the right time? Is the world ready for the triumph of ice?” “It bloody vell better be,” said the giant, and swung his glacier prod at Nijel. It missed the horse but caught him full in the chest, lifting him clean out of the saddle and flicking him onto the glacier itself. He spun, spreadeagled, down its freezing flanks, was carried some way by the boil of debris, and rolled into the slush of ice and mud between the speeding walls. He staggered to his feet, and peered hopelessly into the freezing fog. Another glacier bore down directly on him. So did Conina. She leaned over as her horse swept down out of the fog, caught Nijel by his leather barbarian harness, and swung him up in front of her. As they rose again he wheezed, “Cold-hearted bastard. I really thought I was getting somewhere for a moment there. You just can’t talk to some people. ” The herd breasted another hill, scraping off quite a lot of it, and the Sto Plain, studded with cities, lay helpless before it. Rincewind sidled toward the nearest Thing, holding Coin with one hand and swinging the loaded sock in the other. “No magic, right?” he said. “Yes,” said the boy. “Whatever happens, you musn’t use magic?” “That’s it. Not here. They haven’t got much power here, if you don’t use magic. Once they break through, though…” His voice trailed away. “Pretty awful,” Rincewind nodded. “Terrible,” said Coin. Rincewind sighed. He wished he still had his hat. He’d just have to do without it. “All right,” he said. “When I shout, you make a run for the light. Do you understand? No looking back or anything. No matter what happens. ” “No matter what?” said Coin uncertainly. “No matter what. ” Rincewind gave a brave little smile. “Especially no matter what you hear. ” He was vaguely cheered to see Coin’s mouth become an “O” of terror. “And then,” he continued, “when you get back to the other side—” “What shall I do?” Rincewind hesitated. “I don’t know,” he said. “Anything you can. As much magic as you like. Anything. Just stop them. And…um…” “Yes?” Rincewind gazed up at the Thing, which was still staring into the light. “If it…you know…if anyone gets out of this, you know, and everything is all right after all, sort of thing, I’d like you to sort of tell people I sort of stayed here. Perhaps they could sort of write it down somewhere. I mean, I wouldn’t want a statue or anything,” he added virtuously. After a while he added, “I think you ought to blow your nose. ” Coin did so, on the hem of his robe, and then shook Rincewind’s hand solemnly. “If ever you…” he began, “that is, you’re the first…it’s been a great…you see, I never really…” His voice trailed off, and then he said, “I just wanted you to know that. ” “There was something else I was trying to say,” said Rincewind, letting go of the hand. He looked blank for a moment, and then added, “Oh, yes. It’s vital to remember who you really are. It’s very important. It isn’t a good idea to rely on other people or things to do it for you, you see. They always get it wrong. ” “I’ll try and remember,” said Coin. “It’s very important,” Rincewind repeated, almost to himself. “And now I think you’d better run. ” Rincewind crept closer to the Thing. This particular one had chicken legs, but most of the rest of it was mercifully hidden in what looked like folded wings. It was, he thought, time for a few last words. What he said now was likely to be very important. Perhaps they would be words that would be remembered, and handed down, and maybe even carved deeply in slabs of granite. Words without too many curly letters in, therefore. “I really wish I wasn’t here,” he muttered. He hefted the sock, whirled it once or twice, and smashed the Thing on what he hoped was its kneecap. It gave a shrill buzz, spun wildly with its wings creaking open, lunged vaguely at Rincewind with its vulture head and got another sockful of sand on the upswing. Rincewind looked around desperately as the Thing staggered back, and saw Coin still standing where he had left him. To his horror he saw the boy begin to walk toward him, hands raised instinctively to fire the magic which, here, would doom both of them. “Run away, you idiot!” he screamed, as the Thing began to gather itself for a counter-attack. From out of nowhere he found the words, “You know what happens to boys who are bad!” Coin went pale, turned and ran toward the light. He moved as though through treacle, fighting against the entropy slope. The distorted image of the world turned inside out hovered a few feet away, then inches, wavering uncertainly… A tentacle curled around his leg, tumbling him forward. He flung his hands out as he fell, and one of them touched snow. It was immediately grabbed by something else that felt like a warm, soft leather glove, but under the gentle touch was a grip as tough as tempered steel and it tugged him forward, also dragging whatever it was that had caught him. Light and grainy dark flicked around him and suddenly he was sliding over cobbles slicked with ice. The Librarian let go his hold and stood over Coin with a length of heavy wooden beam in his hand. For a moment the ape reared against the darkness, the shoulder, elbow and wrist of his right arm unfolding in a poem of applied leverage, and in a movement as unstoppable as the dawn of intelligence brought it down very heavily. There was a squashy noise and an offended screech, and the burning pressure on Coin’s leg vanished. The dark column wavered. There were squeals and thumps coming from it, distorted by distance. Coin struggled to his feet and started to run back into the dark, but this time the Librarian’s arm blocked his path. “We can’t just leave him in there!” The ape shrugged. There was another crackle from the dark, and then a moment of almost complete silence. But only almost complete. Both of them thought they heard, a long way off but very distinct, the sound of running feet fading into the distance. They found an echo in the outside world. The ape glanced around, and then pushed Coin hurriedly to one side as something squat and battered and with hundreds of little legs barrelled across the stricken courtyard and, without so much as pausing in its stride, leapt into the disappearing darkness, which flickered for one last time and vanished. There was a sudden flurry of snow across the air where it had been. Coin wrenched free of the Librarian’s grip and ran into the circle, which was already turning white. His feet scuffed up a sprinkle of fine sand. “He didn’t come out!” he said. “Oook,” said the Librarian, in a philosophic manner. “I thought he’d come out. You know, just at the last minute. ” “Oook?” Coin looked closely at the cobbles, as if by mere concentration he could change what he saw. “Is he dead?” “Oook,” observed the Librarian, contriving to imply that Rincewind was in a region where even things like time and space were a bit iffy, and that it was probably not very useful to speculate as to his exact state at this point in time, if indeed he was at any point in time at all, and that, all in all, he might even turn up tomorrow or, for that matter, yesterday, and finally that if there was any chance at all of surviving then Rincewind almost certainly would. “Oh,” said Coin. He watched the Librarian shuffle around and head back for the Tower of Art, and a desperate loneliness overcame him. “I say!” he yelled. “Oook?” “What should I do now?” “Oook?” Coin waved vaguely at the desolation.

