‘Well?’ said Rincewind sternly, and stared hard at him. Twoflower broke first.
‘Nothing,’ he said meekly. ‘I must have been misinformed.’
‘Right.’
‘But there’s some big mushrooms under it. Can you eat them?’
Rincewind looked at them cautiously. They were, indeed, very big, and had red and white spotted caps. They were in fact a variety that the local shaman (who at this point was some miles away, making friends with a rock) would only eat after first attaching one leg to a large stone with a rope. There was nothing for it but to go out in the rain and look at them.
He knelt down in the leafmould and peered under the cap. After a while he said weakly, ‘No, no good to eat at all.’
‘Why?’ called Twoflower. ‘Are the gills the wrong shade of yellow?’
‘No, not really…’
‘I expect the stems haven’t got the right kind of fluting, then.’
‘They look okay, actually.’
‘The cap, then, I expect the cap is the wrong colour,’ said Twoflower.
‘Not sure about that.’
‘Well then, why can’t you eat them?’
Rincewind coughed. ‘It’s the little doors and windows,’ he said wretchedly. ‘It’s a dead giveaway.’
Thunder rolled across Unseen University. Rain poured over its roofs and gurgled out of its gargoyles, although one or two of the more cunning ones had scuttled off to shelter among the maze of tiles.
Far below, in the Great Hall, the eight most powerful wizards on the Discworld gathered at the angles of a ceremonial octogram. Actually they probably weren’t the most powerful, if the truth were known, but they certainly had great powers of survival which, in the highly competitive world of magic, was pretty much the same thing. Behind every wizard of the eighth rank were half a dozen seventh rank wizards trying to bump him off, and senior wizards had to develop an inquiring attitude to, for example, scorpions in their bed. An ancient proverb summed it up: when a wizard is tired of looking for broken glass in his dinner, it ran, he is tired of life.{9}
The oldest wizard, Greyhald Spold of the Ancient and Truly Original Sages of the Unbroken Circle, leaned heavily on his carven staff and spake thusly:
‘Get on with it, Weatherwax, my feet are giving me gyp.’
Galder, who had merely paused for effect, glared at him.
‘Very well, then, I will be brief—’
‘Jolly good.’
‘We all sought guidance as to the events of this morning. Can anyone among us say he received it?’
The wizards looked sidelong at one another. Nowhere outside a trades union conference fraternal benefit night can so much mutual distrust and suspicion be found as among a gathering of senior enchanters. But the plain fact was that the day had gone very badly. Normally informative demons, summoned abruptly from the Dungeon Dimensions, had looked sheepish and sidled away when questioned. Magic mirrors had cracked. Tarot cards had mysteriously become blank. Crystal balls had gone all cloudy. Even tealeaves, normally scorned by wizards as frivolous and unworthy of contemplation, had clustered together at the bottom of cups and refused to move.
In short, the assembled wizards were at a loss. There was a general murmur of agreement.
‘And therefore I propose that we perform the Rite of AshkEnte,’ said Galder dramatically.
He had to admit that he had hoped for a better response, something on the lines of, well, ‘No, not the Rite of AshkEnte! Man was not meant to meddle with such things!’
In fact there was a general mutter of approval.
‘Good idea.’
‘Seems reasonable.’
‘Get on with it, then.’
Slightly put out, he summoned a procession of lesser wizards who carried various magical implements into the hall.
It has already been hinted that around this time there was some disagreement among the fraternity of wizards about how to practise magic.
Younger wizards in particular went about saying that it was time that magic started to update its image and that they should all stop mucking about with bits of wax and bone and put the whole thing on a properly-organised basis, with research programmes and three-day conventions in good hotels where they could read papers with titles like ‘Whither Geomancy?’ and ‘The role of Seven-League Boots in a caring society.’
Trymon, for example, hardly ever did any magic these days but ran the Order with hourglass efficiency and wrote lots of memos and had a big chart on his office wall, covered with coloured blobs and flags and lines that no-one else really understood but which looked very impressive.
The other type of wizard thought all this was so much marsh gas and wouldn’t have anything to do with an image unless it was made of wax and had pins stuck in it.
The heads of the eight orders were all of this persuasion, traditionalists to a mage, and the utensils that were heaped around the octogram had a definite, no-nonsense occult look about them. Rams horns, skulls, baroque metalwork and heavy candles were much in evidence, despite the discovery by younger wizards that the Rite of AshkEnte could perfectly well be performed with three small bits of wood and 4 cc of mouse blood.
The preparations normally took several hours, but the combined powers of the senior wizards shortened it considerably and, after a mere forty minutes, Galder chanted the final words of the spell. They hung in front of him for a moment before dissolving.
The air in the centre of the octogram shimmered and thickened, and suddenly contained a tall, dark figure.
Most of it was hidden by a black robe and hood and this was probably just as well. It held a long scythe in one hand and one couldn’t help noticing that what should have been fingers were simply white bone.
The other skeletal hand held small cubes of cheese and pineapple on a stick.
WELL? said Death, in a voice with all the warmth and colour of an iceberg. He caught the wizards’ gaze, and glanced down at the stick.
I WAS AT A PARTY, he added, a shade reproachfully.{10}
‘O Creature of Earth and Darkness, we do charge thee to abjure from—’ began Galder in a firm, commanding voice. Death nodded.
YES, YES, I KNOW ALL THAT, he said. WHY HAVE YOU SUMMONED ME?
‘It is said that you can see both the past and future,’ said Galder a little sulkily, because the big speech of binding and conjuration was one he rather liked and people had said he was very good at it.
THAT IS ABSOLUTELY CORRECT.
‘Then perhaps you can tell us what exactly it was that happened this morning?’ said Galder. He pulled himself together, and added loudly, ‘I command this by Azimrothe, by T’chikel, by—’
ALL RIGHT, YOU’VE MADE YOUR POINT, said Death. WHAT PRECISELY WAS IT YOU WISHED TO KNOW? QUITE A LOT OF THINGS HAPPENED THIS MORNING, PEOPLE WERE BORN, PEOPLE DIED, ALL THE TREES GREW A BIT TALLER, RIPPLES MADE INTERESTING PATTERNS ON THE SEA—
‘I mean about the Octavo,’ said Galder coldly.
THAT? OH, THAT WAS JUST A READJUSTMENT OF REALITY. I UNDERSTAND THE OCTAVO WAS ANXIOUS NOT TO LOSE THE EIGHTH SPELL. IT WAS DROPPING OFF THE DISC, APPARENTLY.
‘Hold on, hold on,’ said Galder. He scratched his chin. ‘Are we talking about the one inside the head of Rincewind? Tall thin man, bit scraggy? The one—’
— THAT HE HAS BEEN CARRYING AROUND ALL THESE YEARS, YES.
Galder frowned. It seemed a lot of trouble to go to. Everyone knew that when a wizard died all the spells in his head would go free, so why bother to save Rincewind? The spell would just float back eventually.
‘Any idea why?’ he said without thinking and then, remembering himself in time, added hastily, ‘By Yrriph and Kcharla I do abjure thee and—’
I WISH YOU WOULDN’T KEEP DOING THAT, said Death, ALL THAT I KNOW IS THAT ALL THE SPELLS HAVE
