Spelter’s lips moved soundlessly as he tried to foresee the next bit of the exchange. ‘You can’t be certain of that,’ he said, after a while.
‘My dear Spelter, you blush when you inadvertently tell the truth.’
‘I didn’t blush!’
‘Precisely,’ said Carding, ‘my point.’
‘All right,’ Spelter conceded. ‘But you think you know something else.’
The fat wizard shrugged. ‘A mere suspicion of a hunch,’ he said. ‘But why should I
Spelter had been drawing the signs of Megrim’s Accelerator in the air under cover of the table. Now he muttered a syllable under his breath and fired the spell along the tabletop, where it left a smoking path in the varnish and met, about halfway, the silver snakes of Brother Hushmaster’s Potent Asp-Spray as they spewed from Carding’s fingertips.
The two spells cannoned into one another, turned into a ball of green fire and exploded, filling the room with fine yellow crystals.
The wizards exchanged the kind of long, slow glare you could roast chestnuts on.
Bluntly, Carding was surprised. He shouldn’t have been. Eighth-level wizards are seldom faced with challenging tests of magical skill. In theory there are only seven other wizards of equal power and every lesser wizard is, by definition – well, lesser. This makes them complacent. But Spelter, on the other hand, was at the fifth level.
It may be quite tough at the top, and it is probably even tougher at the bottom, but halfway up it’s so tough you could use it for horseshoes. By then all the no-hopers, the lazy, the silly and the downright unlucky have been weeded out, the field’s cleared, and every wizard stands alone and surrounded by mortal enemies on every side. There’s the pushy fours below, waiting to trip him up. There’s the arrogant sixes above, anxious to stamp out all ambition. And, of course, all around are his fellow fives, ready for any opportunity to reduce the competition a little. And there’s no standing still. Wizards of the fifth level are mean and tough and have reflexes of steel and their eyes are thin and narrow from staring down the length of that metaphorical last furlong at the end of which rests the prize of prizes, the Archchancellor’s hat.
The novelty of co-operation began to appeal to Carding. There was worthwhile power here, which could be bribed into usefulness for as long as it was necessary. Of course,
afterwards
‘I wonder how many brothers has he got?’ said Spelter.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘There hasn’t been magic like that in this university in centuries,’ said Carding, ‘maybe for thousands of years. I’ve only ever read about it.’
‘We banished an Ipslore thirty years ago,’ said Spelter. ‘According to the records, he’d got married. I can see that if he had sons, um, they’d be wizards, but I don’t understand how—’
‘That wasn’t wizardry. That was sourcery,’ said Carding, leaning back in his chair.
Spelter stared at him across the bubbling varnish.
‘Sourcery?’
‘The eighth son of a wizard would be a sourcerer.’
‘I didn’t know that!’
‘It is not widely advertised.’
‘Yes, but – sourcerers were a long time ago, I mean, the magic was a lot stronger then, um, men were different … it didn’t have anything to do with, well,
‘Sourcerers could do everything,’ he went on. ‘They were nearly as powerful as the gods. Um. There was no end of trouble. The gods simply wouldn’t allow that sort of thing any more, depend upon it.’
‘Well, there was trouble because the sourcerers fought among themselves,’ said Carding. ‘But one sourcerer wouldn’t be any trouble. One sourcerer correctly advised, that is. By older and wiser minds.’
‘But he wants the Archchancellor’s hat!’
‘Why can’t he have it?’
Spelter’s mouth dropped open. This was too much even for him.
Carding smiled at him amiably.
‘But the hat—’
‘It’s just a symbol,’ said Carding. ‘It’s nothing special. If he wants it, he can have it. It’s a small enough thing. Just a symbol, nothing more. A figurehat.’
‘Figurehat?’
‘Worn by a figurehead.’
‘But the gods choose the Archchancellor!’
Carding raised an eyebrow. ‘Do they?’ he said, and coughed.
