Granny stood in front of the hovering staff, almost melting its icy covering by the sheer anger in her gaze.
“This is your idea of proper behaviour, is it? Lying around on the sea while people die? Oh, very well done!”
She stomped around in a semi-circle. To Cutangle’s bewilderment, the staff turned to follow her.
“So you were thrown away,” snapped Granny. “So what? She’s hardly more than a child, and children throw us all away sooner or later. Is this loyal service? Have you no shame, lying around sulking when you could be of some use at last?”
She leaned forward, her hooked nose a few inches from the staff. Cutangle was almost certain that the staff tried to lean backwards out of her way.
“Shall I tell you what happens to wicked staffs?” she hissed. “If Esk is lost to the world, shall I tell you what I will do to you? You were saved from the fire once, because you could pass on the hurt to her. Next time it won’t be the fire.”
Her voice sank to a whiplash whisper.
“First it’ll be the spokeshave. And then the sandpaper, and the auger, and the whittling knife—”
“I say, steady on,” said Cutangle, his eyes watering.
“—and what’s left I’ll stake out in the woods for the fungus and the woodlice and the beetles. It could take years.”
The carvings writhed. Most of them had moved around the back, out of Granny’s gaze.
“Now,” she said. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to pick you up and we are all going back to the University, aren’t we? Otherwise it’s blunt saw time.”
She rolled up her sleeves and extended a hand.
“Wizard,” she said, “I shall want you to release it.”
Cutangle nodded miserably.
“When I say now, now! Now!”
Cutangle opened his eyes again.
Granny was standing with her left arm extended full length in front of her, her hand clamped around the staff.
The ice was exploding off it, in gouts of steam.
“Right,” finished Granny, “and if this happens again I shall be very angry, do I make myself clear?”
Cutangle lowered his hands and hurried towards her.
“Are you hurt?”
She shook her head. “It’s like holding a hot icicle,” she said. “Come on, we haven’t got time to stand around chatting.”
“How are we going to get back?”
“Oh, show some backbone, man, for goodness sake. We’ll fly,”
Granny waved her broomstick. The Archchancellor looked at it doubtfully.
“On that?”
“Of course. Don’t wizards fly on their staffs?”
“It’s rather undignified.”
“If I can put up with that, so can you.”
“Yes, but is it safe?”
Granny gave him a withering look.
“Do you mean in the absolute sense?” she asked. “Or, say, compared with staying behind on a melting ice floe?”
“This is the first time I have ever ridden on a broomstick,” said Cutangle.
“Really.”
“I thought you just had to get on them and they flew,” said the wizard. “I didn’t know you had to do all that running up and down and shouting at them.”
“It’s a knack,” said Granny.
“I thought they went faster,” Cutangle continued, “and, to be frank, higher.”
“What do you mean, higher?” asked Granny, trying to compensate for the wizard’s weight on the pillion as they turned back upriver. Like pillion passengers since the dawn of time, he persisted in leaning the wrong way.
“Well, more sort of above the trees,” said Cutangle, ducking as a dripping branch swept his hat away.
“There’s nothing wrong with this broomstick that you losing a few stone wouldn’t cure,” snapped Granny. “Or would you rather get off and walk?”
“Apart from the fact that half the time my feet are touching the ground anyway,” said Cutangle. “I wouldn’t want to embarrass you. If someone had asked me to list all the perils of flying, you know, it would never have occurred to me to include having one’s legs whipped to death by tall bracken.”
“Are you smoking?” said Granny, staring grimly ahead. “Something’s burning.”
“It was just to calm my nerves what with all this headlong plunging through the air, madam.”
“Well, put it out this minute. And hold on.”
The broomstick lurched upwards and increased its speed to that of a geriatric jogger.
“Mr Wizard.”
“Hallo?”
“When I said hold on—”
“Yes?”
“I didn’t mean there.”
There was a pause.
“Oh. Yes. I see. I’m terribly sorry.”
“That’s all right.”
“My memory isn’t what it was . . . I assure you . . . no offence meant.”
“None taken.”
They flew in silence for a moment.
“Nevertheless,” said Granny thoughtfully, “I think that, on the whole, I would prefer you to move your hands.”
Rain gushed across the leads of Unseen University and poured into the gutters where ravens’ nests, abandoned since the summer, floated like very badly-built boats. The water gurgled along ancient, crusted pipes. It found its way under tiles and said hallo to the spiders under the eaves. It leapt from gables and formed secret lakes high amongst the spires.
Whole ecologies lived in the endless rooftops of the University, which by comparison made Gormenghast look like a toolshed on a railway allotment; birds sang in tiny jungles grown from apple pips and weed seeds, little frogs swam in the upper gutters, and a colony of ants were busily inventing an interesting and complex civilisation.
One thing the water couldn’t do was gurgle out of the ornamental gargoyles ranged around the roofs. This was because the gargoyles wandered off and sheltered in the attics at the first sign of rain. They held that just because you were ugly it didn’t mean you were stupid.
It rained streams. It rained rivers. It rained seas. But mainly it rained through the roof of the Great Hall, where the duel between Granny and Cutangle had left a very large hole, and Treatle felt that it was somehow raining on him personally.
He stood on a table organising the teams of students who were taking down the paintings and ancient tapestries before they got soaked. It had to be a table, because the floor was already several inches deep in water.
Not rainwater, unfortunately. This was water with real personality, the kind of distinctive character water gets after a long journey through silty countryside. It had the thick texture of authentic Ankh water—too stiff to drink, too runny to plough.
The river had burst its banks and a million little watercourses were flowing backwards, bursting in through the cellars and playing peekaboo under the flagstones. There was the occasional distant boom as some forgotten magic in a drowned dungeon shorted out and surrendered up its power; Treatle wasn’t at all keen on some of the unpleasant bubblings and hissings that were escaping to the surface.
He thought again how nice it would be to be the sort of wizard who lived in a little cave somewhere and collected herbs and thought significant thoughts and knew what the owls were saying. But probably the cave would be damp and the herbs would be poisonous and Treatle could never be sure, when all was said and done, exactly what thoughts were really significant.
He got down awkwardly and paddled through the dark swirling waters. Well, he had done his best. He’d tried to organise the senior wizards into repairing the roof by magic, but there was a general argument over the spells that could be used and a consensus that this was in any case work for artisans.
That’s wizards for you, he thought gloomily as he waded between the dripping arches, always probing the infinite but never noticing the definite, especially in the matter of household chores. We never had this trouble before that woman came.
He squelched up the steps, lit by a particularly impressive flash of lightning. He had a cold certainty that while of course no one could possibly blame him for all this, everybody would. He seized the hem of his robe and wrung it out wretchedly, then he reached for his tobacco pouch.
It was a nice green waterproof one. That meant that all the rain that had got into it couldn’t get out again. It was indescribable.
He found his little clip of papers. They were fused into one lump, like the legendary pound note found in the back pockets of trousers after they have been washed, spun, dried and ironed.
“Bugger,” he said, with feeling.
“I say! Treatle!”
Treatle looked around. He had been the last to leave the hall, where even now some of the benches were beginning to float. Whirlpools and patches of bubble marked the spots where magic was leaking from the cellars, but there was no one to be seen.
Unless, of course, one of the statues had spoken. They had been too heavy to move, and Trestle remembered telling the students that a thorough wash would probably do them good.
He looked at their stern faces and regretted it. The statues of very powerful dead mages were sometimes more lifelike than statues had any right to be. Maybe he should have kept his voice down.
