‘Just a piece of junk, I’m afraid,’ said Trymon, treating him to a fleeting smile. ‘I’m sure real wizards don’t really need that sort of thing, now if I may draw your attention to the business of the day—’
‘What’s this paper?’ said Jiglad Wert, of the Hoodwinkers, waving the document that had been left in front of him, and waving it all the more forcefully because his own chair, back in his cluttered and comfortable tower, was if anything more ornate than Galder’s had been.
‘It’s an agenda, Jiglad,’ said Trymon, patiently.
‘And what does a gender do?’
‘It’s just a list of the things we’ve got to discuss. It’s very simple, I’m sorry if you feel that—’
‘We’ve never needed one before!’
‘I think perhaps you have needed one, you just haven’t used one,’ said Trymon, his voice resonant with reasonableness.
Wert hesitated. ‘Well, all right,’ he said sullenly, looking around the table for support, ‘but what’s this here where it says—’ he peered closely at the writing. ‘—"Successor to Greyhald Spold”. It’s going to be old Rhunlet Vard, isn’t it? He’s been waiting for years.’
‘Yes, but is he sound?’ said Trymon.
‘What?’
‘I’m sure we all realise the importance of proper leadership,’ said Trymon. ‘Now, Vard is—well, worthy, of course, in his way, but—’
‘It’s not our business,’ said one of the other wizards.
‘No, but it could be,’ said Trymon.
There was silence.
‘Interfere with the affairs of another order?’ said Wert.
‘Of course not,’ said Trymon. ‘I merely suggest that we could offer… advice. But let us discuss this later…’
The wizards had never heard of the words ‘power base’, otherwise Trymon would never have been able to get away with all this. But the plain fact was that helping others to achieve power, even to strengthen your own hand, was quite alien to them. As far as they were concerned, every wizard stood alone. Never mind about hostile paranormal entities, an ambitious wizard had quite enough to do fighting his enemies in his own Order.
‘I think we should now consider the matter of Rincewind,’ said Trymon.
‘And the star,’ said Wert. ‘People are noticing, you know.’
‘Yes, they say we should be doing something,’ said Lumuel Panter, of the Order of Midnight. ‘What, I should like to know?’
‘Oh, that’s easy,’ said Wert. ‘They say we should read the Octavo. That’s what they always say. Crops bad? Read the Octavo. Cows ill? Read the Octavo. The Spells will make everything all right.’
‘There could be something in that,’ said Trymon. ‘My, er, late predecessor made quite a study of the Octavo.’
‘We all have,’ said Panter, sharply, ‘but what’s the use? The Eight Spells have to work together. Oh, I agree, if all else fails maybe we should risk it, but the Eight have to be said together or not at all—and one of them is inside this Rincewind’s head.’
‘And we cannot find him,’ said Trymon. ‘That is the case, isn’t it? I’m sure we’ve all tried, privately.’
The wizards looked at one another, embarrassed. Eventually Wert said. ‘Yes. All right. Cards on the table. I can’t seem to locate him.’
‘I’ve tried scrying,’ said another. ‘Nothing.’
‘I’ve sent familiars,’ said a third. The others sat up. If confessing failure was the order of the day, then they were damn well going to make it clear that they had failed heroically.
‘Is that all? I’ve sent demons.’
‘I’ve looked into the Mirror of Oversight.’
‘Last night I sought him out in the Runes of M’haw.’
‘I’d like to make it clear that I tried both the Runes and the Mirror and the entrails of a manicreach.’
‘I’ve spoken to the beasts of the field and the birds of the Air.’
‘Any good?’
‘Nah.’
‘Well, I’ve questioned the very bones of the country, yea, and the deep stones and the mountains thereof.’
There was a sudden chilly silence. Everyone looked at the wizard who had spoken. It was Ganmack Treehallet, of the Venerable Seers, who shifted uneasily in his seat.
‘Yes, with bells on, I expect,’ said someone.
‘I never said they answered, did I?’
Trymon looked along the table.
‘I’ve sent someone to find him,’ he said.
