Sourcery

The Patrician sighed, and laid the latest report on top of the large heap beside the chair.

When he had been a little boy he had seen a showman who could keep a dozen plates spinning in the air. If the man had been capable of working the same trick with a hundred of them, Lord Vetinari considered, he would just about begin to be ready for training in the art of ruling Ankh-Morpork, a city once described as resembling an overturned termite heap without the charm.

He glanced out of the window at the distant pillar of the Tower of Art, the centre of Unseen University, and wondered vaguely whether any of those tiresome old fools could come up with a better way of collating all this paperwork. They wouldn't, of course — you couldn't expect a wizard to understand anything as basic as elementary civic espionage.

He sighed again, and picked up the transcript of what the president of the Thieves' Guild had said to his deputy at midnight in the soundproof room hidden behind the office in the Guild headquarters, and ...

Was in the Great Ha ...

Was not in the Great Hall of Unseen University, where he had spent some interminable dinners, but there were a lot of wizards around him and they were ...

... different.

Like Death, which some of the city's less fortunate citizens considered he intimately resembled, the Patrician never got angry until he had time to think about it. But sometimes he thought very quickly.

He stared around at the assembled wizards, but there was something about them that choked the words of outrage in his throat. They looked like sheep who had suddenly found a trapped wolf at exactly the same time as they heard about the idea of unity being strength.

There was something about their eyes.

'What is the meaning of this outr-’ he hesitated, and concluded, 'this? A merry Small Gods' Day prank, is it?'

His eyes swivelled to meet those of a small boy holding a long metal staff. The child was smiling the oldest smile the Patrician had ever seen.

Carding coughed.

'My lord,' he began.

'Out with it, man,' snapped Lord Vetinari.

Carding had been diffident, but the Patrician's tone was just that tiny bit too peremptory. The wizard's knuckles went white.

'I am a wizard of the eighth level,' he said quietly, 'and you will not use that tone to me.'

'Well said,' said Coin.

`Take him to the dungeons,' said Carding.

'We haven't got any dungeons,' said Spelter. 'This is a university.'

'Then take him to the wine cellars,' snapped Carding. 'And while you're down there, build some dungeons.'

'Have you the faintest inkling of what you are doing?' said the-Patrician. 'I demand to know the meaning of this-’

'You demand nothing at all,' said Carding. 'And the meaning is that from now on the wizards will rule, as it was ordained. Now take-’

'You? Rule Ankh-Morpork? Wizards who can barely govern themselves?'

'Yes!' Carding was aware that this wasn't the last word in repartee, and was even more alive to the fact that the dog Wuffles, who had been teleported along with his master, had waddled painfully across the floor and was peering short-sightedly at the wizard's boots.

'Then all truly wise men would prefer the safety of a nice deep dungeon,' said the Patrician.