‘I don’t call that very practical,’ said the Dean.
‘What about the sharks?’
‘Well, they’re swimming around under us, in fact,’ said the Senior Wrangler, as the seeds rocked.
Ponder looked down. ‘They appear to be leaving now that we’re not dangling our legs in the water,’ he said. ‘They’re heading . . . for the shore, too. ’
‘Well, she knew the risks when she got the job,’ said the Dean.
‘What?’ said the Senior Wrangler. ‘Are you saying that before you apply for the job of housekeeper of a university you should seriously consider being eaten by sharks on the shores of some mysterious continent thousands of years before you are born?’
‘She didn’t ask many questions at the interview, I know that.’
‘Actually, we are worrying unduly,’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. ‘Sharks have a very undeserved reputation as man-eaters. There is not a single authenticated case of a shark attacking anyone, despite what you may have heard. They are sophisticated and peaceful creatures with a rich family life and, far from being ominous harbingers of doom, have reputedly even befriended the occasional lost traveller. As hunters they are of course very efficient, and a full-grown shark can bring down even a moose with . . . er . . .’
He looked at their faces.
‘Er . . . I think I might perhaps have got them confused with wolves,’ he mumbled. ‘I have, haven’t I?’
They nodded, in unison.
‘Er . . . sharks are the other ones, aren’t they?’ he went on. ‘The vicious and merciless killers of the sea that don’t even stop to chew?’
They nodded again.
‘Oh dear. Where can I put my face . . . ?’
‘Some distance from a shark,’ said Ridcully briskly. ‘Come on, gentlemen. That’s our housekeeper! Do you wish to make your own beds in future? Fireballs again, I think.’
‘She’s gone too far away—’
A red shape rocketed out of the sea beside Ridcully, curled through the air and slid below the surface again like a razorblade cutting into silk.
‘What was that? Who of you did that?’ he said.
A bow wave ripped its way to the cluster of triangular fins like a bowling ball heading down an alley. Then the water erupted.
‘Ye gods, look at the way it’s going at those sharks!’
‘Is it a monster?’
‘It’s a dolphin, surely . . .’
‘With red hair?’
‘Surely it’s not—’
A stricken shark barrelled past the Senior Wrangler. Behind it the water exploded again into the big red grin of the only dolphin ever to have a leathery face and orange hair all over its body.
‘Eek?’ said the Librarian.
‘Well done, old chap!’ shouted Ridcully across the water. ‘I said you wouldn’t let us down!’
‘No, actually you didn’t, sir, you said you thought—’ Ponder began.
‘Good choice of shape, too,’ Ridcully continued loudly. ‘Now, if you can sort of nudge us all together, then perhaps you could push us towards the shore? Are we all still here? Where’s the Bursar?’
The Bursar was a small dot away on the right, paddling dreamily along.
‘Well, he’ll get there,’ said Ridcully. ‘Come on, let’s get on to dry land.’
‘That sea,’ said the Senior Wrangler nervously, staring ahead as the seeds were jockeyed towards the shore like a string of overloaded barges, ‘that sea . . . Does it look as though it’s girting to you?’
‘Certainly a very big sea,’ said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. ‘You know, I don’t think it’s just the rain that’s making the roaring. There may be a spot of surf.’
‘A few waves won’t do us any harm,’ said Ridcully. ‘At least water is soft.’
Ponder felt the board underneath him rise and fall as a long swell passed. An odd shape for a seed, he had to admit. Of course, nature paid a lot of attention to seeds, equipping them with little wings and sails and flotation chambers and other devices necessary to give them an edge over all the other seeds. These were just flattish versions of the Librarian’s current shape, which was obviously intended for moving through water very fast.
‘Er . . .’ he said, to the universe in general. It meant: I wonder if we’ve really thought about this.
‘Can’t see any rocks ahead,’ the Dean observed.
‘Girting,’ mused the Senior Wrangler, as if the word was nagging at him. ‘That’s a very definite sort of word, isn’t it? Has a certain martial sort of sound.’