Wert snorted. ‘That didn’t work out so well the last two times, did it?’
‘That was because we relied on magic, but it is obvious that Rincewind is somehow hidden from magic. But he can’t hide his footprints.’
‘You’ve set a tracker?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’
‘A hero?’ Wert managed to pack a lot of meaning into the one word. In such a tone of voice, in another universe, would a Southerner say ‘damnyankee’.
The wizards looked at Trymon, open-mouthed.
‘Yes,’ he said calmly.
‘On whose authority?’ demanded Wert. Trymon turned his grey eyes on him.
‘Mine. I needed no other.’
‘It’s—it’s highly irregular! Since when have wizards needed to hire heroes to do their work for them?’
‘Ever since wizards found their magic wouldn’t work,’ said Trymon.
‘A temporary setback, nothing more.’
Trymon shrugged. ‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘but we haven’t the time to find out. Prove me wrong. Find Rincewind by scrying or talking to birds. But as for me, I know I’m meant to be wise. And wise men do what the times demand.’
It is a well-known fact that warriors and wizards do not get along, because one side considers the other side to be a collection of bloodthirsty idiots who can’t walk and think at the same time, while the other side is naturally suspicious of a body of men who mumble a lot and wear long dresses. Oh, say the wizards, if we’re going to be like that, then, what about all those studded collars and oiled muscles down at the Young Men’s Pagan Association?{23} To which the heroes reply, that’s a pretty good allegation coming from a bunch of wimpsoes who won’t go near a woman on account, can you believe it, of their mystical power being sort of drained out. Right, say the wizards, that just about does it, you and your leather posing pouches. Oh yeah, say the heroes, why don’t you…
And so on. This sort of thing has been going on for centuries, and caused a number of major battles which have left large tracts of land uninhabitable because of magical harmonics.
In fact, the hero even at this moment galloping towards the Vortex Plains didn’t get involved in this kind of argument, because they didn’t take it seriously mainly because this particular hero was a heroine. A redheaded one.
Now, there is a tendency at a point like this to look over one’s shoulder at the cover artist and start going on at length about leather, thighboots and naked blades.
Words like ‘full’, ‘round’ and even ‘pert’ creep into the narrative, until the writer has to go and have a cold shower and a lie down.
Which is all rather silly, because any woman setting out to make a living by the sword isn’t about to go around looking like something off the cover of the more advanced kind of lingerie catalogue for the specialised buyer.
Oh well, all right. The point that must be made is that although Herrena the Henna-Haired Harridan would look quite stunning after a good bath, a heavy-duty manicure, and the pick of the leather racks in Woo Hun Ling’s Oriental Exotica and Martial Aids on Heroes Street, she was currently quite sensibly dressed in light chain mail, soft boots, and a short sword.
All right, maybe the boots were leather. But not black.
Riding with her were a number of swarthy men that will certainly be killed before too long anyway, so a description is probably not essential. There was absolutely nothing pert about any of them.
Look, they can wear leather if you like.
Herrena wasn’t too happy about them, but they were all that was available for hire in Morpork. Many of the citizens were moving out and heading for the hills, out of fear of the new star.
But Herrena was heading for the hills for a different reason. Just turnwise and rimwards of the Plains were the bare Trollbone Mountains. Herrena, who had for many years availed herself of the uniquely equal opportunities available to any woman who could make a sword sing, was trusting to her instincts.
This Rincewind, as Trymon had described him, was a rat, and rats like cover. Anyway, the mountains were a long way from Trymon and, for all that he was currently her employer, Herrena was very happy about that. There was something about his manner that made her fists itch.
* * *
Rincewind knew he ought to be panicking, but that was difficult because, although he wasn’t aware of it, emotions like panic and terror and anger are all to do with stuff sloshing around in glands and all Rincewind’s glands were still in his body.
It was difficult to be certain where his real body was, but when he looked down he could see a fine blue line trailing from what for the sake of sanity he would still call his ankle into the blackness around him, and it seemed reasonable to assume that his body was on the other end.