‘Well, yes, I suppose they do. In a manner of speaking.’
‘
’
Carding got up and gathered his skirts around him. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that you have a great deal to learn. By the way, where is that hat?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Spelter, who was still quite shaken. ‘Somewhere in, um, Virrid’s apartments, I suppose.’
‘We’d better fetch it,’ said Carding.
He paused in the doorway and stroked his beard reflectively. ‘I remember Ipslore,’ he said. ‘We were students together. Wild fellow. Odd habits. Superb wizard, of course, before he went to the bad. Had a funny way of twitching his eyebrow, I remember, when he was excited.’ Carding looked blankly across forty years of memory, and shivered.
‘The hat,’ he reminded himself. ‘Let’s find it. It would be a shame if anything happened to it.’
The thief, as will become apparent, was a special type of thief. This thief was an artist of theft. Other thieves merely stole everything that was not nailed down, but this thief stole the nails as well. This thief had scandalised Ankh by taking a particular interest in stealing, with astonishing success, things that were in fact not only nailed down but also guarded by keen-eyed guards in inaccessible strongrooms. There are artists that will paint an entire chapel ceiling; this was the kind of thief that could steal it.
This particular thief was credited with stealing the jewelled disembowelling knife from the Temple of Offler the Crocodile God during the middle of Evensong, and the silver shoes from the Patrician’s finest racehorse while it was in the process of winning a race. When Gritoller Mimpsey, vice-president of the Thieves’ Guild, was jostled in the marketplace and then found on returning home that a freshly-stolen handful of diamonds had vanished from their place of concealment, he knew who to blame. This was the type of thief that could steal the initiative, the moment and the words right out of your mouth.
However, it was the first time it had stolen something that not only asked it to, in a low but authoritative voice, but gave precise and somehow unarguable instructions about how it was to be disposed of.
It was that cusp of the night that marks the turning point of Ankh-Morpork’s busy day, when those who make their living under the sun are resting after their labours and those who turn an honest dollar by the cold light of the moon are just getting up the energy to go to work. The day had, in fact, reached that gentle point when it was too late for housebreaking and too early for burglary.
Rincewind sat alone in the crowded, smoky room, and didn’t take much notice when a shadow passed over the table and a sinister figure sat down opposite him. There was nothing very remarkable about sinister figures in this place. The Drum jealously guarded its reputation as the most stylishly disreputable tavern in Ankh-Morpork and the big troll that now guarded the door carefully vetted customers for suitability in the way of black cloaks, glowing eyes, magic swords and so forth. Rincewind never found out what he did to the failures. Perhaps he ate them.
When the figure spoke, its husky voice came from the depths of a black velvet hood, lined with fur.
‘Psst,’ it said.
‘Not very,’ said Rincewind, who was in a state of mind where he couldn’t resist it, ‘but I’m working on it.’
‘I’m looking for a wizard,’ said the voice. It sounded hoarse with the effort of disguising itself but, again, this was nothing unusual in the Drum.
‘Any wizard in particular?’ Rincewind said guardedly. People could get into trouble this way.
‘One with a keen sense of tradition who would not mind taking risks for high reward,’ said another voice. It appeared to be coming from a round black leather box under the stranger’s arm.
‘Ah,’ said Rincewind, ‘that narrows it down a bit, then. Does this involve a perilous journey into unknown and probably dangerous lands?’
‘It does, as a matter of fact.’
‘Encounters with exotic creatures?’ Rincewind smiled.
‘Could be.’
‘Almost certain death?’
‘Almost certainly.’
Rincewind nodded, and picked up his hat.
‘Well, I wish you every success in your search,’ he said, ‘I’d help you myself, only I’m not going to.’
‘What?’
‘Sorry. I don’t know why, but the prospect of certain death in unknown lands at the claws of exotic monsters isn’t for me. I’ve tried it, and I couldn’t get the hang of it. Each to their own, that’s what I say, and I was cut out for boredom.’ He rammed his hat on his head and stood up a little unsteadily.
