Discworld 02 - The Light Fantastic

by Terry Pratchett

  The wizards, their heads bowed against the storm of randomized magic that blew out of the room, pushed forward. Half-formed shapes giggled and fluttered around them as the nightmare inhabitants of the Dungeon Dimensions constantly probed (with things that passed for fingers only because they were at the ends of their arms) for an unguarded entry into the circle of firelight that passed for the universe of reason and order.

  Even at this bad time for all things magical, even in a room designed to damp down all magical vibrations, the Octavo was still crackling with power.

  There was no real need for the torches. The Octavo filled the room with a dull, sullen light, which wasn’t strictly light at all but the opposite of light; darkness isn’t the opposite of light, it is simply its absence, and what was radiating from the book was the light that lies on the far side of darkness, the light fantastic.

  It was a rather disappointing purple color.

  As has been noted before, the Octavo was chained to a lectern carved into the shape of something that looked vaguely avian, slightly reptilian and horribly alive. Two glittering eyes regarded the wizards with hooded hatred.

  “I saw it move,” said one of them.

  “We’re safe so long as we don’t touch the book,” said Trymon. He pulled a scroll out of his belt and unrolled it.

  “Bring that torch here,” he said, “and put that cigarette out!”

  He waited for the explosion of infuriated pride. But none came. Instead, the offending mage removed the dogend from his lips with trembling fingers and ground it into the floor.

  Trymon exulted. So, he thought, they do what I say. Just for now, maybe—but just for now is enough.

  He peered at the crabby writing of a wizard long dead.

  “Right,” he said, “let’s see: ‘To Appease Yt, The Thynge That Ys The Guardian…’”

  The crowd surged over one of the bridges that linked Morpork with Ankh. Below it the river, turgid at the best of times, was a mere trickle which steamed.

  The bridge shook under their feet rather more than it should. Strange ripples ran across the muddy remains of the river. A few tiles slid off the roof of a nearby house.

  “What was that?” said Twoflower.

  Bethan looked behind them, and screamed.

  The star was rising. As the Disc’s own sun scurried for safety below the horizon the great bloated ball of the star climbed slowly into the sky until the whole of it was several degrees above the edge of the world.

  They pulled Rincewind into the safety of a doorway. The crowd hardly noticed them, but ran on, terrified as lemmings.

  “The star’s got spots on,” said Twoflower.

  “No,” said Rincewind. “They’re…things. Things going around the star. Like the sun goes around the Disc. But they’re close in, because, because…” he paused. “I nearly know!”

  “Know what?”

  “I’ve got to get rid of this Spell!”

  “Which way is the University?” said Bethan.

  “This way!” said Rincewind, pointing along the street.

  “It must be very popular. That’s where everyone’s going.”

  “I wonder why?” said Twoflower.

  “Somehow,” said Rincewind, “I don’t think it’s to enroll for evening classes.”

  In fact Unseen University was under siege, or at least those parts of it that extruded into the usual, everyday dimensions were under siege. The crowds outside its gates were, generally, making one of two demands. They were demanding that either a) the wizards should stop messing about and get rid of the star or, and this was the demand favored by the star people, that b) they should cease all magic and commit suicide in good order, thus ridding the Disc of the curse of magic and warding off the terrible threat in the sky.

  The wizards on the other side of the walls had no idea how to do a) and no intention of doing b) and many had in fact plumped for c), which largely consisted of nipping out of hidden side doors and having it away on their toes as far as possible, if not faster.

  What reliable magic still remained in the University was being channeled into keeping the great gates secure. The wizards were learning that while it was all very fine and impressive to have a set of gates that were locked by magic, it ought to have occurred to the builders to include some sort of emergency backup device such as, for example, a pair of ordinary, unimpressive stout iron bolts.

  In the square outside the gates several large bonfires had been lit, for effect as much as anything else, because the heat from the star was scorching.