It was not a particularly good body, he’d be the first to admit, but one or two bits of it had sentimental value and it dawned on him that if the little blue line snapped he’d have to spend the rest of his li—his existence hanging around ouija boards pretending to be people’s dead aunties and all the other things lost souls do to pass the time.
The sheer horror of this so appalled him he hardly felt his feet touch the ground. Some ground, anyway; he decided that it almost certainly wasn’t the ground, which as far as he could remember wasn’t black and didn’t swirl in such a disconcerting way.
He took a look around.
Sheer sharp mountains speared up around him into a frosty sky hung with cruel stars, stars which appeared on no celestial chart in the multiverse, but right in there amongst them was a malevolent red disc. Rincewind shivered, and looked away. The land ahead of him sloped down sharply, and a dry wind whispered across the frost-cracked rocks.
It really did whisper. As grey eddies caught at his robe and tugged at his hair Rincewind thought he could hear voices, faint and far off, saying things like ‘Are you sure those were mushrooms in the stew? I feel a bit—,’ and ‘There’s a lovely view if you lean over this—,’ and ‘Don’t fuss, it’s only a scratch—,’ and ‘Watch where you’re pointing that bow, you nearly—’ and so on.
He stumbled down the slope, with his fingers in his ears, until he saw a sight seen by very few living men.
The ground dipped sharply until it became a vast funnel, fully a mile across, into which the whispering wind of the souls of the dead blew with a vast, echoing susurration, as though the Disc itself was breathing. But a narrow spur of rock arched out and over the hole, ending in an outcrop perhaps a hundred feet across.
There was a garden up there, with orchards and flowerbeds, and a quite small black cottage.
A little path led up to it.
Rincewind looked behind him. The shiny blue line was still there.
So was the Luggage.
It squatted on the path, watching him.
Rincewind had never got on with the Luggage, it had always given him the impression that it thoroughly disapproved of him. But just for once it wasn’t glaring at him. It had a rather pathetic look, like a dog that’s just come home after a pleasant roll in the cowpats to find that the family has moved to the next continent.
‘All right,’ said Rincewind. ‘Come on.’
It extended its legs and followed him up the path.
Somehow Rincewind had expected the garden on the outcrop to be full of dead flowers, but it was in fact well kept and had obviously been planted by someone with an eye for colour, always provided the colour was deep purple, night black or shroud white. Huge lilies perfumed the air. There was a sundial without a gnomon in the middle of a freshly-scythed lawn.
With the Luggage trailing behind him Rincewind crept along a path of marble chippings until he was at the rear of the cottage, and pushed open a door.
Four horses looked at him over the top of their nosebags. They were warm and alive, and some of the best kept beasts Rincewind had ever seen. A big white one had a stall all to itself, and a silver and black harness hung over the door. The other three were tethered in front of a hay rack on the opposite wall, as if visitors had just dropped by. They regarded Rincewind with vague animal curiosity.
The Luggage bumped into his ankle. He spun around and hissed, ‘Push off, you!’
The Luggage backed away. It looked abashed.
Rincewind tiptoed to the far door and cautiously pushed it open. It gave onto a stone-flagged passageway, which in turn opened onto a wide entrance hall.
He crept forward with his back pressed tightly against a wall. Behind him the Luggage rose up on tiptoes and skittered along nervously.
The hall itself…
Well, it wasn’t the fact that it was considerably bigger than the whole cottage had appeared from the outside that worried Rincewind; the way things were these days, he’d have laughed sarcastically if anyone had said you couldn’t get a quart into a pint pot. And it wasn’t the decor, which was Early Crypt and ran heavily to black drapes.
It was the clock. It was very big, and occupied a space between two curving wooden staircases covered with carvings of things that normal men only see after a heavy session on something illegal.
It had a very long pendulum, and the pendulum swung with a slow tick-tock that set his teeth on edge, because it was the kind of deliberate, annoying ticking that wanted to make it abundantly clear that every tick and every tock was stripping another second off your life. It was the kind of sound that suggested very pointedly that in some hypothetical hourglass, somewhere, another few grains of sand had dropped out from under you.