“You know, perhaps I could do something about all this?” he said in a voice tilting on the edge of terror. “Do you think that would be a good idea? I mean, I could help people. I’m sure you’d like to be human again, wouldn’t you?” The Librarian’s everlasting smile hoisted itself a little further up his face, just enough to reveal his teeth. “Okay, perhaps not,” said Coin hurriedly, “but there’s other things I could do, isn’t there?” The Librarian gazed at him for some time, then dropped his eyes to the boy’s hand. Coin gave a guilty start, and opened his fingers. The ape caught the little silver ball neatly before it hit the ground and held it up to one eye. He sniffed it, shook it gently, and listened to it for a while. Then he wound up his arm and flung it away as hard as possible. “What—” Coin began, and landed full length in the snow when the Librarian pushed him over and dived on top of him. The ball curved over at the top of its arc and tumbled down, its perfect path interrupted suddenly by the ground. There was a sound like a harp string breaking, a brief babble of incomprehensible voices, a rush of hot wind, and the gods of the Disc were free. The were very angry. “There is nothing we can do, is there?” said Creosote. “No,” said Conina. “The ice is going to win, isn’t it?” said Creosote. “Yes,” said Conina. “No,” said Nijel. He was trembling with rage, or possibly with cold, and was nearly as pale as the glaciers that rumbled past below them. Conina sighed. “Well, just how do you think—” she began. “Take me down somewhere a few minutes ahead of them,” said Nijel. “I really don’t see how that would help. ” “I wasn’t asking your opinion,” said Nijel, quietly. “Just do it. Put me down a little way ahead of them so I’ve got a while to get sorted out. ” “Get what sorted out?” Nijel didn’t answer. “I said ,” said Conina, “get what—” “Shut up!” “I don’t see why—” “Look,” said Nijel, with the patience that lies just short of axe-murdering. “The ice is going to cover the whole world, right? Everyone’s going to die, okay? Except for us for a little while, I suppose, until these horses want their, their, their oats or the lavatory or whatever, which isn’t much use to us except maybe Creosote will just about have time to write a sonnet or something about how cold it is all of a sudden, and the whole of human history is about to be scraped up and in these circumstances I would like very much to make it completely clear that I am not about to be argued with, is that absolutely understood?” He paused for breath, trembling like a harpstring. Conina hesitated. Her mouth opened and shut a few times, as though she was considering arguing, and then she thought better of it. They found a small clearing in a pine forest a mile or two ahead of the herd, although the sound of it was clearly audible and there was a line of steam above the trees and the ground was dancing like a drumtop. Nijel strolled to the middle of the clearing and made a few practice swings with his sword. The others watched him thoughtfully. “If you don’t mind,” whispered Creosote to Conina, “I’ll be off. It’s at times like this that sobriety loses its attractions and I’m sure the end of the world will look a lot better through the bottom of a glass, if it’s all the same to you. Do you believe in Paradise, o peach-cheeked blossom?” “Not as such, no. ” “Oh,” said Creosote. “Well, in that case we probably won’t be seeing each other again. ” He sighed. “What a waste. All this was just because of a geas. Um. Of course, if by some unthinkable chance—” “Goodbye,” said Conina. Creosote nodded miserably, wheeled the horse and disappeared over the treetops. Snow was shaking down from the branches around the clearing. The thunder of the approaching glaciers filled the air. Nijel started when she tapped him on the shoulder, and dropped his sword. “What are you doing here?” he snapped, fumbling desperately in the snow. “Look, I’m not prying or anything,” said Conina meekly, “but what exactly do you have in mind?” She could see a rolling heap of bulldozed snow and soil bearing down on them through the forest, the mind-numbing sound of the leading glaciers now overlaid with the rhythmic snapping of tree trunks. And, advancing implacably above the treeline, so high that the eye mistook them at first for sky, the blue-green prows. “Nothing,” said Nijel, “nothing at all. We’ve just got to resist them, that’s all there is to it. That’s what we’re here for. ” “But it won’t make any difference,” she said. “It will to me. If we’re going to die anyway, I’d rather die like this. Heroically. ” “Is it heroic to die like this?” said Conina. “ I think it is,” he said, “and when it comes to dying, there’s only one opinion that matters. ” “Oh. ” A couple of deer blundered into the clearing, ignored the humans in their blind panic, and rocketed away. “You don’t have to stay,” said Nijel. “I’ve got this geas, you see. ” Conina looked at the backs of her hands. “I think I should,” she said, and added, “You know, I thought maybe, you know, if we could just get to know one another better—” “Mr. and Mrs. Harebut, was that what you had in mind?” he said bluntly. Her eyes widened. “Well—” she began. “Which one did you intend to be?” he said. The leading glacier smashed into the clearing just behind its bow wave, its top lost in a cloud of its own creation. At exactly the same time the trees opposite it bent low as a hot wind blew from the Rim. It was loaded with voices—petulant, bickering voices—and tore into the clouds like a hot iron into water. Conina and Nijel threw themselves down into snow which turned to warm slush under them. Something like a thunderstorm crashed overhead, filled with shouting and what they at first thought were screams although, thinking about them later, they seemed more like angry arguments. It went on for a long time, and then began to fade in the direction of the Hub. Warm water flooded down the front of Nijel’s vest. He lifted himself cautiously, and then nudged Conina. Together they scrambled through the slush and mud to the top of the slope, climbed through a logjam of smashed timber and boulders, and stared at the scene. The glaciers were retreating, under a cloud stuffed with lightning. Behind them the landscape was a network of lakes and pools. “Did we do that?” said Conina. “It would be nice to think so, wouldn’t it?” said Nijel. “Yes, but did —” she began. “Probably not. Who knows? Let’s just find a horse,” he said. “The Apogee,” said War, “or something. I’m pretty sure. ” They had staggered out of the inn and were sitting on a bench in the afternoon sunshine. Even War had been persuaded to take off some of his armor. “Dunno,” said Famine, “Don’t think so. ” Pestilence shut his crusted eyes and leaned back against the warm stones. “ I think ,” he said, “ it was something about the end of the world. ” War sat and thoughtfully scratched his chin. He hiccuped. “What, the whole world?” he said. “ I reckon. ” War gave this some further consideration. “I reckon we’re well out of it, then,” he said. People were returning to Ankh-Morpork, which was no longer a city of empty marble but was once again its old self, sprawling as randomly and colorfully as a pool of vomit outside the all-night takeaway of History. And the University had been rebuilt, or had rebuilt itself, or in some strange way had never been unbuilt; every strand of ivy, every rotting casement, was back in place. The sourcerer had offered to replace everything as good as new, all wood sparkling, all stone unstained, but the Librarian had been very firm on the subject. He wanted everything replaced as good as old. The wizards came creeping back with the dawn, in ones or twos, scuttling for their old rooms, trying to avoid one another’s gaze, trying to remember a recent past that was already becoming unreal and dream-like. Conina and Nijel arrived around breakfast time and, out of kindness, found a livery stable for War’s horse.