“Yes?” he ventured, acutely aware of the stony stares.
“Up here, you fool!”
He looked up. The broomstick descended heavily through the rain in a series of swoops and jerks. About five feet above the water it lost its few remaining aerial pretensions, and flopped noisily into a whirlpool.
“Don’t stand there, idiot!”
Treatle peered nervously into the gloom.
“I’ve got to stand somewhere,” he said.
“I mean give us a hand!” snapped Cutangle, rising from the wavelets like a fat and angry Venus. “The lady first, of course.”
He turned to Granny, who was fishing around in the water.
“I’ve lost my hat,” she said.
Cutangle sighed. “Does that really matter at a time like this?”
“A witch has got to have a hat, otherwise who’s to know?” said Granny. She made a grab as something dark and sodden drifted by, cackled triumphantly, tipped out the water and rammed the hat on her head. It had lost its stiffening and flopped rather rakishly over one eye.
“Right,” she said, in a tone of voice that suggested the whole universe had just better watch out.
There was another brilliant flash of lightning, which shows that even the weather gods have a well-developed sense of theatre.
“It rather suits you,” said Cutangle.
“Excuse me,” said Trestle, “but isn’t she the w—”
“Never mind that,” said Cutangle, taking Granny’s hand and helping her up the steps. He flourished the staff.
“But it’s against the lore to allow w—”
He stopped and stared as Granny reached out and touched the damp wall by the door. Cutangle tapped him on the chest.
“Show me where it’s written down,” said Cutangle.
“They’re in the Library,” Granny interrupted.
“It was the only dry place,” said Treatle, “but—”
“This building is frightened of thunderstorms,” said Granny. “It could do with comforting.”
“But the lore—”repeated Treatle desperately.
Granny was already striding down the passage, with Cutangle hopping along behind. He turned.
“You heard the lady,” he said.
Treatle watched them go, with his mouth hanging open. When their footsteps had died away in the distance he stood silently for a moment, thinking about life and where his could have gone wrong.
However, he wasn’t going to be accused of disobedience.
Very carefully, without knowing exactly why, he reached out and gave the wall a friendly pat.
“There, there,” he said.
Strangely enough, he felt a lot better.
It occurred to Cutangle that he ought to lead the way in his own premises, but Granny in a hurry was no match for a nearterminal nicotine addict and he kept up only by a sort of crabwise leaping.
“It’s this way,” he said, splashing through the puddles.
“I know. The building told me.”
“Yes, I was meaning to ask about that,” said Cutangle, “because you see it’s never said anything to me and I’ve lived here for years.”
“Have you ever listened to it?”
“Not exactly listened, no,” Cutangle conceded. “Not as such.”
“Well then,” said Granny, edging past a waterfall where the kitchen steps used to be (Mrs Whitlow’s washing would never be the same again). “I think it’s up here and along the passage, isn’t it?”
She swept past a trio of astonished wizards, who were surprised by her and completely startled by her hat.
Cutangle panted after her and caught her arm at the doors to the Library.
“Look,” he said desperately, “No offence, Miss—um, Mistress—”
“I think Esmerelda will suffice now. What with us having shared a broomstick and everything.”
“Can I go in front? It is my Library,” he begged.
Granny turned around, her face a mask of surprise. Then she smiled.
“Of course. I’m so sorry.”
“For the look of the thing, you see,” said Cutangle apologetically. He pushed the door open.
The Library was full of wizards, who care about their books in the same way that ants care about their eggs and in time of difficulty carry them around in much the same way. The water was getting in even here, and turning up in rather odd places because of the Library’s strange gravitational effects. All the lower shelves had been cleared and relays of wizards and students were piling the volumes on every available table and dry shelf. The air was full of the sound of angry rustling pages, which almost drowned out the distant fury of the storm.
This was obviously upsetting the librarian, who was scurrying from wizard to wizard, tugging ineffectually at their robes and shouting “ook".
He spotted Cutangle and knuckled rapidly towards him. Granny had never seen an orang-outan before, but wasn’t about to admit it, and remained quite calm in the face of a small potbellied man with extremely long arms and a size IZ skin on a size 8 body.
“Ook,” it explained, “ooook.”
“I expect so,” said Cutangle shortly, and grabbed the nearest wizard, who was tottering under the weight of a dozen grimoires. The man stared at him as if he was a ghost, looked sideways at Granny, and dropped the books on the floor. The librarian winced.
“Archchancellor?” gasped the wizard, “you’re alive? I mean -we heard you’d been spirited away by—” he looked at Granny again, “—I mean, we thought—Treatle told us—”
“Oook,” said the librarian, shooing some pages back between their covers.
“Where are young Simon and the girl? What have you done with them?” Granny demanded.
“They—we put them over here,” said the wizard, backing away. “Um—”
“Show us,” said Cutangle. “And stop stuttering, man, you’d think you’d never seen a woman before.”
The wizard swallowed hard and nodded vigorously.
“Certainly. And—I mean—please follow me—um—”
“You weren’t going to say anything about the lore, were you?” asked Cutangle.
“Um—no, Archchancellor.”
“Good.”
They followed hard on his trodden-down heels as he scurried between the toiling wizards, most of whom stopped working to stare as Granny strode past.
“This is getting embarrassing,” said Cutangle, out of the corner of his mouth. “I shall have to declare you an honorary wizard.”
Granny stared straight ahead and her lips hardly moved.
“You do,” she hissed, “and I will declare you an honorary witch.”
Cutangle’s mouth snapped shut.
Esk and Simon were lying on a table in one of the side readingrooms, with half a dozen wizards watching over them. They drew back nervously as the trio approached, with the librarian swinging along behind.
“I’ve been thinking,” said Cutangle. “Surely it would be better to give the staff to Simon? He is a wizard, and—”
“Over my dead body,” said Granny. “Yours, too. They’re getting their power through him, do you want to give them more?”
Cutangle sighed. He had been admiring the staff, it was one of the best he had seen.
“Very well. You’re right, of course.”
He leaned down and laid the staff on Esk’s sleeping form, and then stood back dramatically.
Nothing happened.
One of the wizards coughed nervously.
Nothing continued to happen.
The carvings on the staff appeared to be grinning.
“It’s not working,” said Cutangle, “is it?”
“Ook.”
“Give it time,” said Granny.
They gave it time. Outside the storm strode around the sky, trying to lift the lids off houses.
Granny sat down on a pile of books and rubbed her eyes. Cutangle’s hands strayed towards his tobacco pocket. The wizard with the nervous cough was helped out of the room by a colleague.
“Ook,” said the librarian.
“I know!” said Granny, so that Cutangle’s half-rolled homemade shot out of his nerveless fingers in a shower of tobacco.
“What?”
“It’s not finished!”
“What?”
“She can’t use the staff, of course,” said Granny, standing up.
“But you said she swept the floors with it and it protects her and—” Cutangle began.
“Nonono,” said Granny. “That means the staff uses itself or it uses her, but she’s never been able to use it, d’you see?”
Cutangle stared at the two quiet bodies. “She should be able to use it. It’s a proper wizard’s staff.”
“Oh,” said Granny. “So she’s a proper wizard, is she?”
Cutangle hesitated.
“Well, of course not. You can’t ask us to declare her a wizard. Where’s the precedent?”
“The what?” asked Granny, sharply.
“It’s never happened before.”
“Lots of things have never happened before. We’re only born once.”
Cutangle gave her a look of mute appeal. “But it’s against the I—”
He began to say “lore", but the word mumbled into silence.
