Equal Rites

“You’ll get tired,” it continued. “We can wait. We’re very good at waiting.”

It made a feint to the left, but Esk swung around to face it.

“That doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’m only dreaming this, and you can’t get hurt in dreams.”

The Thing paused, and looked at her with its empty eyes.

“Have you got a word in your world, I think it’s called ‘psychosomatic’?”

“Never heard of it,” snapped Esk.

“It means you can get hurt in your dreams. And what is so interesting is that if you die in your dreams you stay here. That would be niiiiice.”

Esk glanced sideways at the distant mountains, sprawled on the chilly horizon like melted mud pies. There were no trees, not even any rocks. Just sand and cold stars and—

She felt the movement rather than heard it and turned with the pyramid held between her hands like a club. It hit the Simon-thing in midleap with a satisfying thump, but as soon as it hit the ground it somersaulted forward and bounced upright with unpleasant ease. But it had heard her gasp and had seen the brief pain in her eyes. It paused.

“Ah, that hurt you, did it not? You don’t like to see another one suffer, yes? Not this one, it seems.”

It turned and beckoned, and two of the tall Things lurched over to it and gripped it firmly by the arms.

Its eyes changed. The darkness faded, and then Simon’s own eyes looked out of his face. He stared up at the Things on either side of him and struggled briefly, but one had several pairs of tentacles wrapped around his wrist and the other was holding his arm in the world’s largest lobster claw.

Then he saw Esk, and his eyes fell to the little glass pyramid.

“Run away!” he hissed. “Take it away from here! Don’t let them get it!” He grimaced as the claw tightened on his arm.

“Is this a trick?” said Esk. “Who are you really?”

“Don’t you recognise me?” he said wretchedly. “What are you doing in my dream?”

“If this is a dream then I’d like to wake up, please,” said Esk.

“Listen. You must run away now, do you understand? Don’t stand there with your mouth open.”

GIVE IT TO US, said a cold voice inside Esk’s head.

Esk looked down at the glass pyramid with its unconcerned little world and stared up at Simon, her mouth an O of puzzlement.

“But what is it?”

“Look hard at it!”

Esk peered through the glass. If she squinted it seemed that the little Disc was granular, as if it was made up of millions of tiny specks. If she looked hard at the specks—

“It’s just numbers!” she said. “The whole world—it’s all made up of numbers…”

“It’s not the world, it’s an idea of the world,” said Simon. “I created it for them. They can’t get through to us, do you see, but ideas have got a shape here. Ideas are real!”

GIVE IT TO US.

“But ideas can’t hurt anyone!”

“I turned things into numbers to understand them, but they just want to control,” Simon said bitterly. “They burrowed into my numbers like—”

He screamed.

GIVE IT TO US OR WE WILL TAKE HIM TO BITS.

Esk looked up at the nearest nightmare face.

“How do I know I can trust you?” she said.

YOU CAN’T TRUST US. BUT YOU HAVE NO CHOICE.

Esk looked at the ring of faces that not even a necrophile could love, faces put together from a fishmonger’s midden, faces picked randomly from things that lurked in deep ocean holes and haunted caves, faces that were not human enough to gloat or leer but had all the menace of a suspiciously V-shaped ripple near an incautious bather.

She couldn’t trust them. But she had no choice.

* * *

Something else was happening, in a place as far away as the thickness of a shadow.

The student wizards had run back to the Great Hall, where Cutangle and Granny Weatherwax were still locked in the magical equivalent of Indian arm wrestling. The flagstones under Granny were half-melted and cracked and the table behind Cutangle had taken root and already bore a rich crop of acorns.

One of the students had earned several awards for bravery by daring to tug at Cutangle’s cloak…

And now they were crowded into the narrow room, looking at the two bodies.

Cutangle summoned doctors of the body and doctors of the mind, and the room buzzed with magic as they got to work.

Granny tapped him on the shoulder.

“A word in your ear, young man,” she said.

“Hardly young, madam,” sighed Cutangle, “hardly young.” He felt drained. It had been decades since he’d duelled in magic, although it was common enough among students. He had a nasty feeling that Granny would have won eventually. Fighting her was like swatting a fly on your own nose. He couldn’t think what had come over him to try it.

Granny led him out into the passage and around the corner to a window seat. She sat down, leaning her broomstick against the wall. Rain drummed heavily on the roofs outside, and a few zigzags of lightning indicated a storm of Ramtop proportions approaching the city.

“That was quite an impressive display,” she said: “You nearly won once or twice there.”

“Oh,” said Cutangle, brightening up. “Do you really think so?”

Granny nodded.

Cutangle patted at various bits of his robe until he located a tarry bag of tobacco and a roll of paper. His hands shook as he fumbled a few shreds of secondhand pipeweed into a skinny homemade. He ran the wretched thing across his tongue, and barely moistened it. Then a dim remembrance of propriety welled up in the back of his mind.

“Um,” he said, “do you mind if I smoke?”

Granny shrugged. Cutangle struck a match on the wall and tried desperately to navigate the flame and the cigarette into approximately the same position. Granny gently took the match from his trembling hand and lit it for him.

Cutangle sucked on the tobacco, had a ritual cough and settled back, the glowing end of the rollup the only light in the dim corridor.

“They’ve gone Wandering,” said Granny at last.

“I know,” said Cutangle.

“Your wizards won’t be able to get them back.”

“I know that, too.”

“They might get something back, though.”

“I wish you hadn’t said that.”

There was a pause while they contemplated what might come back, inhabiting living bodies, acting almost like the original inhabitants.

“It’s probably my fault—” they said in unison, and stopped in astonishment.

“You first, madam,” said Cutangle.

“Them cigaretty things,” asked Granny, “are they good for the nerves?”

Cutangle opened his mouth to point out very courteously that tobacco was a habit reserved for wizards, but thought better of it. He extended the tobacco pouch towards Granny.

She told him about Esk’s birth, and the coming of the old wizard, and the staff, and Esk’s forays into magic. By the time she had finished she had succeeded in rolling a tight, thin cylinder that burned with a small blue flame and made her eyes water.

“I don’t know that shaky nerves wouldn’t be better,” she wheezed.

Cutangle wasn’t listening.