It occurred to Ponder that water is not exactly soft. He’d never been much of a one for sports when he was a boy, but he remembered playing with the other local lads and joining in all their games, such as Push Poncy Stibbons Into the Nettles or Tie Up Stibbo and Go Home for Tea, and there had been the time at the old swimming hole when they’d thrown him in off the top of the cliff. And it had hurt.
The flotilla gradually caught up with Mrs Whitlow, who was holding on to a floating tree and treading water. The tree already had its fair share of occupants – birds, lizards and, for some reason, a small camel trying to make itself comfortable in the branches.
The swell was heavier now. There was a deep, continuous booming underlying the noise of the rain.
‘Ah, Mrs Whitlow,’ said the Senior Wrangler. ‘And what a nice tree. Even got leaves on, look.’
‘We’ve come to save you,’ said the Dean, in the face of the evidence.
‘I think it might be a good idea if Mrs Whitlow hung on to a seed,’ said Ponder. ‘I really think that really might be a really good idea. I think the waves might be . . . slightly big . . .’
‘Girting,’ said the Senior Wrangler, morosely. He looked towards the beach, and it wasn’t ahead of them any more.
It was down there. It was at the bottom of a green hill. And the green was made of water. And, for some reason, it was getting taller.
‘Look,’ said Rincewind. ‘Why can’t you tell me her name? Presumably lots of people know it. I mean, it must be put on the posters and so on. It’s only a name, isn’t it? I don’t see the problem.’
The cooks looked at one another. Then one coughed and said, ‘She’s . . . her name’s . . . Dame Nellie . . . Butt.’
‘But what?’
‘Her name is Butt.’
Rincewind’s lips moved silently. ‘Oh,’ he said.
The cooks nodded.
‘Has Charley drunk all the beer, do you think?’ Rincewind said, sitting down.
‘Maybe we can find some bananas, Ron,’ said another cook.
Rincewind’s eyes unfocused and his lips moved again. ‘Did you tell Charley that?’ he said at last.
‘Yep. Just before he broke down.’
There was the sound of running feet outside. One of the cooks looked out of the window.
‘It’s just the Watch. Probably after some poor bastard . . .’
Rincewind moved back slightly so that he was not obvious from the window.
Ron shuffled his feet. ‘I reckon if we went and saw Idle Ahmed and got him to open up his shop we might get some—’
‘Strawberries?’ said Rincewind. The cooks shuddered. There was another sob from Charley.
‘All his life he’s been waiting for this,’ said a cook. ‘I call it bloody unfair. Remember when that little soprano left to marry that drover? He was miserable all week.’
‘Yeah. Lisa Delight,’ said Ron. ‘A bit wobbly in mid-range but definitely showin’ promise.’
‘He was really pinning his hopes on her. He said a name like that’d even work with rhubarb.’
Charley howled.
‘I think . . .’ said Rincewind, slowly and thoughtfully.
‘Yes?’
‘I think I can see a way.’
‘You can?’ Even Charley raised his head.
‘Well, you know how it is, the outsider sees most of the game . . . Let’s go with the peaches, the cream, a bit of ice cream if y
ou can make it, maybe a dash of brandy . . . Let’s see, now . . .’
‘Coconut flakes?’ said Charley, looking up.
‘Yes, why not?’
‘Er . . . some tomato sauce, maybe?’
‘I think not.’
‘You’d better get a move on, they’re halfway through the last act,’ said Ron.
‘She’ll be right,’ said Rincewind. ‘Okay . . . halve the peaches, put them in a bowl with the other things, and then add the brandy and voilà.’
‘That some kind of foreign stuff?’ said Charley. ‘I don’t think we’ve got any of that wollah.’
‘Just add twice as much brandy, then,’ said Rincewind. ‘And there it is.’
‘Yeah, but what’s it called?’ said Ron.
‘I’m coming to that,’ said Rincewind. ‘Bowl, please, Charley. Thank you.’ He held it aloft. ‘Gentlemen . . . I give you . . . the Peach Nellie.’
A saucepan bubbled on a stove. Apart from that insistent little noise, and the distant strains of the opera, the room fell silent.
‘What do you think?’ said Rincewind brightly.
‘It’s . . . different . . .’ said Charley. ‘I’ll grant you that.’