* It was Conina who insisted that they look for Rincewind at the University, and who, therefore, first saw the books. They were flying out of the Tower of Art, spiraling around the University buildings and swooping through the door of the reincarnated Library. One or two of the more impudent grimoires were chasing sparrows, or hovering hawk-like over the quad. The Librarian was leaning against the doorway, watching his charges with a benevolent eye. He waggled his eyebrows at Conina, the nearest he ever got to a conventional greeting. “Is Rincewind here?” she said. “Oook. ” “Sorry?” The ape didn’t answer but took them both by the hand and, walking between them like a sack between two poles, led them across the cobbles to the tower. There were a few candles alight inside, and they saw Coin seated on a stool. The Librarian bowed them into his presence like an ancient retainer in the oldest family of all, and withdrew. Coin nodded at them. “He knows when people don’t understand him,” he said. “Remarkable, isn’t he?” “Who are you?” said Conina. “Coin,” said Coin. “Are you a student here?” “I’m learning quite a lot, I think. ” Nijel was wandering around the walls, giving them the occasional prod. There had to be some good reason why they didn’t fall down, but if there was it didn’t lie in the realms of civil engineering. “Are you looking for Rincewind?” said Coin. Conina frowned. “How did you guess that?” “He told me some people would come looking for him. ” Conina relaxed. “Sorry,” she said, “we’ve had a bit of a trying time. I thought perhaps it was magic, or something. He’s all right, isn’t he? I mean, what’s been happening? Did he fight the sourcerer?” “Oh, yes. And he won. It was very…interesting. I saw it all. But then he had to go,” said Coin, as though reciting. “What, just like that?” said Nijel. “Yes. ” “I don’t believe it,” said Conina. She was beginning to crouch, her knuckles whitening. “It is true,” said Coin. “Everything I say is true. It has to be. ” “I want to—” Conina began, and Coin stood up, extended a hand and said, “Stop. ” She froze. Nijel stiffened in mid-frown. “You will leave,” said Coin, in a pleasant, level voice, “and you will ask no more questions. You will be totally satisfied. You have all your answers. You will live happily ever after. You will forget hearing these words. You will go now. ” They turned slowly and woodenly, like puppets, and trooped to the door. The Librarian opened it for them, ushered them through and shut it behind them. Then he stared at Coin, who sagged back onto the stool. “All right, all right,” said the boy, “but it was only a little magic. I had to. You said yourself people had to forget. ” “Oook?” “I can’t help it! It’s too easy to change things!” He clutched his head. “I’ve only got to think of something! I can’t stay, everything I touch goes wrong, it’s like trying to sleep on a heap of eggs! This world is too thin! Please tell me what to do! ” The Librarian spun around on his bottom a few times, a sure sign of deep thought. Exactly what he said is not recorded, but Coin smiled, nodded, shook the Librarian’s hand, and opened his own hands and drew them up and around him and stepped into another world. It had a lake in, and some distant mountains, and a few pheasants watching him suspiciously from under the trees. It was the magic all sourcerers learned, eventually. Sourcerers never become part of the world. They merely wear it for a while. He looked back, halfway across the turf, and waved at the Librarian. The ape gave him an encouraging nod. And then the bubble shrank inside itself, and the last sourcerer vanished from this world and into a world of his own. Although it has nothing much to do with the story, it is an interesting fact that, about five hundred miles away, a small flock, or rather in this case a herd, of birds were picking their way cautiously through the trees. They had heads like a flamingo, bodies like a turkey, and legs like a Sumo wrestler; they walked in a jerky, bobbing fashion, as though their heads were attached to their feet by elastic bands. They belonged to a species unique even among Disc fauna, in that their prime means of defense was to cause a predator to laugh so much that they could run away before it recovered. Rincewind would have been vaguely satisfied to know that they were geas. Custom was slow in the Mended Drum. The troll chained to the doorpost sat in the shade and reflectively picked someone out of his teeth. Creosote was singing softly to himself. He had discovered been and wasn’t having to pay for it, because the coinage of compliments—rarely employed by the swains of Ankh—was having an astonishing effect on the landlord’s daughter. She was a large, good-natured girl, with a figure that was the color and, not to put too fine a point on it, the same shape as unbaked bread. She was intrigued. No one had ever referred to her breasts as jewelled melons before. “Absolutely,” said the Seriph, sliding peacefully off his bench, “no doubt about it. ” Either the big yellow sort or the small green ones with huge warty veins, he told himself virtuously. “And what was that about my hair?” she said encouragingly, hauling him back and refiling his glass. “Oh. ” The Seriph’s brow wrinkled. “Like a goat of flocks that grazes on the slopes of Mount Wossname, and no mistake. And as for your ears,” he added quickly, “no pink-hued shells that grace the sea-kissed sands of—” “Exactly how like a flock of goats?” she said. The Seriph hesitated. He’d always considered it one of his best lines. Now it was meeting Ankh-Morpork’s famous literal-mindedness head-on for the first time. Strangely enough, he felt rather impressed. “I mean, in size, shape or smell?” she went on. “I think,” said the Seriph, “that perhaps the phrase I had in mind was exactly not like a flog of gits. ” “Ah?” The girl pulled the flagon toward her. “And I think perhaps I would like another drink,” he said indistinctly, “and then—and then—” He looked sideways at the girl, and took the plunge. “Are you much of a raconteur?” “What?” He licked his suddenly dry lips. “I mean, do you know many stories?” he croaked. “Oh, yes. Lots. ” “Lots?” whispered Creosote. Most of his concubines only knew the same old one or two. “Hundreds. Why, do you want to hear one?” “What, now?” “If you like. It’s not very busy in here. ” Perhaps I did die, Creosote thought. Perhaps this is Paradise. He took her hands. “You know,” he said, “it’s ages since I’ve had a good narrative. But I wouldn’t want you to do anything you don’t want to. ” She patted his arm. What a nice old gentleman, she thought. Compared to some we get in here. “There’s one my granny used to tell me. I know it backwards,” she said. Creosote sipped his beer and watched the wall in a warm glow. Hundreds, he thought. And she knows some of them backwards. She cleared her throat, and said, in a sing-song voice that made Creosote’s pulse fuse. “There was a man and he had eight sons—” The Patrician sat by his window, writing. His mind was full of fluff as far as the last week or two was concerned, and he didn’t like that much. A servant had lit a lamp to dispel the twilight, and a few early evening moths were orbiting it. The Patrician watched them carefully. For some reason he felt very uneasy in the presence of glass but that, as he stared fixedly at the insects, wasn’t what bothered him most. What bothered him was that he was fighting a terrible urge to catch them with his tongue. And Wuffles lay on his back at his master’s feet, and barked in his dreams. Lights were going on all over the city, but the last few strands of sunset illuminated the gargoyles as they helped one another up the long climb to the roof. The Librarian watched them from the open door, while giving himself a philosophic scratch. Then he turned and shut out the night. It was warm in the Library. It was always warm in the Library, because the scatter of magic that produced the glow also gently cooked the air.

The Librarian looked at his charges approvingly, made his last rounds of the slumbering shelves, and then dragged his blanket underneath his desk, ate a goodnight banana, and fell asleep. Silence gradually reclaimed the Library. Silence drifted around the remains of a hat, heavily battered and frayed and charred around the edges, that had been placed with some ceremony in a niche in the wall. No matter how far a wizard goes, he will always come back for his hat. Silence filled the University in the same way that air fills a hole. Night spread across the Disk like plum jam, or possibly blackberry preserve. But there would be a morning. There would always be another morning. About the Author Terry Pratchett lives in England, an island off the coast of France, where he spends his time writing Discworld novels in accordance with the Very Strong Anthropic Principle, which holds that the entire Purpose of the Universe is to make possible a being that will live in England, an island off the coast of France, and spend his time writing Discworld novels. Which is exactly what he does. Which proves the whole business true. Any questions? Visit www. AuthorTracker. com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author. UNANIMOUS PRAISE FOR TERRY PRATCHETT “Pratchett has now moved beyond the limits of humorous fantasy, and should be recognized as one of the more significant contemporary English language satirists. ” Publishers Weekly “He’s arguably the purely funniest English writer since Wodehouse. ” Washington Post Book World “Discworld takes the classic fantasy universe through its logical, and comic evolution. ” Cleveland Plain Dealer “His books are richly textured, and far more complex than they appear at first. ” Barbara Mertz “Unadulterated fun…witty, frequently hilarious. ” San Francisco Chronicle “Truly original…. Discworld is more complicated and satisfactory than Oz…. Has the energy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and the inventiveness of Alice in Wonderland …. Brilliant!” A. S. Byatt “Consistently, inventively mad…wild and wonderful!” Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine “Simply the best humorous writer of the twentieth century. ” Oxford Times “A brilliant storyteller with a sense of humor…whose infectious fun completely engulfs you…. The Dickens of the twentieth century. ” Mail on Sunday (London) “If you are unfamiliar with Pratchett’s unique blend of philosophical badinage interspersed with slapstick, you are on the threshold of a mind-expanding opportunity. ” Financial Times (London) “The funniest parodist working in the field today, period. ” New York Review of Science Fiction “Pratchett demonstrates just how great the distance is between one-or two-joke writers and the comic masters whose work will be read into the next century. ” Locus “As always he is head and shoulders above the best of the rest. He is screamingly funny. He is wise. He has style. ” Daily Telegraph (London) “Pratchett is a comic genius. ” Express (London) “Terry Pratchett does for fantasy what Douglas Adams did for science fiction. ” Today (Great Britain) “What makes Terry Pratchett’s fantasies so entertaining is that their humor depends on the characters first, on the plot second, rather than the other way around. The story isn’t there simply to lead from one slapstick pratfall to another pun. Its humor is genuine and unforced. ” Ottawa Citizen “Terry Pratchett is more than a magician. He is the kindest, most fascinating teacher you ever had. ” Harlan Ellison “Delightful…. Logically illogical as only Terry Pratchett can write. ” Anne McCaffrey B OOKS BY T ERRY P RATCHETT The Carpet People The Dark Side of the Sun Strata • Truckers Diggers • Wings Only You Can Save Mankind Johnny and the Dead • Johnny and the Bomb The Unadulterated Cat (with Gray Jollife) Good Omens (with Neil Gaiman) T HE D ISCWORLD ® S ERIES : Going Postal • Monstrous Regiment • Night Watch The Last Hero • The Truth • Thief of Time The Fifth Elephant • Carpe Jugulum The Last Continent • Jingo Hogfather • Feet of Clay • Maskerade Interesting Times • Soul Music • Men at Arms Lords and Ladies • Small Gods Witches Abroad • Reaper Man Moving Pictures • Eric (with Josh Kirby) Guards! Guards! • Pyramids Wyrd Sisters • Sourcery • Mort • Equal Rites The Light Fantastic • The Color of Magic Mort: A Discworld Big Comic (with Graham Higgins) The Streets of Ankh-Morpork (with Stephen Briggs) The Discworld Companion (with Stephen Briggs) The Discworld Mapp (with Stephen Briggs) The Pratchett Portfolio (with Paul Kidby) Copyright This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. SOURCERY. Copyright © 1988 by Terry Pratchett. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. Microsoft Reader February 2007 ISBN 978-0-06-136777-9 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 About the Publisher Australia HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd. 25 Ryde Road (PO Box 321) Pymble, NSW 2073, Australia http://www. harpercollinsebooks. com. au Canada HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 55 Avenue Road, Suite 2900 Toronto, ON, M5R, 3L2, Canada http://www. harpercollinsebooks. ca New Zealand HarperCollins Publishers (New Zealand) Limited P. O. Box 1 Auckland, New Zealand http://www. harpercollinsebooks. co. nz United Kingdom HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 77-85 Fulham Palace Road London, W6 8JB, UK http://www. uk. harpercollinsebooks. com United States HarperCollins Publishers Inc. 10 East 53rd Street New York, NY 10022 http://www. harpercollinsebooks. com * The furrow left by the fleeing gargoyles caused the University’s head gardener to bite through his rake and led to the famous quotation: “How do you get a lawn like this? You mows it and you rolls it for five hundred years and then a bunch of bastards walks across it. ” * In most old libraries the books are chained to the shelves to prevent them being damaged by people. In the Library of Unseen University, of course, it’s more or less the other way about. * At least, by anyone who wanted to wake up the same shape, or even the same species, as they went to bed. * The vermine is a small black-and-white relative of the lemming, found in the cold Hublandish regions. Its skin is rare and highly valued, especially by the vermine itself; the selfish little bastard will do anything rather than let go of it. * This was because Gritoller had swallowed the jewels for safe keeping. * The Ankh-Morpork Merchants’ Guild publication Wellcome to Ankh-Morporke, Citie of One Thousand Surprises describes the area of Old Morpork known as The Shades as “a folklorique network of old alleys and picturesque streets, wherre exitment and romans lurkes arounde everry corner and much may be heard the traditinal street cries of old time also the laughing visages of the denuizens as they goe about their business private. ” In other words, you have been warned. * The study of genetics on the Disc had failed at an early stage, when wizards tried the experimental crossing of such well known subjects as fruit flies and sweet peas. Unfortunately they didn’t quite grasp the fundamentals, and the resultant offspring—a sort of green bean thing that buzzed—led a short sad life before being eaten by a passing spider. * The overwhelming majority of citizens being defined in this case as everyone not currently hanging upside down over a scorpion pit.

* Wizards’ tastes in the matter of puns are about the same as their taste in glittery objects. * Of course, Ankh-Morpork’s citizens had always claimed that the river water was incredibly pure in any case. Any water that had passed through so many kidneys, they reasoned, had to be very pure indeed. * No one ever had the courage to ask him what he did there. * Or up, or obliquely. The layout of the Library of Unseen University was a topographical nightmare, the sheer presence of so much stored magic twisting dimensions and gravity into the kind of spaghetti that would make M. C. Escher go for a good lie down, or possibly sideways. * The Hashishim, who derived their name from the vast quantities of hashish they consumed, were unique among vicious killers in being both deadly and, at the same time, inclined to giggle, groove to interesting patterns of light and shade on their terrible knife blades and, in extreme cases, fall over. * Although, possibly, quicker. And only licensed to carry fourteen people. * In a truly magical universe everything has its opposite. For example, there’s anti-light. That’s not the same as darkness, because darkness is merely the absence of light. Anti-light is what you get if you pass through darkness and out the other side. On the same basis, a state of knurdness isn’t like sobriety. By comparison, sobriety is like having a bath in cotton wool. Knurdness strips away all illusion, all the comforting pink fog in which people normally spend their lives, and lets them see and think clearly for the first time ever. Then, after they’ve screamed a bit, they make sure they never get knurd again. * For a description of the chimera we shall turn to Broomfog’s famous bestiary Anima Unnaturale : “It have thee legges of an mermade, the hair of an tortoise, the teeth of an fowel, and the winges of an snake. Of course, I have only my worde for it, the beast having the breathe of an furnace and the temperament of an rubber balloon in a hurricane. ” * Of course, wizards often killed one another by ordinary, nonmagical means, but this was perfectly allowable and death by assassination was considered natural causes for a wizard. * All right. But you’ve got the general idea. * It was a Fullomyth, an invaluable aid for all whose business is with the arcane and hermetic. It contained lists of things that didn’t exist and, in a very significant way, weren’t important. Some of its pages could only be read after midnight, or by strange and improbable illuminations. There were descriptions of underground constellations and wines as yet unfermented. For the really up-to-the-epoch occultist, who could afford the version bound in spider skin, there was even an insert showing the London Underground with the three stations they never dare show on the public maps. * He always argued that he was. * Very popular among gods, demi-gods, daemons and other supernatural creatures, who feel at home with questions like “What is It all About?” and “Where will It all End?” * Although this was the only way in which they resembled the idols built, in response to ancient and unacknowledged memories, by children in snowy weather; it was extremely unlikely that this Ice Giant would be a small mound of grubby ice with a carrot in it by the morning. * Which wisely decided not to fly again, was never claimed, and lived out the rest of its days as the carriage horse of an elderly lady. What War did about this is unrecorded; it is pretty certain that he got another one. Table of Contents Terry Pratchett Sourcery DEDICATION Begin Reading About the Author UNANIMOUS PRAISE FOR TERRY PRATCHETT BOOKS BY TERRY PRATCHETT Copyright About the Publisher Terry Pratchett Eric A Novel of Discworld ® Contents Begin Reading About the Author Praise Other Books by Terry Pratchett Copyright About the Publisher Eric 13 Midden Lane, Pseudopolies, Sto Plains, The Discworld, On top of Great A'tuin, The Univers, Space. nr. More Space. Begin Reading T he bees of Death are big and black, they buzz low and somber, they keep their honey in combs of wax as white as altar candles. The honey is black as night, thick as sin and sweet as treacle. It is well known that eight colors make up white. But there are also eight colors of blackness, for those that have the seeing of them, and the hives of Death are among the black grass in the black orchard under the black-blossomed, ancient boughs of trees that will, eventually, produce apples that…put it like this…probably won’t be red. The grass was short now. The scythe that had done the work leaned against the gnarled bole of a pear tree. Now Death was inspecting his bees, gently lifting the combs in his skeletal fingers. A few bees buzzed around him. Like all beekeepers, Death wore a veil. It wasn’t that he had anything to sting, but sometimes a bee would get inside his skull and buzz around and give him a headache. As he held a comb up to the gray light of his little world between the realities there was the faintest of tremors. A hum went up from the hive, a leaf floated down. A wisp of wind blew for a moment through the orchard, and that was the most uncanny thing, because the air in the land of Death is always warm and still. Death fancied that he heard, very briefly, the sound of running feet and a voice saying, no, a voice thinking oshitoshitoshit, I’m gonna die I’m gonna die I’m gonna DIE! Death is almost the oldest creature in the universe, with habits and modes of thought that mortal man cannot begin to understand, but because he was also a good beekeeper he carefully replaced