looking angrily at Rincewind.
The wizard stared wearily at Cohen.
‘I suppose so,’ he said.
‘But nothing’s happened.’
Rincewind looked blankly at the Octavo.
‘Maybe it has a subtle effect?’ he said hopefully. ‘After all, we don’t know exactly what is supposed to happen.’
‘We knew it!’ shouted one of the star people. ‘Magic doesn’t work! It’s all illusion!’
A stone looped over the roof and hit Rincewind on the shoulder.
‘Yeah,’ said another star person. ‘Let’s get him!’
‘Let’s throw him off the tower!’
‘Yeah, let’s get him
The crowd surged forward. Twoflower held up his hands.
‘I’m sure there’s just been a slight mistake—’ he began, before his legs were kicked from underneath him.
‘Oh bugger,’ said Cohen, dropping his dogend and grinding it under a sandalled foot. He drew his sword and looked around for the Luggage.
It hadn’t rushed to Twoflower’s aid. It was standing in front of Rincewind, who was clutching the Octavo to his chest like a hot-water bottle and looking frantic.
A star man lunged at him. The Luggage raised its lid threateningly.
‘I know why it hasn’t worked,’ said a voice from the back of the crowd. It was Bethan.
‘Oh yeah?’ said the nearest citizen. ‘And why should we listen to you?’
A mere fraction of a second later Cohen’s sword was pressed against his neck.
‘On the other hand,’ said the man evenly, ‘perhaps we should pay attention to what this young lady has got to say.’
As Cohen swung around slowly with his sword at the ready Bethan stepped forward and pointed to the swirling shapes of the spells, which still hung in the air around Rincewind.
‘That one can’t be right,’ she said, indicating a smudge of dirty brown amidst the pulsing, brightly coloured flares.
You must have mispronounced a word. ‘Let’s have a look.’
Rincewind passed her the Octavo without a word.
She opened it and peered the pages.
‘What funny writing,’ she said. ‘It keeps changing. What’s that crocodile thing doing to the octopus?’
Rincewind looked over her shoulder and, without thinking, told her. She was silent for a moment.
‘Oh,’ she said levelly. ‘I didn’t know crocodiles could do that.’
‘It’s just ancient picture writing,’ said Rincewind hurriedly. ‘It’ll change if you wait. The Spells can appear in every known language.’
‘Can you remember what you said when the wrong colour appeared?’
Rincewind ran a finger down the page.
‘There, I think. Where the two-headed lizard is doing—whatever it’s doing.’
Twoflower appeared at her other shoulder. The Spell flowed into another script.
‘I can’t even pronounce it,’ said Bethan. ‘Squiggle, squiggle, dot, dash.’
‘That’s Cupumuguk snow runes,’ said Rincewind. ‘I think it should be pronounced “zph”.’
‘It didn’t work, though. How about “sph”?’
They looked at the word. It remained resolutely off-colour.
‘Or “sff”?’ said Bethan.
‘It might be “tsff”,’ said Rincewind doubtfully. If anything the colour became a dirtier shade of brown.
‘How about “zsff”?’ said Twoflower.
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Rincewind. ‘With snow runes the—’
Bethan elbowed him in the stomach and pointed.
The brown shape in the air was now a brilliant red.
The book trembled in her hands. Rincewind grabbed her around the waist, snatched Twoflower by the collar, and jumped backwards.
Bethan lost her grip on the Octavo, which tumbled towards the floor. And didn’t reach it.
The air around the Octavo glowed. It rose slowly, flapping its pages like wings.
Then there was a plangent, sweet twanging noise and it seemed to explode in a complicated silent flower of light which rushed outwards, faded, and was gone.
But something was happening much further up in the sky…
Down in the geological depths of Great A’Tuin’s huge brain new thoughts surged along neural pathways the size of arterial roads. It was impossible for a sky turtle to change its expression, but in some indefinable way its scaly, meteor-pocked face looked quite expectant.
It was staring fixedly at the eight spheres endlessly orbiting around the star, on the very beaches of space.
The spheres were cracking.
Huge segments of rock broke away and began the long spiral down to the star. The sky filled with glittering shards.
From the wreckage of one hollow shell a very small sky turtle paddled its way into the red light. It was barely bigger than an asteroid, its shell still shiny with molten yolk.
There were four small world-elephant calves on there, too. And on their backs was a discworld, tiny as yet, covered in smoke and volcanoes.
Great A’Tuin waited until all eight baby turtles had freed themselves from their shells and were treading space and looking bewildered. Then, carefully, so as not to dislodge anything, the old turtle turned and with considerable relief set out on the long swim to the blessedly cool, bottomless depths of space.
The young turtles followed, orbiting their parent.{30}
Twoflower stared raptly at the display overhead. He probably had the best view of anyone on the Disc.
Then a terrible thought occurred to him.
‘Where’s the picture box?’ he asked urgently.
‘What?’ said Rincewind, eyes fixed on the sky.
‘The picture box,’ said Twoflower. ‘I must get a picture of this!’
‘Can’t you just remember it?’ said Bethan, not looking at him.
‘I might forget.’
‘
‘Much better than pigeons and billiard balls,’ agreed Cohen. ‘I’ll give you that, Rincewind. How’s it done?’
‘I dunno,’ said Rincewind.
‘The star’s getting smaller,’ said Bethan.
Rincewind was vaguely aware of Twoflower’s voice arguing with the demon who lived in the box and painted the pictures. It was quite a technical argument, about field depths and whether or not the demon still had enough red paint.
It should be pointed out that currently Great A’Tuin was very pleased and contented, and feelings like that in a brain the size of several large cities are bound to radiate out. In fact most people on the Disc were currently in a state of mind normally achievable only by a lifetime of dedicated meditation or about thirty seconds of illegal herbage.
That’s old Twoflower, Rincewind thought. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate beauty, he just appreciates it in his own way. I mean, if a poet sees a daffodil he stares at it and writes a long poem about it, but Twoflower wanders off to find a book on botany. And treads on it. It’s right what Cohen said. He just looks at things, but