“Where does it say it?” said Granny triumphantly. “Where does it say women can’t be wizards?”
The following thoughts sped through Cutangle’s mind:
… It doesn’t say it anywhere, it says it everywhere.
… But young Simon seemed to say that everywhere is so much like nowhere that you can’t really tell the difference .
… Do I want to be remembered as the first Archchancellor to allow women into the University? Still . . . I’d be remembered, that’s for sure .
… She really is a rather impressive woman when she stands in that sort of way .
… That staff has got ideas of its own .
… There’s a sort of sense to it .
… I would be laughed at .
… It might not work .
… It might work.
She couldn’t trust them. But she had no choice.
Esk stared at the terrible faces peering down at her, and the lanky bodies, mercifully cloaked.
Her hands tingled.
In the shadow-world, ideas are real. The thought seemed to travel up her arms.
It was a buoyant sort of thought, a thought full of fizz. She laughed, and moved her hands apart, and the staff sparkled in her hands like solid electricity.
The Things started to chitter nervously and one or two at the back started to lurch away. Simon fell forward as his captors hastily let go, and he landed on his hands and knees in the sand.
“Use it!” he shouted. “That’s it! They’re frightened!”
Esk gave him a smile, and continued to examine the staff. For the first time she could see what the carvings actually were.
Simon snatched up the pyramid of the world and ran towards her.
“Come on!” he said. “They hate it!”
“Pardon?” said Esk.
“Use the staff,” said Simon urgently, and reached out for it. “Hey! It bit me!”
“Sorry,” said Esk. “What were we talking about?” She looked up and regarded the keening Things as it were for the first time.
“Oh, those. They only exist inside our heads. If we didn’t believe in them, they wouldn’t exist at all.”
Simon looked around at them.
“I can’t honestly say I believe you,” he said.
“I think we should go home now,” said Esk. “People will be worrying. ”
She moved her hands together and the staff vanished, although for a moment her hands glowed as though they were cupped around a candle.
The Things howled. A few of them fell over.
“The important thing about magic is how you don’t use it,” said Esk, taking Simon’s arm.
He stared at the crumbling figures around him, and grinned foolishly.
“You don’t use it?” he queried.
“Oh, yes,” said Esk, as they walked towards the Things. “Try it yourself.”
She extended her hands, brought the staff out of the air, and offered it to him. He went to take it, then drew back his hand.
“Uh, no,” he said, “I don’t think it likes me much.”
“I think it’s all right if I give it to you. It can’t really argue with that,” said Esk.
“Where does it go?”
“It just becomes an idea of itself, I think.”
He reached out his hand again and closed his fingers around the shining wood.
“Right,” he said, and raised it in the classical revengeful wizard’s pose. “I’ll show them!”
“No, wrong.”
“What do you mean, wrong? I’ve got the power!”
“They’re sort of-reflections of us,” said Esk. “You can’t beat your reflections, they’ll always be as strong as you are. That’s why they draw nearer to you when you start using magic. And they don’t get tired. They feed off magic, so you can’t beat them with magic. No, the thing is . . . well, not using magic because you can’t, that’s no use at all. But not using magic because you can, that really upsets them. They hate the idea. If people stopped using magic they’d die.”
The Things ahead of them fell over each other in their haste to back away.
Simon looked at the staff, then at Esk, then at the Things, then back at the staff.
“This needs a lot of thinking about,” he said uncertainly. “I’d really like to work this out.”
“I expect you’ll do it very well.”
“Because you’re saying that the real power is when you go right through magic and out the other side.”
“It works, though, doesn’t it?”
They were alone on the cold plain now. The Things were distant stick-figures.
“I wonder if this is what they mean by sourcery?” said Simon.
I don’t know. It might be.”
“I’d really like to work this out,” said Simon again, turning the staff over and over in his hands. “We could set up some experiments, you know, into deliberately not using magic. We could carefully not draw an octogram on the floor, and we could deliberately not call up all sorts of things, and—it makes me sweat just to think about it!”
“I’d like to think about how to get home,” said Esk, looking down at the pyramid.
“Well, that is supposed to be my idea of the world. I should be able to find a way. How do you do this thing with the hands?”
He moved his hands together. The staff slid between them, the light glowing through his fingers for a moment, and then vanished. He grinned. “Right. Now all we have to do is look for the University …”
Cutangle lit his third rollup from the stub of the second. This last cigarette owed a lot to the creative powers of nervous energy, and looked like a camel with the legs cut off.
He had already watched the staff lift itself gently from Esk and land on Simon.
Now it had floated up into the air again.
Other wizards had crowded into the room. The librarian was sitting under the table.
“If only we had some idea what is going on,” said Cutangle. “It’s the suspense I can’t stand.”
“Think positively, man,” snapped Granny. “And put out that bloody cigarette, I can’t imagine anyone wanting to come back to a room that smells like a fireplace.”
As one man the assembled college of wizards turned their faces towards Cutangle, expectantly.
He took the smouldering mess out of his mouth and, with a glare that none of the assembled wizards cared to meet, trod it underfoot.
“Probably time I gave it up anyway,” he said. “That goes for the rest of you, too. Worse than an ashpit in this place, sometimes.”
Then he saw the staff. It was
The only way Cutangle could describe the effect was that it seemed to be going very fast while staying in exactly the same place.
Streamers of gas flared away from it and vanished, if they were gas. It blazed like a comet designed by an inept special effects man. Coloured sparks leapt out and disappeared somewhere.
It was also changing colour, starting with a dull red and then climbing through the spectrum until it was a painful violet. Snakes of white fire coruscated along its length.
There should be a word for words that sound like things would sound like if they made a noise, he thought. The word “glisten” does indeed gleam oily, and if there was ever a word that sounded exactly the way sparks look as they creep across burned paper, or the way the lights of cities would creep across the world if the whole of human civilisation was crammed into one night, then you couldn’t do better than “coruscate".
He knew what would happen next.
“Look out,” he whispered. “It’s going to go—”
In total silence, in the kind of silence in fact that sucks in sounds and stifles them, the staff flashed into pure octarine along the whole of its length.
The eighth colour, produced by light falling through a strong magical field, blazed out through bodies and bookshelves and walls. Other colours blurred and ran together, as though the light was a glass of gin poured over the watercolour painting of the world. The clouds over the University glowed, twisted into fascinating and unexpected shapes, and streamed upwards.
An observer above the Disc would have seen a little patch of land near the Circle Sea sparkle like a jewel for several seconds, then wink out.
The silence of the room was broken by a wooden clatter as the staff dropped out of the air and bounced on the table.
Someone said “Ook", very faintly.
Cutangle eventually remembered how to use his hands and raised them to where he hoped his eyes would be. Everything had gone black.
“Is—anyone else there?” he said.
“Gods, you don’t know how glad I am to hear you say that,” said another voice. The silence was suddenly full of babble.
“Are we still where we were?”
“I don’t know. Where were we?”
“Here, I think.”
“Can you reach out?”
“Not unless I am quite certain about what I’m going to touch, my good man,” said the unmistakable voice of Granny Weatherwax.
“Everyone try and reach out,” said Cutangle, and choked down a scream as a hand like a warm leather glove closed around his ankle. There was a satisfied little “ook", which managed to convey relief, comfort and the sheer joy of touching a fellow human being or, in this case, anthropoid.
There was a scratch and then a blessed flare of red light as a wizard on the far side of the room lit a cigarette.
“Who did that?”
“Sorry, Archchancellor, force of habit.”
“Smoke all you like, that man.”
“Thank you, Archchancellor.”
