‘Oh.’
‘I told him there was no demand for it!’
‘After making the sucking noise?’
‘Yes. I probably grinned, too.’
‘Oh, dear. You didn’t call him squire, did you?’
‘I–I may have done.’
‘Um.’
‘There’s more.’
‘Surely not?’
‘Yes, I said I could order it and he could come back next day.’
‘That doesn’t sound too bad,’ said Twoflower, who alone of all the people in the multiverse allowed shops to order things for him and didn’t object at all to paying quite large sums of money to reimburse the shopkeeper for the inconvenience of having a bit of stock in his store often for several hours.
‘It was early closing day,’ said the shopkeeper.
‘Oh.’
‘Yes, and I heard him rattling the doorhandle, I had this sign on the door, you know, it said something like “Closed even for the sale of Necromancer cigarettes,” anyway, I heard him banging and I laughed.’
‘You laughed?’
‘Yes. Like this. Hnufhnufhnufblort.’
‘Probably not a wise thing to do,’ said Twoflower, shaking his head.
‘I know, I know. My father always said, he said, Do not peddle in the affairs of wizards…{29} Anyway, I heard him shouting something about never closing
‘And you’ve wandered like this ever since?’
‘Yes. I suppose one day I might find the sorcerer and perhaps the thing he wanted will be in stock. Until then I must go from place to place—’
‘That was a terrible thing to do,’ said Twoflower.
The shopkeeper wiped his nose on his apron. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘Even so, he shouldn’t have cursed you quite so badly,’ Twoflower added.
‘Oh. Yes, well.’ The shopkeeper straightened his apron and made a brave little attempt to pull himself together. ‘Anyway, this isn’t getting you to Ankh-Morpork, is it?’
‘Funny thing is,’ said Twoflower, ‘that I bought my Luggage in a shop like this, once. Another shop, I mean.’
‘Oh yes, there’s several of us,’ said the shopkeeper, turning back to the table, ‘that sorcerer was a very impatient man, I understand.’
‘Endlessly roaming through the universe,’ mused Twoflower.
‘That’s right. Mind you, there is a saving on the rates.’
‘Rates?’
‘Yes, they’re—’ the shopkeeper paused, and wrinkled his forehead. ‘I can’t quite remember, it was such a long time ago. Rates, rates—’
‘Very large mice?’
‘That’s probably it.’
‘Hold on—it’s thinking about something,’ said Cohen.
Lackjaw looked up wearily. It had been quite nice, sitting here in the shade. He had just worked out that in trying to escape from a city of crazed madmen he had appeared to have allowed one mad man to give him his full attention. He wondered whether he would live to regret this.
He earnestly hoped so.
‘Oh yes, it’s definitely thinking,’ he said bitterly. ‘Anyone can see that.’
‘I think it’s found them.’
‘Oh, good.’
‘Hold onto it.’
‘Are you mad?’ said Lackjaw.
‘I know this thing, trust me. Anyway, would you rather be left with all these star people? They might be interested in having a talk with you.’
Cohen sidled over to the Luggage, and then flung himself astride it. It took no notice.
‘Hurry up,’ he said. ‘I think it’s going to go.’
Lackjaw shrugged, and climbed on gingerly behind Cohen.
‘Oh?’ he said, ‘and how does it g—’
Ankh-Morpork!
Pearl of cities!
This is not a completely accurate description, of course—it was not round and shiny—but even its worst enemies would agree that if you had to liken Ankh-Morpork to anything, then it might as well be a piece of rubbish covered with the diseased secretions of a dying mollusc.
There have been bigger cities. There have been richer cities. There have certainly been prettier cities. But no city in the multiverse could rival Ankh-Morpork for its smell.
The Ancient Ones, who know everything about all the universes and have smelt the smells of Calcutta and ! Xrc-! and dauntocum Marsport, have agreed that even these fine examples of nasal poetry are mere limericks when set against the glory of the Ankh-Morpork smell.
You can talk about ramps. You can talk about garlic. You can talk about France. Go on. But if you haven’t smelled Ankh-Morpork on a hot day you haven’t smelled anything.
The citizens are proud of it. They carry chairs outside to enjoy it on a really good day. They puff out their cheeks and slap their chests and comment cheerfully on its little distinctive nuances. They have even put up a statue to it, to commemorate the time when the troops of a rival state tried to invade by stealth one dark night and managed to get to the top of the walls before, to their horror, their nose plugs gave out. Rich merchants who have spent many years abroad sent back home for specially-stoppered and sealed bottles of the stuff, which brings tears to their eyes.
It has that kind of effect.
There is only really one way to describe the effect the smell of Ankh-Morpork has on the visiting nose, and that is by analogy.
Take a tartan. Sprinkle it with confetti. Light it with strobe lights.
Now take a chameleon.
Put the chameleon on the tartan.
Watch it closely.
See?
Which explains why, when the shop finally materialised in Ankh-Morpork, Rincewind sat bolt upright and said ‘We’re here,’ Bethan went pale and Twoflower, who had no sense of smell, said, ‘Really? How can you tell?’
It had been a long afternoon. They had broken into realspace in a number of walls in a variety of cities because, according to the shopkeeper, the Disc’s magical field was playing up and upsetting everything.
All the cities were empty of most of their citizens and belonged to roaming gangs of crazed left-ear people.
‘Where do they all come from?’ said Twoflower, as they fled yet another mob.
‘Inside every sane person there’s a madman struggling to get out,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘That’s what I’ve always thought. No one goes mad quicker than a totally sane person.’
‘That doesn’t make sense,’ said Bethan, ‘or if it makes sense, I don’t like it.’.
The star was bigger than the sun. There would be no night tonight. On the opposite horizon the Disc’s own sunlet was doing its best to set normally, but the general effect of all that red light was to make the city, never
