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stuff, that isn’t what it should all be about. What we need is real wizardry.’
    That last remark would have earned the prize for the day’s most erroneous statement if Rincewind hadn’t then said:
    â€˜It’s a pity there aren’t any of them around any more.’
    Spelter rapped on the table with his spoon.
    He was an impressive figure, in his ceremonial robe with the purple-and-vermine 6 hood of the Venerable Council of Seers and the yellow sash of a fifth level wizard; he’d been fifth level for three years, waiting for one of the sixty-four sixth level wizards to create a vacancy by dropping dead. He was in an amiable mood, however. Not only had he just finished a good dinner, he also had in his quarters a small phial of a guaranteed untastable poison which, used correctly, should guarantee him promotion within a few months. Life looked good.
    The big clock at the end of the hall trembled on the verge of nine o’clock.
    The tattoo with the spoon hadn’t had much effect. Spelter picked up a pewter tankard and brought it down hard.
    â€˜Brothers!’ he shouted, and nodded as the hubbub died away. ‘Thank you. Be upstanding, please, for the ceremony of the, um, keys.’
    There was a ripple of laughter and a general buzz of expectancy as the wizards pushed back their benches and got unsteadily to their feet.
    The double doors to the hall were locked and triple barred. An incoming Archchancellor had to request entry three times before they would be unlocked, signifying that he was appointed with the consent of wizardry in general. Or some such thing. The origins were lost in the depths of time, which was as good a reason as any for retaining the custom.
    The conversation died away. The assembled wizardry stared at the doors.
    There was a soft knocking.
    â€˜Go away!’ shouted the wizards, some of them collapsing at the sheer subtlety of the humour.
    Spelter picked up the great iron ring that contained the keys to the University. They weren’t all metal. They weren’t all visible. Some of them looked very strange indeed.
    â€˜Who is that who knocketh without?’ he intoned.
    â€˜ I do .’
    What was strange about the voice was this: it seemed to every wizard that the speaker was standing right behind him. Most of them found themselves looking over their shoulders.
    In that moment of shocked silence there was the sharp little snick of the lock. They watched in fascinated horror as the iron bolts travelled back of their own accord; the great oak balks of timber, turned by Time into something tougher than rock, slid out of their sockets; the hinges flared from red through yellow to white and then exploded. Slowly, with a terrible inevitability, the doors fell into the hall.
    There was an indistinct figure standing in the smoke from the burning hinges.
    â€˜Bloody hell, Virrid,’ said one of the wizards nearby, ‘that was a good one.’
    As the figure strode into the light they could all see that it was not, after all, Virrid Wayzygoose.
    He was at least a head shorter than any other wizard, and wore a simple white robe. He was also several decades younger; he looked about ten years old, and in one hand he held a staff considerably taller than he was.
    â€˜Here, he’s no wizard—’
    â€˜Where’s his hood, then?’
    â€˜Where’s his hat ?’
    The stranger walked up the line of astonished wizards until he was standing in front of the top table. Spelter looked down at a thin young face framed by a mass of blond hair, and most of all he looked into two golden eyes that glowed from within. But he felt they weren’t looking at him. They seemed to be looking at a point six inches beyond the back of his head. Spelter got the impression that he was in the way, and considerably surplus to immediate requirements.
    He rallied his dignity and pulled himself up to his full height.
    â€˜What is the meaning of, um,