“I think I can see the outline of the door now,” said another voice.
“Granny?”
“Yes, I can definitely see—”
“Esk?”
“I’m here, Granny.”
“Can I smoke too, sir?”
“Is the boy with you?”
“Yes.”
“Ook.”
“I’m here.”
“What’s happening?”
“Everyone stop talking!”
Ordinary light, slow and easy on the eye, sidled back into the Library.
Esk sat up, dislodging the staff. It rolled under the table. She felt something slip over her eyes, and reached up for it.
“Just a moment,” said Granny, darting forward. She gripped the girl’s shoulders and peered into her eyes.
“Welcome back,” she said, and kissed her.
Esk reached up and patted something hard on her head. She lifted it down to examine it.
It was a pointed hat, slightly smaller than Granny’s, but bright blue with a couple of silver stars painted on it.
“A wizard hat?” she said.
Cutangle stepped forward.
“Ah, yes,"he said, and cleared his throat: “You see, we thought—it seemed—anyway, when we considered it—”
“You’re a wizard,” said Granny, simply. “The Archchancellor changed the lore. Quite a simple ceremony, really.”
“There’s the staff somewhere about here,” said Cutangle. “I saw it fall down—oh.”
He stood up with the staff in his hand, and showed it to Granny.
“I thought it had carvings on,” he said. “This looks just like a stick.” And that was a fact. The staff looked as menacing and potent as a piece of kindling.
Esk turned the hat around in her hands, in the manner of one who, opening the proverbial brightly-wrapped package, finds bath salts.
“It’s very nice,” she said uncertainly.
“Is that all you can say?” said Granny.
“It’s pointed, too.” Somehow being a wizard didn’t feel any different from not being a wizard.
Simon leaned over.
“Remember,” he said, “you’ve got to have been a wizard. Then you can start looking on the other side. Like you said.”
Their eyes met, and they grinned.
Granny stared at Cutangle. He shrugged.
“Search me,” he said. “What’s happened to your stutter, boy?”
“Seems to have gone, sir,” said Simon brightly. “Must have left it behind, somewhere.”
The river was still brown and swollen but at least it resembled a river again.
It was unnaturally hot for late autumn, and across the whole of the lower part of Ankh-Morpork the steam rose from thousands of carpets and blankets put out to dry. The streets were filled with silt, which on the whole was an improvement—AnkhMorpork’s impressive civic collection of dead dogs had been washed out to sea.
The steam also rose from the flagstones of the Archchancellor’s personal verandah, and from the teapot on the table.
Granny lay back in an ancient cane chair and let the unseasonal warmth creep around her ankles. She idly watched a team of city ants, who had lived under the flagstones of the University for so long that the high levels of background magic had permanently altered their genes, anthandling a damp sugar lump down from the bowl on to a tiny trolley. Another group was erecting a matchstick gantry at the edge of the table.
Granny may or may not have been interested to learn that one of the ants was Drum Billet, who had finally decided to give Life another chance.
“They say,” she said, “that if you can find an ant on Hogswatch Day it will be very mild for the rest of the winter.”
“Who says that?” said Cutangle.
“Generally people who are wrong,” said Granny. “I makes a note in my Almanack, see. I checks. Most things most people believe are wrong.”
“Like `red sky at night, the city’s alight’,” said Cutangle. “And you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”
“I don’t think that’s what old dogs are for,” said Granny. The sugar lump had reached the gantry now, and a couple of ants were attaching it to a microscopic block and tackle.
“I can’t understand half the things Simon says,” said Cutangle, “although some of the students get very excited about it.
“I understand what Esk says all right, I just don’t believe it,” said Granny. “Except the bit about wizards needing a heart.”
“She said that witches need a head, too,” said Cutangle. “Would you like a scone? A bit damp, I’m afraid.”
“She told me that if magic gives people what they want, then not using magic can give them what they need,” said Granny, her hand hovering over the plate.
“So Simon tells me. I don’t understand it myself, magic’s for using, not storing up. Go on, spoil yourself.”
“Magic beyond magic,” snorted Granny. She took the scone and spread jam on it. After a pause she spread cream on it too.
The sugar lump crashed to the flagstones and was immediately surrounded by another team of ants, ready to harness it to a long line of red ants enslaved from the kitchen garden.
Cutangle shifted uneasily in his seat, which creaked.
“Esmerelda,” he began, “I’ve been meaning to ask—”
“No,” said Granny.
“Actually I was going to say that we think we might allow a few more girls into the University. On an experimental basis. Once we get the plumbing sorted out,” said Cutangle.
“That’s up to you, of course.”
“And, and, it occurred to me that since we seem destined to become a co-educational establishment, as it were, it seemed to me, that is—”
“Well?”
“If you might see your way clear to becoming, that is, whether you would accept a Chair.”
He sat back. The sugar lump passed under his chair on matchstick rollers, the squeaking of the slavedriver ants just at the edge of hearing.
“Hmm,” said Granny, “I don’t see why not. I’ve always wanted one of those big wicker ones, you know, with the sort of sunshade bit on the top. If that’s not too much trouble.”
“That isn’t exactly what I meant,” said Cutangle, adding quickly, “although I’m sure that could be arranged. No, I mean, would you come and lecture the students? Once in a while?”
“What on?”
Cutangle groped for a subject.
“Herbs?” he hazarded. “We’re not very good on herbs here. And headology. Esk told me a lot about headology. It sounds fascinating.”
The sugar lump disappeared through a crack in a nearby wall with a final jerk. Cutangle nodded towards it.
“They’re very heavy on the sugar,” he said, “but we haven’t got the heart to do anything about it.”
Granny frowned, and then nodded across the haze over the city to the distant glitter of the snow on the Ramtops.
“It’s a long way,” she said. “I can’t be keeping on going backwards and forwards at my time of life.”
“We could buy you a much better broomstick,” said Cutangle. “One you don’t have to bump start. And you, you could have a flat here. And all the old clothes you can carry,” he added, using the secret weapon. He had wisely invested in some conversation with Mrs Whitlow.
“Mmph,” said Granny, “Silk?”
“Black and red,” said Cutangle. An image of Granny in black and red silk trotted across his mind, and he bit heavily into his scone.
“And maybe we can bring some students out to your cottage in the summer,” Cutangle went on, “for extra-mural studies.”
“Who’s Extra Muriel?”
“I mean, there’s lots they can learn, I’m sure.”
Granny considered this. Certainly the privy needed a good seeing-to before the weather got too warm, and the goat shed was ripe for the mucking-out by spring. Digging over the Herb bed was a chore, too. The bedroom ceiling was a disgrace, and some of the tiles needed fixing.
“Practical things?” she said, thoughtfully.
“Absolutely,” said Cutangle.
“Mmph. Well, I’ll think about it,” said Granny, dimly aware that one should never go too far on a first date.
“Perhaps you would care to dine with me this evening and let me know?” said Cutangle, his eyes agleam.
“What’s to eat?”
“Cold meat and potatoes.” Mrs Whitlow had done her work well.
There was.
Esk and Simon went on to develop a whole new type of magic that no one could exactly understand but which nevertheless everyone considered very worthwhile and somehow comforting.
Perhaps more importantly, the ants used all the sugar lumps they could steal to build a small sugar pyramid in one of the hollow walls, in which, with great ceremony, they entombed the mummified body of a dead queen. On the wall of one tiny hidden chamber they inscribed, in insect hieroglyphs, the true secret of longevity.
They got it absolutely right and it would probably have important implications for the universe if it hadn’t, next time the University flooded, been completely washed away.