the comb in its rack and put the lid on the hive before reacting. He strode back through the dark garden to his cottage, removed the veil, carefully dislodged a few bees who had got lost in the depths of his cranium, and retired to his study. As he sat down at his desk there was another rush of wind, which rattled the hour-glasses on the shelves and made the big pendulum clock in the hall pause ever so briefly in its interminable task of slicing time into manageable bits. Death sighed, and focused his gaze. There is nowhere Death will not go, no matter how distant and dangerous. In fact the more dangerous it is, the more likely he is to be there already. Now he stared through the mists of time and space. O H , he said. I T’S HIM. It was a hot afternoon in late summer in Ankh-Morpork, normally the most thriving, bustling and above all the most crowded city on the Disc. Now the spears of the sun had achieved what innumerable invaders, several civil wars and the curfew law had never achieved. It had pacified the place. Dogs lay panting in the scalding shade. The river Ankh, which never what you might call sparkled, oozed between its banks as if the heat had sucked all the spirit out of it. The streets were empty, oven-brick hot. No enemies had ever taken Ankh-Morpork. Well, technically they had, quite often; the city welcomed free-spending barbarian invaders, but somehow the puzzled raiders always found, after a few days, that they didn’t own their own horses anymore, and within a couple of months they were just another minority group with its own graffiti and food shops. But the heat had besieged the city and triumphed over the walls. It lay over the trembling streets like a shroud. Under the blowlamp of the sun assassins were too tired to kill. It turned thieves honest. In the ivy-covered fastness of Unseen University, premier college of wizardry, the inmates dozed with their pointy hats over their faces. Even bluebottles were too exhausted to bang against windowpanes. The city siesta’d, awaiting the sunset and the brief, hot, velvet surcease of the night. Only the Librarian was cool. He was also swinging and hanging out. This was because he’d rigged up a few ropes and rings in one of the sub-basements of the Unseen University Library—the one where they kept the, um, erotic * books. In vats of crushed ice. And he was dreamily dangling in the chilly vapor above them. All books of magic have a life of their own.

Some of the really energetic ones can’t simply be chained to the bookshelves; they have to be nailed shut or kept between steel plates. Or, in the case of the volumes on tantric sex magic for the serious connoisseur, kept under very cold water to stop them from bursting into flames and scorching their severely plain covers. The Librarian swung gently back and forth above the seething vats, dozing peacefully. Then the footsteps came out of nowhere, raced across the floor with a noise that scraped the raw surface of the soul, and disappeared through the wall. There was a faint, distant scream that sounded like ogodsogodsogods, this is IT, I’m gonna DIE. The Librarian woke up, lost his grip, and flopped into the few inches of tepid water that was all that stood between The Joy of Tantric Sex with Illustrations for the Advanced Student , by A Lady, and spontaneous combustion. And it would have gone badly for him if the Librarian had been a human being. Fortunately, he was currently an orangutan. With so much raw magic sloshing around in the Library it would be surprising if accidents did not happen sometimes, and one particularly impressive one had turned him into an ape. Not many people get the chance to leave the human race while still alive, and he’d strenuously resisted all efforts since to turn him back. Since he was the only librarian in the universe who could pick up books with his feet, the University hadn’t pressed the point. It also meant that his idea of desirable female companionship now looked something like a sack of butter thrown through a roll of old inner tubes, and so he was lucky to get away with only mild burns, a headache, and some rather ambivalent feelings about cucumbers, which wore off by tea-time. In the Library above, the grimoires creaked and rustled their pages in astonishment as the invisible runner passed straight through the bookshelves and disappeared, or rather, disappeared even more… Ankh-Morpork gradually awoke from its slumber. Something invisible and yelling at the top of its voice was passing through every part of the city, dragging in its wake a trail of destruction. Wherever it went, things changed. A fortune-teller in the Street of Cunning Artificers heard the footsteps run across her bedroom floor and found her crystal ball had turned into a little glass sphere with a cottage in it, plus snowflakes. In a quiet corner of the Mended Drum tavern, where the adventuresses Herrena the Henna-Haired Harridan, Red Scharron and Diome, Witch of the Night, were meeting for some girl talk and a game of canasta, all the drinks turned into small yellow elephants. “It’s them wizards up at the University,” said the barman, hastily replacing the glasses. “It oughtn’t to be allowed. ” Midnight dropped off the clock. The Council of Wizardry rubbed their eyes and stared blearily at one another. They felt it oughtn’t to be allowed too, especially since they weren’t the ones that were allowing it. Finally the new Archchancellor, Ezrolith Churn, suppressed a yawn, sat up straight in his chair, and tried to look suitably magisterial. He knew he wasn’t really Archchancellor material. He hadn’t really wanted the job. He was ninety-eight, and had achieved this worthwhile age by carefully not being any trouble or threat to anyone. He had hoped to spend his twilight years completing his seven-volume treatise on Some Little Known Aspects of Kuian Rain-making Rituals , which were an ideal subject for academic study in his opinion since the rituals only ever worked in Ku, and that particular continent had slipped into the ocean several thousand years ago. * The trouble was that in recent years the lifespan of Archchancellors seemed to be a bit on the short side, and the natural ambition of all wizards for the job had given way to a curious, self-effacing politeness. He’d come down one morning to find everyone calling him “sir. ” It had taken him days to find out why. His head ached. He felt it was several weeks past his bedtime. But he had to say something. “Gentlemen—” he began. “Oook. ” “Sorry, and mo—” “Oook. ” “I mean apes, of course—” “Oook. ” The Archchancellor opened and shut his mouth in silence for a while, trying to re-route his train of thought. The Librarian was, ex officio, a member of the college council. No one had been able to find any rule about orang-utans being barred, although they had surreptitiously looked very hard for one. “It’s a haunting,” he ventured. “Some sort of a ghost, maybe. A bell, book and candle job. ” The Bursar sighed. “We tried that, Archchancellor. ” The Archchancellor leaned toward him. “Eh?” he said. “I said , we tried that, Archchancellor,” said the Bursar loudly, directing his voice at the old man’s ear. “After dinner, you remember? We used Humptemper’s Names of the Ants and rang Old Tom. ” * “Did we, indeed. Worked, did it?” “ No , Archchancellor. ” “Eh?” “Anyway, we’ve never had any trouble with ghosts before,” said the Senior Tutor. “Wizards just don’t haunt places. ” The Archchancellor groped for a crumb of comfort. “Perhaps it’s just something natural,” he said. “Possibly the rumblings of an underground spring. Earth movements, perhaps. Something in the drains. They can make very funny noises, you know, when the wind is in the right direction. ” He sat back and beamed. The rest of the council exchanged glances. “The drains don’t sound like hurrying feet, Archchancellor,” said the Bursar wearily. “Unless someone left a tap running,” said the Senior Tutor. The Bursar scowled at him. He’d been in the tub when the invisible screaming thing had hurtled through his room. It was not an experience he wanted to repeat. The Archchancellor nodded at him. “That’s settled, then,” he said, and fell asleep. The Bursar watched him in silence. Then he pulled the old man’s hat off and tucked it gently under his head. “Well?” he said wearily. “Has anyone got any suggestions?” The Librarian put his hand up. “Oook,” he said. “Yes, well done, good boy,” said the Bursar, breezily. “Anyone else?” The orang-utan glared at him as the other wizards shook their heads. “It’s a tremor in the texture of reality,” said the Senior Tutor. “That’s what it is. ” “What should we do about it, then?” “Search me. Unless we tried the old—” “Oh, no,” said the Bursar. “Don’t say it. Please. It’s far too dangerous—” His words were chopped off by a scream that began at the far end of the room and dopplered along the table, accompanied by the sound of many running feet. The wizards ducked in a scatter of overturned chairs. The candle flames were drawn into long thin tongues of octarine light before being snuffed out. Then there was silence, the special kind that you get after a really unpleasant noise. And the Bursar said, “All right. I give in. We will try the Rite of AshkEnte. ” It is the most serious ritual eight wizards can undertake. It summons Death, who naturally knows everything that is going on everywhere. And of course it’s done with reluctance, because senior wizards are generally very old and would prefer not to do anything to draw Death’s attention in their direction. It took place in the midnight in the University’s Great Hall, in a welter of incense, candlesticks, runic inscriptions and magic circles, none of which was strictly necessary but which made the wizards feel better. Magic flared, the chants were chanted, the invocations were truly invoked. The wizards stared into the magic octogram, which remained empty. After a while the circle of robed figures began to mutter among themselves. “We must have done something wrong. ” “Oook. ” “Maybe He is out. ” “Or busy…” “Do you think we could give up and go back to bed?” WHO ARE WE WAITING FOR, EXACTLY? The Bursar turned slowly to the figure beside him. You could always tell a wizard’s robe; it was bedecked with sequins, sigils, fur and lace, and there was usually a considerable amount of wizard inside it. This robe, however, was very black. The material looked as though it had been chosen for its hard-wearing qualities. So did its owner.