‘But it’s not exactly commemorative, is it?’ said Ron. ‘The world is full of Nellies.’
‘On the other hand, would you prefer it if everyone remembered the alternative?’ said Rincewind. ‘Do you want to be associated in any way with the Peach Bu—’
There was a howl as Charley burst into tears again.
‘Put like that, it doesn’t sound too bad,’ said Ron. ‘Peach Nellie . . . yeah.’
‘You could use bananas,’ said Rincewind.
Ron’s lips moved silently. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Let’s go with the peaches.’
Rincewind brushed himself off. ‘Glad to be of service,’ he said. ‘Tell me. How many ways are there out of here?’
‘Busy night for everyone, what with the Galah and everything,’ said Ron. ‘Not my taste, of course, but it does bring in the visitors.’
‘Yeah, and the hanging in the morning,’ said Charley.
‘I was planning to miss that,’ said Rincewind. ‘Now, if you’ll just—’
‘I for one hope he escapes,’ said Charley.
‘I’m with you on that,’ said Rincewind. Heavy boots walked past the door and stopped. He could hear distant voices.
‘They say he fought a dozen policemen,’ said Ron.
‘Three,’ said Rincewind. ‘It was three. I heard. Someone told me. Not a dozen. Three.’
‘Oh, gotta be more than three, gotta be a lot more than three for a bold bush ranger like that one. Rinso, they call him.’
‘I heard where this bloke arrived from Dijabringabeeralong and said Rinso sheared a hundred sheep in five minutes.’
‘I don’t believe that,’ said Rincewind.
‘They say he’s a wizard but that can’t be true ’cos you never catch one of them doin’ a proper job of work.’
‘Well, in fact—’
‘All right, but a bloke who works up at the gaol says he’d got this strange brown stuff which gives him enormous strength!’
‘It was only beer soup!’ shouted Rincewind. ‘I mean,’ he added, ‘that’s what I heard.’
Ron gave him a lopsided look. ‘You look a bit like a wizard,’ he said.
Someone knocked heavily on the door.
‘You’re wearing those dresses they wear,’ Ron went on, without taking his eyes off Rincewind. ‘Go and open the door, Sid.’
Rincewind backed away, reached behind him to a table laden with knives, and found his fingers closing on a handle.
Yes, he hated the idea of weapons. They always, always, upped the ante. But they did impress people.
The door opened. Several men peered in, and one of them was the gaoler.
‘That’s him!’
‘I warn you, I’m a desperate man,’ Rincewind said, bringing his hand around. Most of the cooks dived for cover.
‘That’s a ladle, mate,’ said a watchman, kindly. ‘But bloody plucky, all the same. Good on yer. What do you think, Charley?’
‘I reckon it’s never going to be said that a bold larrikin like him was run to earth in a kitchen of mine,’ said Charley. He picked up a cleaver in one hand and the dish of Peach Nellie in the other. ‘You nip out the other door, Rinso, and we’ll talk to these policemen.’
‘Suits us,’ said the watchman. ‘’s not a proper last stand, just having a punch-up in a kitchen . . . We’ll give you a count to ten, all right?’
Once again Rincewind felt that he hadn’t been given the same script as everyone else.
‘You mean you’ve got me cornered and you aren’t going to arrest me?’ he said.
‘We-ell, it wouldn’t look good in the ballad, would it?’ said the guard. ‘You’ve got to think about these things.’ He leaned on the doorway. ‘Now, there’s the old Post Office in Grurt Street. I reckon a man could hold out for two, maybe three days there, no worries. Then you could run out, we shoot you full of arrows, you utter some famous last words . . . kids’ll be learnin’ about you in school in a hundred years’ time, I’ll bet. And look at yourself, willya?’ He stepped forward, ignoring the deadly ladle, and prodded Rincewind’s robe. ‘How many arrows is that going to stop, eh?’
‘You’re all mad!’
Charley shook his head. ‘Everyone likes a battler, mister. That’s the Ecksian way. Go down fighting, that’s the ticket.’
‘We heard about you takin’ on that road gang,’ said the guard. ‘Bloody good job. Man who’d do a job like that ain’t gonna be hanged, he gonna want to make a famous last stand.’