“This is your idea of proper behaviour, is it? Lying around on the sea while people die? Oh, very well done!”
She stomped around in a semi-circle. To Cutangle’s bewilderment, the staff turned to follow her.
“So you were thrown away,” snapped Granny. “So what? She’s hardly more than a child, and children throw us all away sooner or later. Is this loyal service? Have you no shame, lying around sulking when you could be of some use at last?”
She leaned forward, her hooked nose a few inches from the staff. Cutangle was almost certain that the staff tried to lean backwards out of her way.
“Shall I tell you what happens to wicked staffs?” she hissed. “If Esk is lost to the world, shall I tell you what I will do to you? You were saved from the fire once, because you could pass on the hurt to her. Next time it won’t be the fire.”
Her voice sank to a whiplash whisper.
“First it’ll be the spokeshave. And then the sandpaper, and the auger, and the whittling knife—”
“I say, steady on,” said Cutangle, his eyes watering.
“—and what’s left I’ll stake out in the woods for the fungus and the woodlice and the beetles. It could take years.”
The carvings writhed. Most of them had moved around the back, out of Granny’s gaze.
“Now,” she said. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to pick you up and we are all going back to the University, aren’t we? Otherwise it’s blunt saw time.”
She rolled up her sleeves and extended a hand.
“Wizard,” she said, “I shall want you to release it.”
Cutangle nodded miserably.
“When I say now, now! Now!”
Cutangle opened his eyes again.
Granny was standing with her left arm extended full length in front of her, her hand clamped around the staff.
The ice was exploding off it, in gouts of steam.
“Right,” finished Granny, “and if this happens again I shall be very angry, do I make myself clear?”
Cutangle lowered his hands and hurried towards her.
“Are you hurt?”
She shook her head. “It’s like holding a hot icicle,” she said. “Come on, we haven’t got time to stand around chatting.”
“How are we going to get back?”
“Oh, show some backbone, man, for goodness sake. We’ll fly,”
Granny waved her broomstick. The Archchancellor looked at it doubtfully.
“On that?”
“Of course. Don’t wizards fly on their staffs?”
“It’s rather undignified.”
“If I can put up with that, so can you.”
“Yes, but is it safe?”
Granny gave him a withering look.
“Do you mean in the absolute sense?” she asked. “Or, say, compared with staying behind on a melting ice floe?”
“This is the first time I have ever ridden on a broomstick,” said Cutangle.
“Really.”
“I thought you just had to get on them and they flew,” said the wizard. “I didn’t know you had to do all that running up and down and shouting at them.”
“It’s a knack,” said Granny.
“I thought they went faster,” Cutangle continued, “and, to be frank, higher.”
“What do you mean, higher?” asked Granny, trying to compensate for the wizard’s weight on the pillion as they turned back upriver. Like pillion passengers since the dawn of time, he persisted in leaning the wrong way.
“Well, more sort of above the trees,” said Cutangle, ducking as a dripping branch swept his hat away.
“There’s nothing wrong with this broomstick that you losing a few stone wouldn’t cure,” snapped Granny. “Or would you rather get off and walk?”
“Apart from the fact that half the time my feet are touching the ground anyway,” said Cutangle. “I wouldn’t want to embarrass you. If someone had asked me to list all the perils of flying, you know, it would never have occurred to me to include having one’s legs whipped to death by tall bracken.”
“Are you smoking?” said Granny, staring grimly ahead. “Something’s burning.”
“It was just to calm my nerves what with all this headlong plunging through the air, madam.”
“Well, put it out this minute. And hold on.”
The broomstick lurched upwards and increased its speed to that of a geriatric jogger.
“Mr Wizard.”
“Hallo?”
“When I said hold on—”
“Yes?”
“I didn’t mean there.”
There was a pause.
“Oh. Yes. I see. I’m terribly sorry.”
“That’s all right.”
“My memory isn’t what it was . . . I assure you . . . no offence meant.”
“None taken.”
They flew in silence for a moment.
“Nevertheless,” said Granny thoughtfully, “I think that, on the whole, I would prefer you to move your hands.”
Rain gushed across the leads of Unseen University and poured into the gutters where ravens’ nests, abandoned since the summer, floated like very badly-built boats. The water gurgled along ancient, crusted pipes. It found its way under tiles and said hallo to the spiders under the eaves. It leapt from gables and formed secret lakes high amongst the spires.
Whole ecologies lived in the endless rooftops of the University, which by comparison made Gormenghast look like a toolshed on a railway allotment; birds sang in tiny jungles grown from apple pips and weed seeds, little frogs swam in the upper gutters, and a colony of ants were busily inventing an interesting and complex civilisation.
One thing the water couldn’t do was gurgle out of the ornamental gargoyles ranged around the roofs. This was because the gargoyles wandered off and sheltered in the attics at the first sign of rain. They held that just because you were ugly it didn’t mean you were stupid.
It rained streams. It rained rivers. It rained seas. But mainly it rained through the roof of the Great Hall, where the duel between Granny and Cutangle had left a very large hole, and Treatle felt that it was somehow raining on him personally.
He stood on a table organising the teams of students who were taking down the paintings and ancient tapestries before they got soaked. It had to be a table, because the floor was already several inches deep in water.
Not rainwater, unfortunately. This was water with real personality, the kind of distinctive character water gets after a long journey through silty countryside. It had the thick texture of authentic Ankh water—too stiff to drink, too runny to plough.
The river had burst its banks and a million little watercourses were flowing backwards, bursting in through the cellars and playing peekaboo under the flagstones. There was the occasional distant boom as some forgotten magic in a drowned dungeon shorted out and surrendered up its power; Treatle wasn’t at all keen on some of the unpleasant bubblings and hissings that were escaping to the surface.
He thought again how nice it would be to be the sort of wizard who lived in a little cave somewhere and collected herbs and thought significant thoughts and knew what the owls were saying. But probably the cave would be damp and the herbs would be poisonous and Treatle could never be sure, when all was said and done, exactly what thoughts were really significant.
He got down awkwardly and paddled through the dark swirling waters. Well, he had done his best. He’d tried to organise the senior wizards into repairing the roof by magic, but there was a general argument over the spells that could be used and a consensus that this was in any case work for artisans.
That’s wizards for you, he thought gloomily as he waded between the dripping arches, always probing the infinite but never noticing the definite, especially in the matter of household chores. We never had this trouble before that woman came.
He squelched up the steps, lit by a particularly impressive flash of lightning. He had a cold certainty that while of course no one could possibly blame him for all this, everybody would. He seized the hem of his robe and wrung it out wretchedly, then he reached for his tobacco pouch.
It was a nice green waterproof one. That meant that all the rain that had got into it couldn’t get out again. It was indescribable.
He found his little clip of papers. They were fused into one lump, like the legendary pound note found in the back pockets of trousers after they have been washed, spun, dried and ironed.
“Bugger,” he said, with feeling.
“I say! Treatle!”
Treatle looked around. He had been the last to leave the hall, where even now some of the benches were beginning to float. Whirlpools and patches of bubble marked the spots where magic was leaking from the cellars, but there was no one to be seen.
Unless, of course, one of the statues had spoken. They had been too heavy to move, and Trestle remembered telling the students that a thorough wash would probably do them good.
He looked at their stern faces and regretted it. The statues of very powerful dead mages were sometimes more lifelike than statues had any right to be. Maybe he should have kept his voice down.
“Yes?” he ventured, acutely aware of the stony stares.