He looked as though if he wrote a diet book, it would be a bestseller. Death was watching the octogram with an expression of polite interest. “Er,” said the Bursar. “The fact is, in fact, that, er, you should be on the inside. ” I’M SO SORRY. Death stalked in a dignified way into the center of the room and watched the Bursar expectantly. I HOPE WE ARE NOT GOING TO HAVE ANY OF THIS “FOUL FIEND” BUSINESS AGAIN, he said. “I trust we are not interrupting any important enterprise?” said the Bursar politely. ALL MY WORK IS IMPORTANT, said Death. “Naturally,” said the Bursar. TO SOMEBODY. “Er. Er. The reason, o fou—sir, that we have called you here, is for the reason—” IT IS RINCEWIND. “What?” THE REASON YOU SUMMONED ME. THE ANSWER IS: IT IS RINCEWIND. “But we haven’t asked you the question yet!” NEVERTHELESS. THE ANSWER IS: IT IS RINCEWIND. “Look, what we want to know is , what’s causing this outbreak of…oh. ” Death pointedly picked invisible particles off the edge of his scythe. The Archchancellor cupped a gnarled hand over his ear. “What’d he say? Who’s the fella with the stick?” “It’s Death, Archchancellor,” said the Bursar patiently. “Eh?” “It’s Death, sir. You know. ” “Tell him we don’t want any,” said the old wizard, waving his stick. The Bursar sighed. “We summoned him, Archchancellor. ” “Is it? What’d we go and do that for? Bloody silly thing to do. ” The Bursar gave Death an embarrassed grin. He was on the point of asking him to excuse the Archchancellor on account of his age, but realized that this would in the circumstances be a complete waste of breath. “Are we talking about the wizard Rincewind? The one with the—” the Bursar gave a shudder—“horrible Luggage on legs? But he got blown up when there was all that business with the sourcerer, didn’t he?” * INTO THE DUNGEON DIMENSIONS. AND NOW HE IS TRYING TO GET BACK HOME. “Can he do that?” THERE WOULD NEED TO BE AN UNUSUAL CONJUNCTION OF CIRCUMSTANCES. REALITY WOULD NEED TO BE WEAKENED IN CERTAIN UNEXPECTED WAYS. “That isn’t likely to happen, is it?” said the Bursar anxiously. People who have it on record that they were visiting their aunt for two months are always nervous about people turning up who may have mistakenly thought that they weren’t, and owing to some trick of the light might have believed they had seen them doing things that they couldn’t have been doing owing to being at their aunt’s. IT WOULD BE A MILLION TO ONE CHANCE, said Death. EXACTLY A MILLION TO ONE CHANCE. “Oh,” said the Bursar, intensely relieved. “Oh dear. What a shame. ” He brightened up considerably. “Of course, there’s all the noise. But, unfortunately, I expect he won’t survive for long. ” THIS COULD BE THE CASE, said Death blandly. I AM SURE, THOUGH, THAT YOU WOULD NOT WISH ME TO MAKE A PRACTICE OF ISSUING DEFINITIVE STATEMENTS IN THIS FIELD. “No! No, of course not,” said the Bursar hurriedly. “Right. Well, many thanks. Poor chap. What a great pity. Still, can’t be helped. Perhaps we should be philosophical about these things. ” PERHAPS YOU SHOULD. “And we had better not keep you,” the Bursar added politely. THANK YOU. “Goodbye. ” BE SEEING YOU. In fact the noise stopped just before breakfast. The Librarian was the only one unhappy about it. Rincewind had been his assistant and his friend, and was a good man when it came to peeling a banana. He had also been uniquely good at running away from things. He was not, the Librarian considered, the type to be easily caught. There had probably been an unusual conjunction of circumstances. That was a far more likely explanation. There had been an unusual conjunction of circumstances. By exactly a million to one chance there had been someone watching, studying, looking for the right tools for a special job. And here was Rincewind. It was almost too easy. So Rincewind opened his eyes. There was a ceiling above him; if it was the floor, then he was in trouble. So far, so good. He cautiously felt the surface he was lying on. It was grainy, woody in fact, with the odd nail-hole. A human sort of surface. His ears picked up the crackle of a fire and a bubbling noise, source unknown. His nose, feeling that it was being left out of things, hastened to report a whiff of brimstone. Right. So where did that leave him? Lying on a rough wooden floor in a firelit room with something that bubbled and gave off sulfurous smells. In his unreal, dreamy state he felt quite pleased at this process of deduction. What else? Oh, yes. He opened his mouth and screamed and screamed and screamed. This made him feel slightly better. He lay there a bit longer. Through the tumbled heap of his memories came the recollections of mornings in bed when he was a little boy, desperately subdividing the passing time into smaller and smaller units to put off the terrible moment of getting up and having to face all the problems of life such as, in this case, who he was, where he was, and why he was. “ What are you?” said a voice on the edge of his consciousness. “I was coming to that,” muttered Rincewind. The room oscillated into focus as he pushed himself up on his elbows. “I warn you,” said the voice, which seemed to be coming from a table, “I am protected by many powerful amulets. ” “Jolly good,” said Rincewind. “I wish I was. ” Details began to distil out of the blur. It was a long, low room, one end of which was entirely occupied by an enormous fireplace. A bench all down one wall contained a selection of glassware apparently created by a drunken glassblower with hic-cups, and inside its byzantine coils colored liquids seethed and bubbled. A skeleton hung from a hook in a relaxed fashion. On a perch beside it someone had nailed a stuffed bird. Whatever sins it had committed in life, it hadn’t deserved what the taxidermist had done to it. Rincewind’s gaze then swept across the floor. It was obvious that it was the only sweeping the floor had had for some time. Only around him had space been cleared among the debris of broken glass and overturned retorts for— A magic circle. It looked an extremely thorough job. Whoever had chalked it was clearly very aware that its purpose was to divide the universe into two bits, the inside and the outside. Rincewind was, of course, inside. “Ah,” he said, feeling a familiar and almost comforting sense of helpless dread sweep over him. “I adjure and conjure thee against all aggressive acts, o demon of the pit,” said the voice from, Rincewind now realized, behind the table. “Fine, fine,” said Rincewind quickly. “That’s all right by me. Er. It isn’t possible that there has been the teeniest little mistake here, could there?” “Avaunt!” “Right!” said Rincewind. He looked around him desperately. “How?” “Don’t you think you can lure me to my doom with thy lying tongue, o fiend of Shamharoth,” said the table. “I am learned in the ways of demons. Obey my every command or I will return thee unto the boiling hell from which you came. Thou came, sorry. Thou came’st, in fact. And I really mean it. ” The figure stepped out. It was quite short, and most of it was hidden by a variety of charms, amulets and talismans which, even if not effective against magic, would probably have protected it against a tolerably determined sword thrust. It wore glasses and had a hat with long sidepieces that gave it the air of a short-sighted spaniel. It held a sword in one shaking hand. It was so heavily etched with sigils that it was beginning to bend. “Boiling hell, did you say?” said Rincewind weakly. “Absolutely. Where the screams of anguish and the tortured torments—” “Yes, yes, you’ve made your point,” said Rincewind. “Only, you see, the thing is, in fact, that I am not a demon. So if you would just let me out?” “I am not fooled by thy outer garb, demon,” said the figure. In a more normal voice it added, “Anyway, demons always lie. Well-known fact. ” “It is?” said Rincewind, clutching at this straw. “In that case, then—I am a demon. ” “Aha! Condemned out of your own mouth!” “Look, I don’t have to put up with this,” said Rincewind.

