'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 round 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 any more.'
Spelter rapped on the table with his spoon.
He was an impressive figure, in his ceremonial robe with the purple-and-vermine[6] 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 phial 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 humour.
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 travelled back of their own accord; the great oak balks 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 towards 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 towards 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 towards 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 fisheye 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 centre 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 ploughed 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 towards 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 manoeuvring 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 offence, 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 co-operation 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 Spelter.
'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 any more, 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 towards 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 strongrooms. 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.[7] 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 labours 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, 'Id 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 et 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 orang-utan 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 on to 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. Shed 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 offence.
'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 round 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 realised 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.
'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 any more.'
Spelter rapped on the table with his spoon.
He was an impressive figure, in his ceremonial robe with the purple-and-vermine[6] 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 phial 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 humour.
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 travelled back of their own accord; the great oak balks 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 towards 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 towards 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 towards 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 fisheye 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 centre 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 ploughed 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 towards 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 manoeuvring 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 offence, 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 co-operation 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 Spelter.
'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 any more, 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 towards 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 strongrooms. 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.[7] 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 labours 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, 'Id 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 et 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 orang-utan 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 on to 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. Shed 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 offence.
'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 round 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 realised 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.