“Up here, you fool!”
He looked up. The broomstick descended heavily through the rain in a series of swoops and jerks. About five feet above the water it lost its few remaining aerial pretensions, and flopped noisily into a whirlpool.
“Don’t stand there, idiot!”
Treatle peered nervously into the gloom.
“I’ve got to stand somewhere,” he said.
“I mean give us a hand!” snapped Cutangle, rising from the wavelets like a fat and angry Venus. “The lady first, of course.”
He turned to Granny, who was fishing around in the water.
“I’ve lost my hat,” she said.
Cutangle sighed. “Does that really matter at a time like this?”
“A witch has got to have a hat, otherwise who’s to know?” said Granny. She made a grab as something dark and sodden drifted by, cackled triumphantly, tipped out the water and rammed the hat on her head. It had lost its stiffening and flopped rather rakishly over one eye.
“Right,” she said, in a tone of voice that suggested the whole universe had just better watch out.
There was another brilliant flash of lightning, which shows that even the weather gods have a well-developed sense of theatre.
“It rather suits you,” said Cutangle.
“Excuse me,” said Trestle, “but isn’t she the w—”
“Never mind that,” said Cutangle, taking Granny’s hand and helping her up the steps. He flourished the staff.
“But it’s against the lore to allow w—”
He stopped and stared as Granny reached out and touched the damp wall by the door. Cutangle tapped him on the chest.
“Show me where it’s written down,” said Cutangle.
“They’re in the Library,” Granny interrupted.
“It was the only dry place,” said Treatle, “but—”
“This building is frightened of thunderstorms,” said Granny. “It could do with comforting.”
“But the lore—”repeated Treatle desperately.
Granny was already striding down the passage, with Cutangle hopping along behind. He turned.
“You heard the lady,” he said.
Treatle watched them go, with his mouth hanging open. When their footsteps had died away in the distance he stood silently for a moment, thinking about life and where his could have gone wrong.
However, he wasn’t going to be accused of disobedience.
Very carefully, without knowing exactly why, he reached out and gave the wall a friendly pat.
“There, there,” he said.
Strangely enough, he felt a lot better.
It occurred to Cutangle that he ought to lead the way in his own premises, but Granny in a hurry was no match for a nearterminal nicotine addict and he kept up only by a sort of crabwise leaping.
“It’s this way,” he said, splashing through the puddles.
“I know. The building told me.”
“Yes, I was meaning to ask about that,” said Cutangle, “because you see it’s never said anything to me and I’ve lived here for years.”
“Have you ever listened to it?”
“Not exactly listened, no,” Cutangle conceded. “Not as such.”
“Well then,” said Granny, edging past a waterfall where the kitchen steps used to be (Mrs Whitlow’s washing would never be the same again). “I think it’s up here and along the passage, isn’t it?”
She swept past a trio of astonished wizards, who were surprised by her and completely startled by her hat.
Cutangle panted after her and caught her arm at the doors to the Library.
“Look,” he said desperately, “No offence, Miss—um, Mistress—”
“I think Esmerelda will suffice now. What with us having shared a broomstick and everything.”
“Can I go in front? It is my Library,” he begged.
Granny turned around, her face a mask of surprise. Then she smiled.
“Of course. I’m so sorry.”
“For the look of the thing, you see,” said Cutangle apologetically. He pushed the door open.
The Library was full of wizards, who care about their books in the same way that ants care about their eggs and in time of difficulty carry them around in much the same way. The water was getting in even here, and turning up in rather odd places because of the Library’s strange gravitational effects. All the lower shelves had been cleared and relays of wizards and students were piling the volumes on every available table and dry shelf. The air was full of the sound of angry rustling pages, which almost drowned out the distant fury of the storm.
This was obviously upsetting the librarian, who was scurrying from wizard to wizard, tugging ineffectually at their robes and shouting “ook".
He spotted Cutangle and knuckled rapidly towards him. Granny had never seen an orang-outan before, but wasn’t about to admit it, and remained quite calm in the face of a small potbellied man with extremely long arms and a size IZ skin on a size 8 body.
“Ook,” it explained, “ooook.”
“I expect so,” said Cutangle shortly, and grabbed the nearest wizard, who was tottering under the weight of a dozen grimoires. The man stared at him as if he was a ghost, looked sideways at Granny, and dropped the books on the floor. The librarian winced.
“Archchancellor?” gasped the wizard, “you’re alive? I mean -we heard you’d been spirited away by—” he looked at Granny again, “—I mean, we thought—Treatle told us—”
“Oook,” said the librarian, shooing some pages back between their covers.
“Where are young Simon and the girl? What have you done with them?” Granny demanded.
“They—we put them over here,” said the wizard, backing away. “Um—”
“Show us,” said Cutangle. “And stop stuttering, man, you’d think you’d never seen a woman before.”
The wizard swallowed hard and nodded vigorously.
“Certainly. And—I mean—please follow me—um—”
“You weren’t going to say anything about the lore, were you?” asked Cutangle.
“Um—no, Archchancellor.”
“Good.”
They followed hard on his trodden-down heels as he scurried between the toiling wizards, most of whom stopped working to stare as Granny strode past.
“This is getting embarrassing,” said Cutangle, out of the corner of his mouth. “I shall have to declare you an honorary wizard.”
Granny stared straight ahead and her lips hardly moved.
“You do,” she hissed, “and I will declare you an honorary witch.”
Cutangle’s mouth snapped shut.
Esk and Simon were lying on a table in one of the side readingrooms, with half a dozen wizards watching over them. They drew back nervously as the trio approached, with the librarian swinging along behind.
“I’ve been thinking,” said Cutangle. “Surely it would be better to give the staff to Simon? He is a wizard, and—”
“Over my dead body,” said Granny. “Yours, too. They’re getting their power through him, do you want to give them more?”
Cutangle sighed. He had been admiring the staff, it was one of the best he had seen.
“Very well. You’re right, of course.”
He leaned down and laid the staff on Esk’s sleeping form, and then stood back dramatically.
Nothing happened.
One of the wizards coughed nervously.
Nothing continued to happen.
The carvings on the staff appeared to be grinning.
“It’s not working,” said Cutangle, “is it?”
“Ook.”
“Give it time,” said Granny.
They gave it time. Outside the storm strode around the sky, trying to lift the lids off houses.
Granny sat down on a pile of books and rubbed her eyes. Cutangle’s hands strayed towards his tobacco pocket. The wizard with the nervous cough was helped out of the room by a colleague.
“Ook,” said the librarian.
“I know!” said Granny, so that Cutangle’s half-rolled homemade shot out of his nerveless fingers in a shower of tobacco.
“What?”
“It’s not finished!”
“What?”
“She can’t use the staff, of course,” said Granny, standing up.
“But you said she swept the floors with it and it protects her and—” Cutangle began.
“Nonono,” said Granny. “That means the staff uses itself or it uses her, but she’s never been able to use it, d’you see?”
Cutangle stared at the two quiet bodies. “She should be able to use it. It’s a proper wizard’s staff.”
“Oh,” said Granny. “So she’s a proper wizard, is she?”
Cutangle hesitated.
“Well, of course not. You can’t ask us to declare her a wizard. Where’s the precedent?”
“The what?” asked Granny, sharply.
“It’s never happened before.”
“Lots of things have never happened before. We’re only born once.”
Cutangle gave her a look of mute appeal. “But it’s against the I—”
He began to say “lore", but the word mumbled into silence.
“Where does it say it?” said Granny triumphantly. “Where does it say women can’t be wizards?”