Needless to say, the weight on the pendulum was knife-edged and razor sharp.
Something tapped him in the small of the back. He turned angrily.
‘Look, you son of a suitcase, I told you—’
It wasn’t the Luggage. It was a young woman—silver haired, silver eyed, rather taken aback.
‘Oh,’ said Rincewind. ‘Um. Hallo?’
‘Are you alive?’ she said. It was the kind of voice associated with beach umbrellas, suntan oil and long cool drinks.
‘Well, I hope so,’ said Rincewind, wondering if his glands were having a good time wherever they were. ‘Sometimes I’m not so sure. What is this place?’
‘This is the house of Death,’ she said.
‘Ah,’ said Rincewind. He ran a tongue over his dry lips. ‘Well, nice to meet you, I think I ought to be getting along—’
She clapped her hands. ‘Oh, you mustn’t go!’ she said. ‘We don’t often have living people here. Dead people are so boring, don’t you think?’
‘Uh, yes,’ Rincewind agreed fervently, eyeing the doorway. ‘Not much conversation, I imagine.’
‘It’s always “When I was alive—” and “We really knew how to breathe in my day—”,’ she said, laying a small white hand on his arm and smiling at him. ‘They’re always so set in their ways, too. No fun at all. So formal.’
‘Stiff?’ suggested Rincewind. She was propelling him towards an archway.
‘Absolutely. What’s your name? My name is Ysabell.’
‘Um, Rincewind. Excuse me, but if this is the house of Death, what are you doing here? You don’t look dead to me.’
‘Oh, I live here.’ She looked intently at him. ‘I say, you haven’t come to rescue your lost love, have you? That always annoys daddy, he says it’s a good job he never sleeps because if he did he’d be kept awake by the tramp, tramp, tramp of young heroes coming down here to carry back a lot of silly girls, he says.’
‘Goes on a lot, does it?’ said Rincewind weakly, as they walked along a blac
k-hung corridor.
‘All the time. I think it’s very romantic. Only when you leave, it’s very important not to look back.’{24}
‘Why not?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps the view isn’t very good. Are you a hero, actually?’
‘Um, no. Not as such. Not at all, really. Even less than that, in fact. I just came to look for a friend of mine,’ he said wretchedly. ‘I suppose you haven’t seen him? Little fat man, talks a lot, wears eyeglasses, funny sort of clothes?’
As he spoke he was aware that he may have missed something vital. He shut his eyes and tried to recall the last few minutes of conversation. Then it hit him like a sandbag.
‘Daddy?’
She looked down demurely. ‘Adopted, actually,’ she said. ‘He found me when I was a little girl, he says. It was all rather sad.’ She brightened. ‘But come and meet him—he’s got his friends in tonight, I’m sure he’ll be interested to see you. He doesn’t meet many people socially. Nor do I, actually,’ she added.
‘Sorry,’ said Rincewind. ‘Have I got it right? We’re talking about Death, yes? Tall, thin, empty eye-sockets, handy in the scythe department?’
She sighed. ‘Yes. His looks are against him, I’m afraid.’
While it was true that, as has already been indicated, Rincewind was to magic what a bicycle is to a bumblebee, he nevertheless retained one privilege available to practitioners of the art, which was that at the point of death it would be Death himself who turned up to claim him (instead of delegating the job to a lesser mythological anthropomorphic personification, as is usually the case). Owing largely to inefficiency Rincewind had consistently failed to die at the right time, and if there is one thing that Death does not like it is unpunctuality.
‘Look, I expect my friend has just wandered off somewhere,’ he said. ‘He’s always doing that, story of his life, nice to have met you, must be going—’
But she had already stopped in front of a tall door padded with purple velvet. There were voices on the other side—eldritch voices, the sort of voices that mere typography will remain totally unable to convey until someone can make a linotype machine with echo-reverb and, possibly, a typeface that looks like something said by a slug.
The Light Fantastic d-2 Page 9