  “But you can still see the stars,” said Twoflower, “the other stars, I mean. The little ones. In a black sky.”

  Rincewind ignored him. He was looking at the gates. A group of star people and citizens were trying to batter them down.

  “It’s hopeless,” said Bethan. “We’ll never get in. Where are you going?”

  “For a walk,” said Rincewind. He was setting off determinedly down a side street.

  There were one or two freelance rioters here, mostly engaged in wrecking shops. Rincewind took no notice, but followed the wall until it ran parallel to a dark alley that had the usual unfortunate smell of all alleys, everywhere.

  Then he started looking very closely at the stonework. The wall here was twenty feet high, and topped with cruel metal spikes.

  “I need a knife,” he said.

  “You’re going to cut your way through?” said Bethan.

  “Just find me a knife,” said Rincewind. He started to tap stones.

  Twoflower and Bethan looked at each other, and shrugged. A few minutes later they returned with a selection of knives, and Twoflower had even managed to find a sword.

  “We just helped ourselves,” said Bethan.

  “But we left some money,” said Twoflower. “I mean, we would have left some money, if we’d had any—”

  “So he insisted on writing a note,” said Bethan wearily.

  Twoflower drew himself up to his full height, which was hardly worth it.

  “I see no reason—” he began, stiffly.

  “Yes, yes,” said Bethan, sitting down glumly. “I know you don’t. Rincewind, all the shops have been smashed open, there was a whole bunch of people across the street helping themselves to musical instruments, can you believe that?”

  “Yeah,” said Rincewind, picking up a knife and testing its blade thoughtfully. “Luters, I expect.”

  He thrust the blade into the wall, twisted it, and stepped back as a heavy stone fell out. He looked up, counting under his breath, and levered another stone from its socket.

  “How did you do that?” said Twoflower.

  “Just give me a leg up, will you?” said Rincewind. A moment later, his feet wedged into the holes he had created, he was making further steps halfway up the wall.

  “It’s been like this for centuries,” his voice floated down. “Some of the stones haven’t got any mortar. Secret entrance, see? Watch out below.”

  Another stone cracked into the cobbles.

  “Students made it long ago,” said Rincewind. “Handy way in and out after lights out.”

  “Ah,” said Twoflower, “I understand. Over the wall and out to brightly lit tavernas to drink and sing and recite poetry, yes?”

  “Nearly right except for the singing and the poetry, yes,” said Rincewind. “A couple of these spikes should be loose—” There was a clang.

  “There’s not much of a drop this side,” came his voice after a few seconds. “Come on, then. If you’re coming.”

  And so it was that Rincewind, Twoflower and Bethan entered Unseen University.

  Elsewhere on the campus—

  The eight wizards inserted their keys and, with many a worried glance at one another, turned them. There was a faint little snicking sound as the lock slid open.

  The Octavo was unchained. A faint octarine light played across its bindings.

  Trymon reached out and picked it up, and none of the others objected. His arm tingled.


  He turned toward the door.

  “Now to the Great Hall, brothers,” he said, “if I may lead the way—”

  And there were no objections.

  He reached the door with the book tucked under his arm. It felt hot, and somehow prickly.

  At every step he expected a cry, a protest, and none came. He had to use every ounce of control to stop himself from laughing. It was easier than he could have imagined.

  The others were halfway across the claustrophobic dungeon by the time he was through the door, and perhaps they had noticed something in the set of his shoulders, but it was too late because he had crossed the threshold, gripped the handle, slammed the door, turned the key, smiled the smile.

  He walked easily back along the corridor, ignoring the enraged screams of the wizards who had just discovered how impossible it is to pass spells in a room built to be impervious to magic.