The following thoughts sped through Cutangle’s mind:
… It doesn’t say it anywhere, it says it everywhere.
… But young Simon seemed to say that everywhere is so much like nowhere that you can’t really tell the difference .
… Do I want to be remembered as the first Archchancellor to allow women into the University? Still . . . I’d be remembered, that’s for sure .
… She really is a rather impressive woman when she stands in that sort of way .
… That staff has got ideas of its own .
… There’s a sort of sense to it .
… I would be laughed at .
… It might not work .
… It might work.
She couldn’t trust them. But she had no choice.
Esk stared at the terrible faces peering down at her, and the lanky bodies, mercifully cloaked.
Her hands tingled.
In the shadow-world, ideas are real. The thought seemed to travel up her arms.
It was a buoyant sort of thought, a thought full of fizz. She laughed, and moved her hands apart, and the staff sparkled in her hands like solid electricity.
The Things started to chitter nervously and one or two at the back started to lurch away. Simon fell forward as his captors hastily let go, and he landed on his hands and knees in the sand.
“Use it!” he shouted. “That’s it! They’re frightened!”
Esk gave him a smile, and continued to examine the staff. For the first time she could see what the carvings actually were.
Simon snatched up the pyramid of the world and ran towards her.
“Come on!” he said. “They hate it!”
“Pardon?” said Esk.
“Use the staff,” said Simon urgently, and reached out for it. “Hey! It bit me!”
“Sorry,” said Esk. “What were we talking about?” She looked up and regarded the keening Things as it were for the first time.
“Oh, those. They only exist inside our heads. If we didn’t believe in them, they wouldn’t exist at all.”
Simon looked around at them.
“I can’t honestly say I believe you,” he said.
“I think we should go home now,” said Esk. “People will be worrying. ”
She moved her hands together and the staff vanished, although for a moment her hands glowed as though they were cupped around a candle.
The Things howled. A few of them fell over.
“The important thing about magic is how you don’t use it,” said Esk, taking Simon’s arm.
He stared at the crumbling figures around him, and grinned foolishly.
“You don’t use it?” he queried.
“Oh, yes,” said Esk, as they walked towards the Things. “Try it yourself.”
She extended her hands, brought the staff out of the air, and offered it to him. He went to take it, then drew back his hand.
“Uh, no,” he said, “I don’t think it likes me much.”
“I think it’s all right if I give it to you. It can’t really argue with that,” said Esk.
“Where does it go?”
“It just becomes an idea of itself, I think.”
He reached out his hand again and closed his fingers around the shining wood.
“Right,” he said, and raised it in the classical revengeful wizard’s pose. “I’ll show them!”
“No, wrong.”
“What do you mean, wrong? I’ve got the power!”
“They’re sort of-reflections of us,” said Esk. “You can’t beat your reflections, they’ll always be as strong as you are. That’s why they draw nearer to you when you start using magic. And they don’t get tired. They feed off magic, so you can’t beat them with magic. No, the thing is . . . well, not using magic because you can’t, that’s no use at all. But not using magic because you can, that really upsets them. They hate the idea. If people stopped using magic they’d die.”
The Things ahead of them fell over each other in their haste to back away.
Simon looked at the staff, then at Esk, then at the Things, then back at the staff.
“This needs a lot of thinking about,” he said uncertainly. “I’d really like to work this out.”
“I expect you’ll do it very well.”
“Because you’re saying that the real power is when you go right through magic and out the other side.”
“It works, though, doesn’t it?”
They were alone on the cold plain now. The Things were distant stick-figures.
“I wonder if this is what they mean by sourcery?” said Simon.
I don’t know. It might be.”
“I’d really like to work this out,” said Simon again, turning the staff over and over in his hands. “We could set up some experiments, you know, into deliberately not using magic. We could carefully not draw an octogram on the floor, and we could deliberately not call up all sorts of things, and—it makes me sweat just to think about it!”
“I’d like to think about how to get home,” said Esk, looking down at the pyramid.
“Well, that is supposed to be my idea of the world. I should be able to find a way. How do you do this thing with the hands?”
He moved his hands together. The staff slid between them, the light glowing through his fingers for a moment, and then vanished. He grinned. “Right. Now all we have to do is look for the University …”
Cutangle lit his third rollup from the stub of the second. This last cigarette owed a lot to the creative powers of nervous energy, and looked like a camel with the legs cut off.
He had already watched the staff lift itself gently from Esk and land on Simon.
Now it had floated up into the air again.
Other wizards had crowded into the room. The librarian was sitting under the table.
“If only we had some idea what is going on,” said Cutangle. “It’s the suspense I can’t stand.”
“Think positively, man,” snapped Granny. “And put out that bloody cigarette, I can’t imagine anyone wanting to come back to a room that smells like a fireplace.”
As one man the assembled college of wizards turned their faces towards Cutangle, expectantly.
He took the smouldering mess out of his mouth and, with a glare that none of the assembled wizards cared to meet, trod it underfoot.
“Probably time I gave it up anyway,” he said. “That goes for the rest of you, too. Worse than an ashpit in this place, sometimes.”
Then he saw the staff. It was
The only way Cutangle could describe the effect was that it seemed to be going very fast while staying in exactly the same place.
Streamers of gas flared away from it and vanished, if they were gas. It blazed like a comet designed by an inept special effects man. Coloured sparks leapt out and disappeared somewhere.
It was also changing colour, starting with a dull red and then climbing through the spectrum until it was a painful violet. Snakes of white fire coruscated along its length.
There should be a word for words that sound like things would sound like if they made a noise, he thought. The word “glisten” does indeed gleam oily, and if there was ever a word that sounded exactly the way sparks look as they creep across burned paper, or the way the lights of cities would creep across the world if the whole of human civilisation was crammed into one night, then you couldn’t do better than “coruscate".
He knew what would happen next.
“Look out,” he whispered. “It’s going to go—”
In total silence, in the kind of silence in fact that sucks in sounds and stifles them, the staff flashed into pure octarine along the whole of its length.
The eighth colour, produced by light falling through a strong magical field, blazed out through bodies and bookshelves and walls. Other colours blurred and ran together, as though the light was a glass of gin poured over the watercolour painting of the world. The clouds over the University glowed, twisted into fascinating and unexpected shapes, and streamed upwards.
An observer above the Disc would have seen a little patch of land near the Circle Sea sparkle like a jewel for several seconds, then wink out.
The silence of the room was broken by a wooden clatter as the staff dropped out of the air and bounced on the table.
Someone said “Ook", very faintly.
Cutangle eventually remembered how to use his hands and raised them to where he hoped his eyes would be. Everything had gone black.
“Is—anyone else there?” he said.
“Gods, you don’t know how glad I am to hear you say that,” said another voice. The silence was suddenly full of babble.
“Are we still where we were?”
“I don’t know. Where were we?”
“Here, I think.”
“Can you reach out?”
“Not unless I am quite certain about what I’m going to touch, my good man,” said the unmistakable voice of Granny Weatherwax.
“Everyone try and reach out,” said Cutangle, and choked down a scream as a hand like a warm leather glove closed around his ankle. There was a satisfied little “ook", which managed to convey relief, comfort and the sheer joy of touching a fellow human being or, in this case, anthropoid.
There was a scratch and then a blessed flare of red light as a wizard on the far side of the room lit a cigarette.
“Who did that?”
“Sorry, Archchancellor, force of habit.”
“Smoke all you like, that man.”
“Thank you, Archchancellor.”
“I think I can see the outline of the door now,” said another voice.