“I don’t know who you are or what’s happening, but I’m going to have a drink, all right?” He went to walk out of the circle, and went rigid with shock as sparks crackled up from the runic inscriptions and earthed themselves all over his body. “Thou mays’nt—thou maysn’t—thou mays’n’t—” The conjurer of demons gave up. “Look, you can’t step over the circle until I release you, right? I mean, I don’t want to be unpleasant, it’s just that if I let you out of the circle you will be able to resume your true shape, and a pretty awful shape it is too, I expect. Avaunt!” he added, feeling that he wasn’t keeping up the tone. “All right. I’m avaunting. I’m avaunting,” said Rincewind, rubbing his elbow. “But I’m still not a demon. ” “How come you answered the conjuration, then? I suppose you just happened to be passing through the paranatural dimensions, eh?” “Something like that, I think. It’s all a bit blurred. ” “Pull the other one, it has got bells on. ” The conjurer leaned his sword against a lectern on which a heavy book, dripping bookmarks, lay open. Then he did a mad little jig on the floor. “It’s worked!” he said. “Heheh!” He caught sight of Rincewind’s horrified gaze and pulled himself together. He gave an embarrassed cough, and stepped up to the lectern. “I really am not—” Rincewind began. “I had this list here somewhere,” said the figure. “Let’s see, now. Oh, yes. I command you—thee, I mean—to, ah, grant me three wishes. Yes. I want mastery of the kingdoms of the world, I want to meet the most beautiful woman who has ever lived, and I want to live forever. ” He gave Rincewind an encouraging look. “All that?” said Rincewind. “Yes. ” “Oh, no problem,” said Rincewind sarcastically. “And then I get the rest of the day off, right?” “And I want a chest full of gold, too. Just to be going on with. ” “I can see you’ve got it all thought out. ” “Yes. Avaunt!” “Right, right. Only—” Rincewind thought hurriedly, he’s quite mad, but mad with a sword in his hands, the only chance I’ve got is to argue him out of it on his own terms, “—only, d’you see, I’m not a very superior kind of demon and I’m afraid those sort of errands are a bit out of my league, sorry. You can avaunt as much as you like, but they’re just beyond me. ” The little figure peered over the top of its glasses. “I see,” he said testily. “What could you manage then, do you think?” “Well, er—” said Rincewind, “I suppose I could go down to the shops and get you a packet of mints, or something. ” There was a pause. “You really can’t do all those things?” “Sorry. Look, I’ll tell you what. You just release me, and I’ll be sure to pass the word around when I get back to—” Rincewind hesitated. Where the hell did demons live, anyway? “Demon City,” he said, hopefully. “You mean Pandemonium?” said his captor suspiciously. “Yes, that’s right. That’s what I meant. I’ll tell everyone, next time you’re in the real world be sure and look up—what’s your name?” “Thursley. Eric Thursley. ” “Right. ” “Demonologist. Midden Lane, Pseudopolis. Next door to the tannery,” said Thursley hopefully. “Right you are. Don’t you worry about it. Now, if you’ll just let me out—” Thursley’s face fell. “You’re sure you really can’t do it?” he said, and Rincewind couldn’t help noticing the edge of pleading in his voice. “Even a small chest of gold would do. And, I mean, it needn’t be the most beautiful woman in the whole of history. Second most beautiful would do. Or third. You pick any one out of, you know, the top one hundr—thousand. Whatever you’ve got in stock, sort of thing. ” By the end of the sentence his voice twanged with longing. Rincewind wanted to say: Look, what you should do is stop all this messing around with chemicals in dark rooms and have a shave, a haircut, a bath, make that two baths, buy yourself a new wardrobe and get out of an evening and then—but he’d have to be honest, because even washed, shaved and soaked in body splash Thursley wasn’t going to win any prizes—and then you could have your face slapped by any woman of your choice. I mean, it wouldn’t be much, but it would be body contact. “Sorry,” he said again. Thursley sighed. “The kettle’s on,” he said. “Would you like a cup of tea?” Rincewind stepped forward into a crackle of psychic energy. “Ah,” said Thursley uncertainly, as the wizard sucked at his fingers, “I’ll tell you what. I’ll put you under a conjuration of duress. ” “There’s no need, I assure you. ” “No, it’s best this way. It means you can move around. I had it all ready anyway, in case you could go and fetch, you know, her. ” “Fine,” said Rincewind. As the demonologist mumbled words from the book he thought: Feet. Door. Stairs. What a great combination. It occurred to him that there was something about the demonologist that wasn’t quite usual, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He looked pretty much like the demonologists Rincewind had known back in Ankh-Morpork, who were all bent and chemical-stained and had eyes with pupils like pinheads from all the chemical fumes. This one would have fitted in easily. It was just that there was something odd. “To be honest,” said Thursley, industriously mopping away part of the circle, “you’re my first demon. It’s never worked before. What is your name?” “Rincewind. ” Thursley thought about this. “It doesn’t ring a bell,” he said. “There’s a Riinjswin in the Demonologie. And a Winswin. But they’ve got more wings than you. You can step out now. I must say that’s a first-class materialization. No one would think you were a fiend, to look at you. Most demons, when they want to look human, materialize in the shape of nobles, kings and princes. This moth-eaten-wizard look is very clever. You could’ve almost fooled me. It’s a shame you can’t do any of those things. ” “I can’t see why you’d want to live forever,” said Rincewind, privately determining that the words “moth-eaten” would be paid for, if ever he got the opportunity. “Being young again, I can understand that. ” “Huh. Being young’s not much fun,” said Thursley, and then clapped his hand over his mouth. Rincewind leaned forward. About fifty years. That was what was missing. “That’s a false beard!” he said. “How old are you?” “Eighty-seven!” squeaked Thursley. “I can see the hooks over your ears!” “Seventy-eight, honest! Avaunt!” “You’re a little boy!” Eric pulled himself up haughtily. “I’m not!” he snapped. “I’m nearly fourteen!” “Ah- ha! ” The boy waved the sword at Rincewind. “It doesn’t matter, anyway!” he shouted. “Demonologists can be any age, you’re still my demon and you have to do as I say!” “Eric!” came a voice from somewhere below them. Eric’s face went white. “Yes, Mother?” he shouted, his eyes fixed on Rincewind. His mouth shaped the words: don’t say anything, please. “What’s all that noise up there?” “Nothing, Mother!” “Come down and wash your hands, dear, your breakfast’s ready!” “Yes, Mother. ” He looked sheepishly at Rincewind. “That’s my mother,” he said. “She’s got a good pair of lungs, hasn’t she,” said Rincewind. “I’d, I’d better go, then,” said Eric. “You’ll have to stay up here, of course. ” It dawned on him that he was losing a certain amount of credibility at this point. He waved the sword again. “Avaunt!” he said. “I command you not to leave this room!” “Right. Sure,” said Rincewind, eyeing the windows. “Promise? Otherwise you’ll be sent back to the Pit. ” “Oh, I don’t want that,” said Rincewind. “Off you trot. Don’t worry about me. ” “I’m going to leave the sword and stuff here,” said Eric, removing most of his accoutrements to reveal a slim, dark-haired young man whose face would be a lot better when his acne cleared up. “If you touch them, terrible things will befall. ” “Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Rincewind. When he was left alone he wandered over to the lectern and looked at the book. The title, in impressively flickering red letters, was Mallificarum Sumpta Diabolicite Occularis Singularum , the Book of Ultimate Control. He knew about it. There was a copy in the Library somewhere, although wizards never bothered with it.