  The Octavo squirmed, but Trymon held it tightly. Now he ran, putting out of his mind the horrible sensations under his arm as the book shape-changed into things hairy, skeletal and spiky. His hand went numb. The faint chittering noises he had been hearing grew in volume, and there were other sounds behind them—leering sounds, beckoning sounds, sounds made by the voices of unimaginable horrors that Trymon found it all too easy to imagine. As he ran across the Great Hall and up the main staircase the shadows began to move and reform and close in around him, and he also became aware that something was following, something with skittery legs moving obscenely fast. Ice formed on the walls. Doorways lunged at him as he barreled past. Underfoot the stairs began to feel just like a tongue…

  Not for nothing had Trymon spent long hours in the University’s curious equivalent of a gymnasium, building up mental muscle. Don’t trust the senses, he knew, because they can be deceived. The stairs are there, somewhere—will them to be there, summon them into being as you climb and, boy, you better get good at it. Because this isn’t all imagination.

  Great A’Tuin slowed.

  With flippers the size of continents the skyturtle fought the pull of the star, and waited.

  There would not be long to wait…

  Rincewind sidled into the Great Hall. There were a few torches burning, and it looked as though it had been set up for some sort of magical work. But the ceremonial candlesticks had been overturned, the complex octograms chalked on the floor were scuffed as if something had danced on them, and the air was full of a smell unpleasant even by Ankh-Morpork’s broad standards. There was a hint of sulfur to it, but that underlay something worse. It smelled like the bottom of a pond.

  There was a distant crash, and a lot of shouting.

  “Looks like the gates have gone down,” said Rincewind.

  “Let’s get out of here,” said Bethan.

  “The cellars are this way,” said Rincewind, and set off through an arch.

  “Down there?”

  “Yes. Would you rather stay here?”

  He took a torch from its bracket on the wall and started down the steps.

  After a few flights the walls stopped being paneled and were bare stone. Here and there heavy doors had been propped open.

  “I heard something,” said Twoflower.

  Rincewind listened. There did seem to be a noise coming from the depths below. It didn’t sound frightening. It sounded like a lot of people hammering on a door and shouting “Oi!”

  “It’s not those Things from the Dungeon Dimensions you were telling us about, is it?” said Bethan.

  “They don’t swear like that,” said Rincewind. “Come on.”

  They hurried along the dripping passages, following the screamed curses and deep hacking coughs that were somehow reassuring; anything that wheezed like that, the listeners decided, couldn’t possibly represent a danger.

  At last they came to a door set in an alcove. It looked strong enough to hold back the sea. There was a tiny grille.

  “Hey!” shouted Rincewind. It wasn’t very useful, but he couldn’t think of anything better.

  There was a sudden silence. Then a voice from the other side of the door said, very slowly, “Who is out there?”

  Rincewind recognized that voice. It had jerked him from daydreams into terror on many a hot classroom afternoon, years before. It was Lemuel Panter, who had once made it his personal business to hammer the rudiments of scrying and summoning into young Rincewind’s head. He remembered the eyes like gimlets in a piggy face and the voice saying “And now Mister Rincewind will come out here and draw the relevant symbol on the board” and the million mile walk past the waiting class as he tried desperately to remember what the voice had been droning on about five minutes before. Even now his throat was going dry with terror and randomized guilt. The Dungeon Dimensions just weren’t in it.

  “Please sir, it’s me, sir, Rincewind, sir,” he squeaked. He saw Twoflower and Bethan staring at him, and coughed. “Yes,” he added, in as deep a voice as he could manage. “That’s who it is. Rincewind. Right.”

  There was a susurration of whispers on the other side of the door.

  “Rincewind?”

  “Prince who?”

  “I remember a boy who wasn’t any—”

  “The spell, remember?”

  “Rincewind?”

  There was a pause. Then the voice said, “I suppose the key isn’t in the lock, is it?”

  “No,” said Rincewind.

  “What did he say?”

  “He said no.”

  “Typical of the boy.”

  “Um, who is in there?” said Rincewind..

  “The Masters of Wizardry,” said the voice, haughtily.

  “Why?”