“Granny?”
“Yes, I can definitely see—”
“Esk?”
“I’m here, Granny.”
“Can I smoke too, sir?”
“Is the boy with you?”
“Yes.”
“Ook.”
“I’m here.”
“What’s happening?”
“Everyone stop talking!”
Ordinary light, slow and easy on the eye, sidled back into the Library.
Esk sat up, dislodging the staff. It rolled under the table. She felt something slip over her eyes, and reached up for it.
“Just a moment,” said Granny, darting forward. She gripped the girl’s shoulders and peered into her eyes.
“Welcome back,” she said, and kissed her.
Esk reached up and patted something hard on her head. She lifted it down to examine it.
It was a pointed hat, slightly smaller than Granny’s, but bright blue with a couple of silver stars painted on it.
“A wizard hat?” she said.
Cutangle stepped forward.
“Ah, yes,"he said, and cleared his throat: “You see, we thought—it seemed—anyway, when we considered it—”
“You’re a wizard,” said Granny, simply. “The Archchancellor changed the lore. Quite a simple ceremony, really.”
“There’s the staff somewhere about here,” said Cutangle. “I saw it fall down—oh.”
He stood up with the staff in his hand, and showed it to Granny.
“I thought it had carvings on,” he said. “This looks just like a stick.” And that was a fact. The staff looked as menacing and potent as a piece of kindling.
Esk turned the hat around in her hands, in the manner of one who, opening the proverbial brightly-wrapped package, finds bath salts.
“It’s very nice,” she said uncertainly.
“Is that all you can say?” said Granny.
“It’s pointed, too.” Somehow being a wizard didn’t feel any different from not being a wizard.
Simon leaned over.
“Remember,” he said, “you’ve got to have been a wizard. Then you can start looking on the other side. Like you said.”
Their eyes met, and they grinned.
Granny stared at Cutangle. He shrugged.
“Search me,” he said. “What’s happened to your stutter, boy?”
“Seems to have gone, sir,” said Simon brightly. “Must have left it behind, somewhere.”
The river was still brown and swollen but at least it resembled a river again.
It was unnaturally hot for late autumn, and across the whole of the lower part of Ankh-Morpork the steam rose from thousands of carpets and blankets put out to dry. The streets were filled with silt, which on the whole was an improvement—AnkhMorpork’s impressive civic collection of dead dogs had been washed out to sea.
The steam also rose from the flagstones of the Archchancellor’s personal verandah, and from the teapot on the table.
Granny lay back in an ancient cane chair and let the unseasonal warmth creep around her ankles. She idly watched a team of city ants, who had lived under the flagstones of the University for so long that the high levels of background magic had permanently altered their genes, anthandling a damp sugar lump down from the bowl on to a tiny trolley. Another group was erecting a matchstick gantry at the edge of the table.
Granny may or may not have been interested to learn that one of the ants was Drum Billet, who had finally decided to give Life another chance.
“They say,” she said, “that if you can find an ant on Hogswatch Day it will be very mild for the rest of the winter.”
“Who says that?” said Cutangle.
“Generally people who are wrong,” said Granny. “I makes a note in my Almanack, see. I checks. Most things most people believe are wrong.”
“Like `red sky at night, the city’s alight’,” said Cutangle. “And you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”
“I don’t think that’s what old dogs are for,” said Granny. The sugar lump had reached the gantry now, and a couple of ants were attaching it to a microscopic block and tackle.
“I can’t understand half the things Simon says,” said Cutangle, “although some of the students get very excited about it.
“I understand what Esk says all right, I just don’t believe it,” said Granny. “Except the bit about wizards needing a heart.”
“She said that witches need a head, too,” said Cutangle. “Would you like a scone? A bit damp, I’m afraid.”
“She told me that if magic gives people what they want, then not using magic can give them what they need,” said Granny, her hand hovering over the plate.
“So Simon tells me. I don’t understand it myself, magic’s for using, not storing up. Go on, spoil yourself.”
“Magic beyond magic,” snorted Granny. She took the scone and spread jam on it. After a pause she spread cream on it too.
The sugar lump crashed to the flagstones and was immediately surrounded by another team of ants, ready to harness it to a long line of red ants enslaved from the kitchen garden.
Cutangle shifted uneasily in his seat, which creaked.
“Esmerelda,” he began, “I’ve been meaning to ask—”
“No,” said Granny.
“Actually I was going to say that we think we might allow a few more girls into the University. On an experimental basis. Once we get the plumbing sorted out,” said Cutangle.
“That’s up to you, of course.”
“And, and, it occurred to me that since we seem destined to become a co-educational establishment, as it were, it seemed to me, that is—”
“Well?”
“If you might see your way clear to becoming, that is, whether you would accept a Chair.”
He sat back. The sugar lump passed under his chair on matchstick rollers, the squeaking of the slavedriver ants just at the edge of hearing.
“Hmm,” said Granny, “I don’t see why not. I’ve always wanted one of those big wicker ones, you know, with the sort of sunshade bit on the top. If that’s not too much trouble.”
“That isn’t exactly what I meant,” said Cutangle, adding quickly, “although I’m sure that could be arranged. No, I mean, would you come and lecture the students? Once in a while?”
“What on?”
Cutangle groped for a subject.
“Herbs?” he hazarded. “We’re not very good on herbs here. And headology. Esk told me a lot about headology. It sounds fascinating.”
The sugar lump disappeared through a crack in a nearby wall with a final jerk. Cutangle nodded towards it.
“They’re very heavy on the sugar,” he said, “but we haven’t got the heart to do anything about it.”
Granny frowned, and then nodded across the haze over the city to the distant glitter of the snow on the Ramtops.
“It’s a long way,” she said. “I can’t be keeping on going backwards and forwards at my time of life.”
“We could buy you a much better broomstick,” said Cutangle. “One you don’t have to bump start. And you, you could have a flat here. And all the old clothes you can carry,” he added, using the secret weapon. He had wisely invested in some conversation with Mrs Whitlow.
“Mmph,” said Granny, “Silk?”
“Black and red,” said Cutangle. An image of Granny in black and red silk trotted across his mind, and he bit heavily into his scone.
“And maybe we can bring some students out to your cottage in the summer,” Cutangle went on, “for extra-mural studies.”
“Who’s Extra Muriel?”
“I mean, there’s lots they can learn, I’m sure.”
Granny considered this. Certainly the privy needed a good seeing-to before the weather got too warm, and the goat shed was ripe for the mucking-out by spring. Digging over the Herb bed was a chore, too. The bedroom ceiling was a disgrace, and some of the tiles needed fixing.
“Practical things?” she said, thoughtfully.
“Absolutely,” said Cutangle.
“Mmph. Well, I’ll think about it,” said Granny, dimly aware that one should never go too far on a first date.
“Perhaps you would care to dine with me this evening and let me know?” said Cutangle, his eyes agleam.
“What’s to eat?”
“Cold meat and potatoes.” Mrs Whitlow had done her work well.
There was.
Esk and Simon went on to develop a whole new type of magic that no one could exactly understand but which nevertheless everyone considered very worthwhile and somehow comforting.
Perhaps more importantly, the ants used all the sugar lumps they could steal to build a small sugar pyramid in one of the hollow walls, in which, with great ceremony, they entombed the mummified body of a dead queen. On the wall of one tiny hidden chamber they inscribed, in insect hieroglyphs, the true secret of longevity.
They got it absolutely right and it would probably have important implications for the universe if it hadn’t, next time the University flooded, been completely washed away.