He’d reached the foot of the steps leading up into the street when a voice behind him said: ‘A
‘Anyone else?’ she said.
One of the guards raised a crossbow. The Librarian, sitting hunched over his drink, reached out a lazy arm like two broom handles strung with elastic and slapped him backwards. The bolt rebounded from the star on Rincewind’s hat and hit the wall by a respected procurer who was sitting two tables away. His bodyguards threw another knife which just missed a thief across the room, who picked up a bench and hit two guards, who struck out at the nearest drinkers. After that one thing sort of led to another and pretty soon everyone was fighting to get something – either away, out or even.
Rincewind found himself pulled relentlessly behind the bar. The landlord was sitting on his moneybags under the counter with two machetes crossed on his knees, enjoying a quiet drink. Occasionally the sound of breaking furniture would make him wince.
The last thing Rincewind saw before he was dragged away was the Librarian. Despite looking like a hairy rubber sack full of water, the orang-utan had the weight and reach of any man in the room and was currently sitting on a guard’s shoulders and trying, with reasonable success, to unscrew his head.
Of more concern to Rincewind was the fact that he was being dragged upstairs.
‘My dear lady,’ he said desperately. ‘What do you have in mind?’
‘Is there a way on to the roof?’
‘Yes. What’s in this box?’
‘Shhh!’
She halted at a bend in the dingy corridor, reached into a belt pouch and scattered a handful of small metal objects on the floor behind them. Each one was made of four nails welded together so that, however the things fell, one was always pointing upwards.
She looked critically at the nearest doorway.
‘You haven’t got about four feet of cheesewire on you, have you?’ she said wistfully. She’d drawn another throwing knife and was throwing it up and catching it again.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Rincewind weakly.
‘Pity. I’ve run out. Okay, come on.’
‘Why? I haven’t done anything!’
She went to the nearest window, pushed open the shutters and paused with one leg over the sill.
‘Fine,’ she said, over her shoulder. ‘Stay here and explain it to the guards.’
‘Why are they chasing you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Oh, come on! There must be a reason!’
‘Oh, there’s plenty of reasons. I just don’t know which one. Are you coming?’
Rincewind hesitated. The Patrician’s personal guard was not known for its responsive approach to community policing, preferring to cut bits off instead. Among the things they took a dim view of was, well, basically, people being in the same universe. Running away from them was likely to be a capital offence.
‘I think maybe I’ll come along with you,’ he said gallantly. ‘A girl can come to harm all alone in this city.’
Freezing fog filled the streets of Ankh-Morpork. The flares of street traders made little yellow haloes in the smothering billows.
The girl peered around a corner.
‘We’ve lost them,’ she said. ‘Stop shaking. You’re safe now.’
‘What, you mean I’m all alone with a female homicidal maniac?’ said Rincewind. ‘Fine.’
She relaxed and laughed at him.
‘I was watching you,’ she said. ‘An hour ago you were afraid that your future was going to be dull and uninteresting.’
‘I
‘Not on your life,’ he said.
‘I’m going to take my clothes off.’
Rincewind spun around, his face red. There was a rustling behind him, and a waft of scent. After a while she said, ‘You can look round now.’
He didn’t.
‘You needn’t worry. I’ve put some more on.’
He opened his eyes. The girl was wearing a demure white lace dress with fetchingly puffed sleeves. He opened his mouth. He realised with absolute clarity that up to now the trouble he had been in was simple, modest and nothing he couldn’t talk his way out of given a decent chance or, failing that, a running start. His brain started to send urgent messages to his sprinting muscles, but before they could get through she’d grabbed his arm again.
‘You really shouldn’t be so nervous,’ she said sweetly. ‘Now, let’s have a look at this thing.’
She pulled the lid off the round box in Rincewind’s unprotesting hands, and lifted out the Archchancellor’s hat.