  There was another pause, and then a conference of embarrassed whispers.

  “We, uh, got locked in,” said the voice, reluctantly.

  “What, with the Octavo?”

  Whisper, whisper.

  “The Octavo, in fact, isn’t in here, in fact,” said the voice slowly.

  “Oh. But you are?” said Rincewind, as politely as possible while grinning like a necrophiliac in a morgue.

  “That would appear to be the case.”

  “Is there anything we can get you?” said Twoflower anxiously.

  “You could try getting us out.”

  “Could we pick the lock?” said Bethan.

  “No use,” said Rincewind. “Totally thief-proof.”

  “I expect Cohen would have been able to,” said Bethan loyally. “Wherever he’s got to.”

  “The Luggage would soon smash it down,” agreed Twoflower.

  “Well, that’s it then,” said Bethan. “Let’s get out into the fresh air. Fresher air, anyway.” She turned to walk away.

  “Hang on, hang on,” said Rincewind. “That’s just typical, isn’t it? Old Rincewind won’t have any ideas, will he? Oh, no, he’s just a makeweight, he is. Kick him as you pass. Don’t rely on him, he’s—”

  “All right,” said Bethan. “Let’s hear it, then.”

  “—a nonentity, a failure, just a—what?”

  “How are you going to get the door open?” said Bethan.

  Rincewind looked at her with his mouth open. Then he looked at the door. It really was very solid, and the lock had a smug air.

  But he had gotten in, once, long ago. Rincewind the student had pushed at the door and it had swung open, and then a moment later the Spell had jumped into his mind and ruined his life.

  “Look,” said a voice from behind the grille, as kindly as it could manage. “Just go and find us a wizard, there’s a good fellow.”

  Rincewind took a deep breath.

  “Stand back,” he rasped.

  “What?”

  “Find something to hide behind,” he barked, with his voice shaking only slightly. “You too,” he said to Bethan and Twoflower.

  “But you can’t—”

  “I mean it!”

  “He means it,” said Twoflower. “That little vein on the side of his forehead, you know, when it throbs like that, w
ell—”

  “Shut up!”

  Rincewind raised one arm uncertainly and pointed it at the door.

  There was total silence.

  Oh gods, he thought, what happens now?

  In the blackness at the back of his mind the Spell shifted uneasily.

  Rincewind tried to get in tune or whatever with the metal of the lock. If he could sow discord amongst its atoms so that they flew apart—

  Nothing happened.

  He swallowed hard, and turned his attention to the wood. It was old and nearly fossilized, and probably wouldn’t burn even if soaked in oil and dropped into a furnace. He tried anyway, explaining to the ancient molecules that they should try to jump up and down to keep warm—

  In the strained silence of his own mind he glared at the Spell, which looked very sheepish.

  He considered the air around the door itself, how it might best be twisted into weird shapes so that the door existed in another set of dimensions entirely.

  The door sat there, defiantly solid.

  Sweating, his mind beginning the endless walk up to the blackboard in front of the grinning class, he turned desperately to the lock again. It must be made of little bits of metal, not very heavy—

  From the grille came the faintest of sounds. It was the noise of wizards untensing themselves and shaking their heads.

  Someone whispered, “I told you—”

  There was a tiny grinding noise, and a click.

  Rincewind’s face was a mask. Perspiration dripped off his chin.

  There was another click, and the grinding of reluctant spindles. Trymon had oiled the lock, but the oil had been soaked up by the rust and dust of years, and the only way for a wizard to move something by magic, unless he can harness some external movement, is to use the leverage of his mind itself.

  Rincewind was trying very hard to prevent his brain being pushed out of his ears.

  The lock rattled. Metal rods flexed in pitted groves, gave in, pushed levers.

  Levers clicked, notches engaged. There was a long drawn-out grinding noise that left Rincewind on his knees.

  The door swung open on pained hinges. The wizards sidled out cautiously.