This might seem odd, because if there is one thing a wizard would trade his grandmother for, it is power. But it wasn’t all that strange, because any wizard bright enough to survive for five minutes was also bright enough to realize that if there was any power in demonology, then it lay with the demons. Using it for your own purposes would be like trying to beat mice to death with a rattlesnake. Even wizards thought demonologists were odd; they tended to be surreptitious, pale men who got up to complicated things in darkened rooms and had damp, weak handshakes. It wasn’t like good clean magic. No self-respecting wizard would have any truck with the demonic regions, whose inhabitants were as big a collection of ding-dongs as you’d find outside a large belfry. He inspected the skeleton closely, just in case. It didn’t seem inclined to make a contribution to the situation. “It belonged to his wossname, grandfather,” said a cracked voice behind him. “Bit of an unusual bequest,” said Rincewind. “Oh, not personally. He got it in a shop somewhere. It’s one of them wossname, articulate wossnames. ” “It’s not saying much right now,” said Rincewind, and then went very quiet and thoughtful. “Er,” he said, without moving his head, “what, precisely, am I talking to?” “I’m a wossname. Tip of my tongue. Begins with a P. ” Rincewind turned around slowly. “You’re a parrot?” he said. “That’s it. ” Rincewind stared at the thing on the perch. It had one eye that glittered like a ruby. Most of the rest of it was pink and purple skin, studded with the fag-ends of feathers, so that the net effect was of an oven-ready hairbrush. It jiggled arthritically on its perch and then slowly lost its balance, until it was hanging upside down. “I thought you were stuffed,” said Rincewind. “Up yours, wizard. ” Rincewind ignored it and crept over to the window. It was small, but gave out onto a gently sloping roof. And out there was real life, real sky, real buildings. He reached out to open the shutters— A crackling current coursed up his arm and earthed itself in his cerebellum. He sat on the floor, sucking his fingers. “He tole you,” said the parrot, swinging backward and forward upside down. “But you wouldn’t wossname. He’s got you by the wossnames. ” “But it should only work on demons!” “Ah,” said the parrot, achieving enough momentum to swing upright again, whereupon it steadied itself with the stubby remains of what had once been wings. “It’s all according, isn’t it. If you come in through the door marked ‘Wossnames’ that means you get treated as a wossname, right? Demon, I mean. Subject to all the rules and wossnames. Tough one for you. ” “But you know I’m a wizard, don’t you!” The parrot gave a squawk. “I’ve seen ’em, mate. The real McWossname. Some of the ones we’ve had in here, they’d make you choke on your millet. Great scaly fiery wossnames. Took weeks to get the soot off the walls,” it added, in an approving tone of voice. “That was in his granddad’s day, of course. The kid hasn’t been any good at it. Up to now. Bright lad. I blame the wossnames, parents. New money, you know. Wine business. Spoil him rotten, let him play with his wossname’s old stuff, ‘Oh, he’s such an intelligent lad, nose always in a book,’” the parrot mimicked. “They never give him any of the things a sensitive growing wossnames really needs, if you was to ask me. ” “What, you mean love and guidance?” said Rincewind. “I was thinking of a bloody good wossname, thrashing,” said the parrot. Rincewind clutched at his aching head. If this was what demons usually had to go through, no wonder they were always so annoyed. “Polly want a biscuit,” said the parrot vaguely, in much the same way as a human would say “Er” or “As I was saying,” and went on, “His granddad was keen on it. That and his pigeons. ” “Pigeons,” said Rincewind. “Not that he was particularly successful. It was all a bit trial and wossname. ” “I thought you said great big scaly—” “Oh, yes. But that wasn’t what he was after. He was trying to conjure up a succubus. ” It should be impossible to leer when all you’ve got is a beak, but the parrot managed it. “That’s a female demon what comes in the night and makes mad passionate wossn—” “I’ve heard of them,” said Rincewind. “Bloody dangerous things. ” The parrot put its head on one side. “It never worked. All he ever got was a neuralger. ” “What’s that?” “It’s a demon that comes and has a headache at you. ” Demons have existed on the Discworld for at least as long as the gods, who in many ways they closely resemble. The difference is basically the same as that between terrorists and freedom fighters. Most of the demons occupy a spacious dimension close to reality, traditionally decorated in shades of flame and maintained at roasting point. This isn’t actually necessary, but if there is one thing that your average demon is, it is a traditionalist. In the center of the inferno, rising majestically from a lake of lava substitute and with unparalleled views of the Eight Circles, lies the city of Pandemonium. * At the moment, it was living up to its name. Astfgl, the new King of the Demons, was furious. Not simply because the air-conditioning had broken down again, not because he felt surrounded by idiots and plotters on every side, and not even because no one could pronounce his name properly yet, but also because he had just been given bad news. The demon who had been chosen by lottery to deliver it cowered in front of his throne with its tail between its legs. It was immortally afraid that something wonderful was soon going to happen to it. * “It did what ?” said Astfgl. “It, er, it opened, o lord. The circle in Pseudopolis. ” “Ah. The clever boy. We have great hopes of him. ” “Er. Then it closed again, lord. ” The demon shut its eyes. “And who went through?” “Er. ” The demon looked around at its colleagues, clustered at the far end of the mile-long throne room. “I said, and who went through?” “In point of fact, o lord—” “Yes?” “We don’t know. Someone. ” “I gave orders, did I not, that when the boy succeeded the Duke Vassenego was to materialize unto him, and offer him forbidden pleasures and dark delights to bend him to Our will?” The King growled. The problem with being evil, he’d been forced to admit, was that demons were not great innovatory thinkers and really needed the spice of human ingenuity. And he’d really been looking forward to Eric Thursley, whose brand of superintelligent gormlessness was a rare delight. Hell needed horribly bright, self-centered people like Eric. They were much better at being nasty than demons could ever manage. “Indeed, lord,” said the demon, “And the duke has been awaiting the summons there for years, shunning all other temptations, steadfastly and patiently studying the world of men—” “So where was he? ” “Er. Call of supernature, Lord,” the demon gabbled. “Hadn’t turned his back for two minutes when—” “And someone went through?” “We’re trying to find out—” Lord Astfgl’s patience, which in any case had the tensile strength of putty, snapped at this point. That just about summed it up. He had the kind of subjects who used the words “find out” when they meant “ascertain. ” Damnation was too good for them. “Get out,” he whispered. “And I shall see to it that you get a commendation for this—” “O master, I plead—” “Get out!” The King stamped along the glowing corridors to his private apartments. His predecessors had favored shaggy hind legs and hoofs. Lord Astfgl had rejected all that sort of thing out of hand. He held that no one would ever get taken seriously by those stuck-up bastards in Dun manifestin when their rear end kept ruminating all the time, and so he favored a red silk cloak, crimson tights, a cowl with two rather sophisticated little horns on it, and a trident.