seemed a lot of trouble to go to. Everyone knew that when a wizard died all the spells in his head would go free, so why bother to save Rincewind? The spell would just float back eventually.
“Any idea why?” he said without thinking and then, remembering himself in time, added hastily, “By Yrriph and Kcharla I do abjure thee and—”
I WISH YOU WOULDN’T KEEP DOING THAT , said Death, A LL THAT I KNOW IS THAT ALL THE SPELLS HAVE TO BE SAID TOGETHER NEXT H OGSWATCHNIGHT OR THE DISC WILL BE DESTROYED .
“Speak up there!” demanded Greyhald Spold.
“Shut up!” said Galder.
M E ?
“No, him. Daft old—”
“I heard that!” snapped Spold, “You young people—” He stopped. Death was looking at him thoughtfully, as if he was trying to remember his face.
“Look,” said Galder, “just repeat that bit again, will you? The Disc will be what?”
D ESTROYED , said Death. C AN I GO NOW ? I LEFT MY DRINK .
“Hang on,” said Galder hurriedly. “By Cheliliki and Orizone and so forth, what do you mean, destroyed?”
I T’S AN ANCIENT PROPHECY WRITTEN ON THE INNER WALLS OF THE G REAT P YRAMID OF T SORT . T HE WORD “DESTROYED” SEEMS QUITE SELF-EXPLANTORY TO ME .
“That’s all you can tell us?”
YES.
“But Hogswatchnight is only two months away!”
Y ES .
“At least you can tell us where Rincewind is now!”
Death shrugged. It was a gesture he was particularly well built for.
T HE F OREST OF S KUND, RIMWARD OF THE R AMTOP M OUNTAINS .
“What is he doing there?”
F EELING VERY SORRY FOR HIMSELF .
“Oh.”
N OW MAY I GO ?
Galder nodded distractedly. He had been thinking wistfully of the banishment ritual, which started “Begone, foul shade” and had some rather impressive passages which he had been practicing, but somehow he couldn’t work up any enthusiasm.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Thank you, yes.” And then, because it’s as well not to make enemies even among the creatures of night, he added politely, “I hope it is a good party.”
Death didn’t answer. He was looking at Spold in the same way that a dog looks at a bone, only in this case things were more or less the other way around.
“I said I hope it is a good party,” said Galder, loudly.
A T THE MOMENT IT IS , said Death levelly. I THINK IT MIGHT GO DOWNHILL VERY QUICKLY AT MIDNIGHT .
“Why?”
T HAT’S WHEN THEY THINK I’ LL BE TAKING MY MASK OFF .
He vanished, leaving only a cocktail stick and a short paper streamer behind.
There had been an unseen observer of all this. It was of course entirely against the rules, but Trymon knew all about rules and had always considered they were for making, not obeying.
Long before the eight mages had got down to some serious arguing about what the apparition had meant he was down in the main levels of the University library.
It was an awe-inspiring place. Many of the books were magical, and the important thing to remember about grimoires is that they are deadly in the hands of any librarian who cares about order, because he’s bound to stick them all on the same shelf. This is not a good idea with books that tend to leak magic, because more than one or two of them together form a critical Black Mass. On top of that, many of the lesser spells are quite particular about the company they keep, and tend to express any objections by hurling their books viciously across the room. And, of course, there is always the half-felt presence of the Things from the Dungeon Dimensions, clustering around the magical leakage and constantly probing the walls of reality.
The job of magical librarian, who has to spend his working days in this sort of highly charged atmosphere, is a high-risk occupation.
The Head Librarian was sitting on top of his desk, quietly peeling a orange, and was well aware of that.
He glanced up when Trymon entered.
“I’m looking for anything we’ve got on the Pyramid of Tshut,” said Trymon. He had come prepared: he took a banana out of his pocket.
The
“Any idea why?” he said without thinking and then, remembering himself in time, added hastily, “By Yrriph and Kcharla I do abjure thee and—”
I WISH YOU WOULDN’T KEEP DOING THAT , said Death, A LL THAT I KNOW IS THAT ALL THE SPELLS HAVE TO BE SAID TOGETHER NEXT H OGSWATCHNIGHT OR THE DISC WILL BE DESTROYED .
“Speak up there!” demanded Greyhald Spold.
“Shut up!” said Galder.
M E ?
“No, him. Daft old—”
“I heard that!” snapped Spold, “You young people—” He stopped. Death was looking at him thoughtfully, as if he was trying to remember his face.
“Look,” said Galder, “just repeat that bit again, will you? The Disc will be what?”
D ESTROYED , said Death. C AN I GO NOW ? I LEFT MY DRINK .
“Hang on,” said Galder hurriedly. “By Cheliliki and Orizone and so forth, what do you mean, destroyed?”
I T’S AN ANCIENT PROPHECY WRITTEN ON THE INNER WALLS OF THE G REAT P YRAMID OF T SORT . T HE WORD “DESTROYED” SEEMS QUITE SELF-EXPLANTORY TO ME .
“That’s all you can tell us?”
YES.
“But Hogswatchnight is only two months away!”
Y ES .
“At least you can tell us where Rincewind is now!”
Death shrugged. It was a gesture he was particularly well built for.
T HE F OREST OF S KUND, RIMWARD OF THE R AMTOP M OUNTAINS .
“What is he doing there?”
F EELING VERY SORRY FOR HIMSELF .
“Oh.”
N OW MAY I GO ?
Galder nodded distractedly. He had been thinking wistfully of the banishment ritual, which started “Begone, foul shade” and had some rather impressive passages which he had been practicing, but somehow he couldn’t work up any enthusiasm.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Thank you, yes.” And then, because it’s as well not to make enemies even among the creatures of night, he added politely, “I hope it is a good party.”
Death didn’t answer. He was looking at Spold in the same way that a dog looks at a bone, only in this case things were more or less the other way around.
“I said I hope it is a good party,” said Galder, loudly.
A T THE MOMENT IT IS , said Death levelly. I THINK IT MIGHT GO DOWNHILL VERY QUICKLY AT MIDNIGHT .
“Why?”
T HAT’S WHEN THEY THINK I’ LL BE TAKING MY MASK OFF .
He vanished, leaving only a cocktail stick and a short paper streamer behind.
There had been an unseen observer of all this. It was of course entirely against the rules, but Trymon knew all about rules and had always considered they were for making, not obeying.
Long before the eight mages had got down to some serious arguing about what the apparition had meant he was down in the main levels of the University library.
It was an awe-inspiring place. Many of the books were magical, and the important thing to remember about grimoires is that they are deadly in the hands of any librarian who cares about order, because he’s bound to stick them all on the same shelf. This is not a good idea with books that tend to leak magic, because more than one or two of them together form a critical Black Mass. On top of that, many of the lesser spells are quite particular about the company they keep, and tend to express any objections by hurling their books viciously across the room. And, of course, there is always the half-felt presence of the Things from the Dungeon Dimensions, clustering around the magical leakage and constantly probing the walls of reality.
The job of magical librarian, who has to spend his working days in this sort of highly charged atmosphere, is a high-risk occupation.
The Head Librarian was sitting on top of his desk, quietly peeling a orange, and was well aware of that.
He glanced up when Trymon entered.
“I’m looking for anything we’ve got on the Pyramid of Tshut,” said Trymon. He had come prepared: he took a banana out of his pocket.
The