The men had all entered the kitchen now. The doorway was clear.
‘Has anyone ever had a Famous Last Run?’ said Rincewind.
‘No. What’s one of them?’
‘G’day!’
As he sped away along the darkened waterfront he heard the shout behind him.
‘That’s the ticket! We’ll count to ten!’
He glanced up as he ran and saw that the big sign over the brewery seemed to be dark. And then he realized that something was hopping along just behind him.
‘Oh, no! Not you!’
‘G’day,’ said Scrappy, drawing level.
‘Look at the mess you’ve got me into!’
‘Mess? You were gonna be hanged! Now you’re enjoying the healthy fresh air in a god’s own country!’
‘And I’m going to be shot full of arrows!’
‘So? You can dodge arrows. This place needs a hero. Champion shearer, road warrior, bush ranger, sheep-stealer, horse rider . . . all you need now is to be good at some damn silly bat and ball game that no one’s invented yet and maybe build a few tall buildings with borrowed money and you’d have a full house. They ain’t gonna kill you in a hurry.’
‘That’s not much comfort! Anyway, I didn’t do any of that stuff— Well, I mean I did, but—’
‘It’s what people think that matters. Now they believe you waltzed out of a locked cell.’
‘All I did was—’
‘Doesn’t matter! The number of gaolers who want to shake you by the hand, well, I reckon they wouldn’t get around to hanging you by lunchtime!’
‘Listen, you giant jumping rat, I’ve made it to the docks, okay? I can outrun them! I can lie low! I know how to stow away, throw up, get discovered, be thrown over the side, stay afloat for two days by clinging on to an old barrel and eating plankton sieved through my beard, carefully negotiate the treacherous coral reef surrounding an atoll and survive by eating yams!’
‘That’s a very special talent you got there,’ said the kangaroo, bounding over a ship’s hawser. ‘How many Ecksian ships have you ever seen in Ankh-Morpork? Busiest port in the world, ain’t it?’
Rincewind slowed. ‘Well . . .’
‘It’s the currents, mate. Get more’n ten miles off’f the coast here and there ain’t one captain in a hundred who can stop his ship going
right over the Rim. They stick very close inshore.’
Rincewind stopped. ‘You mean this whole place is a prison?’
‘Yep. But the Ecksians say this is the best bloody place in the world, so there’s no point in going anywhere else anyway.’
There were shouts behind him. The guards here didn’t take so long counting to ten as most guards did.
‘What’re you going to do now?’ said Rincewind. The kangaroo had gone.
He ducked down a side street and found his way completely blocked. Carts filled the street from edge to edge. Gaily decorated carts.
Rincewind paused. He had always been the foremost exponent of the from rather than the to of running. He could have written ‘The From of Running’. But just occasionally a certain subtle sense told him that the to was important.
For one thing, a lot of the people standing and chatting around the carts were wearing leather.
You could make a lot of arguments in favour of leather. It was long-lasting, practical and hard-wearing. People like Cohen the Barbarian found it so hard-wearing and long-lasting that their old loincloths had to be removed by a blacksmith. But the people here didn’t look as if these were the qualities that they’d been looking for in the boutique. They’d asked questions like: How many studs has it got? How shiny is it? Has it got holes cut out in unusual places?
But still, one of the most basic rules for survival on any planet is never to upset someone wearing black leather.21 Rincewind sidled politely past them, giving them a friendly nod and a wave whenever he saw one looking in his direction. For some reason, this caused more of them to take an interest in him.
There were groups of ladies, too, and there was no doubt that if EcksEcksEcksEcks was where a man could stand tall, so could a woman. Some of them were nevertheless very pretty, in an overstated kind of way, although the occasional moustache looked out of place, but Rincewind had been to foreign parts and knew that things could be a bit lush in the more rural regions.
There were more sequins than you usually saw. More feathers, too.
Then it dawned on him in a great rush of relief.
‘Oh, this is a carnival, right?’ he said aloud. ‘This is the Galah they keep talking about.’
‘Pardon you?’ said a lady in a spangly blue dress, who was changing the wheel on a large purple cart.
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