But today was a special occasion, and they had thrown open the doors to the richer, cleaner and more hygienic sections of Ankh-Morpork society. A long table had been set for Second Tea. Nothing too excessive – a few dozen roast fowls, a couple of cold salmon, one hundred linear feet of salad bar, a pile of loaves, one or two kegs of beer and, of course, the chutney, pickle and relish train, one trolley not being considered big enough. People had filled their plates and were standing around chatting and, above all, Being There. Moist slipped in unnoticed, for now, because people were watching the University’s biggest omniscope.
Archchancellor Ridcully thumped the side of the thing with his hand, causing it to rock.
‘It’s still not working, Mr Stibbons!’ he bellowed. ‘Here’s that damn enormous fiery eye again!’
‘I’m sure we have the right—’ Ponder began, fiddling with the rear of the big disc.
‘It’s me, sir, Devious Collabone, sir,’ said a voice from the omniscope. The fiery eye pulled back and was replaced by an enormous fiery nose. ‘I’m here at the terminal tower in Genua, sir. Sorry about the redness, sir. I’ve picked up an allergy to seaweed, sir.’
‘Hello, Mr Collabone!’ yelled Ridcully. ‘How are you? How’s the—’
‘—shellfish research—’ murmured Ponder Stibbons.
‘—shellfish research comin’ along?’
‘Not very well, actually, sir. I’ve developed a nasty—’
‘Good, good! Lucky chap!’ Ridcully yelled, cupping his hands to increase the volume. ‘I wouldn’t mind bein’ in Genua myself at this time of year! Sun, sea, surf and sand, eh?’
‘Actually it’s the wet season, sir, and I’m a bit worried about this fungus that’s growing on the omni—’
‘Wonderful!’ shouted Ridcully. ‘Well, I can’t stand here and chew your fat all day! Has anything arrived? We are agog!’
‘Could you just stand back a little bit further, please, Mr Collabone?’ said Ponder. ‘And you don’t really need to speak so . . . loudly, Archchancellor.’
‘Chap’s a long way away, man!’ said Ridcully.
‘Not as such, sir,’ said Ponder, with well-honed patience. ‘Very well, Mr Collabone, you may proceed.’
The crowd behind the Archchancellor pressed forward. Mr Collabone backed away. This was all a bit too much for a man who spent his days with no one to talk to but bivalves.
‘Er, I’ve had a message by clacks, sir, but—’ he began.
‘Nothin’ from the Post Office?’ said Ridcully.
‘No, sir. Nothing, sir.’
There were cheers and boos and general laughter from the crowd. From his shadowy corner, Moist saw Lord Vetinari, right by the Archchancellor. He scanned the rest of the crowd and spotted Readier Gilt, standing off to one side and, surprisingly, not smiling. And Gilt saw him.
One look was enough. The man wasn’t certain. Not totally certain.
Welcome to fear, said Moist to himself. It’s hope, turned inside out. You know it can’t go wrong, you’re sure it can’t go wrong . . .
But it might.
I’ve got you.
Devious Collabone coughed. ‘Er, but I don’t think this is the message Archchancellor Ridcully sent,’ he said, his voice gone squeaky with nervousness.
‘What makes you think that, man?’
‘Because it says it isn’t,’ Collabone quavered. ‘It says it’s from dead people . . .’
‘You mean it’s an old message?’ said Ridcully.
‘Er, no, sir. Er . . . I’d better read it, shall I? Do you want me to read it?’
‘That’s the point, man!’
In the big disc of glass, Collabone cleared his throat.
‘ “Who will listen to the dead? We who died so that words could fly demand justice now. These are the crimes of the Board of the Grand Trunk: theft, embezzlement, breach of trust, corporate murder—” ’
Chapter Fourteen
Deliverance
Lord Vetinari Requests Silence — Mr Lipwig Comes Down – Mr Pump
Moves On — Fooling No One But Yourself— The Bird — The Concludium
– Freedom of Choice
The Great Hall was in uproar. Most of the wizards took the opportunity to congregate at the buffet, which was now clear. If there’s one thing a wizard hates, it’s having to wait while the person in front of them is in two minds about coleslaw. It’s a salad bar, they say, it’s got the kind of stuff salad bars have, if it was surprising it wouldn’t be a salad bar, you’re not here to look at it. What do you expect to find? Rhino chunks? Pickled coelacanth?
The Lecturer in Recent Runes ladled more bacon bits into his salad bowl, having artfully constructed buttresses of celery and breastworks of cabbage to increase its depth five times.
‘Any of you Fellows know what this is all about?’ he said, raising his voice above the din. ‘Seems to be upsetting a lot of people.’
‘It’s this clacks business,’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. ‘I’ve never trusted it. Poor Collabone. Decent young man in his way. A good man with a whelk. Seems to be in a spot of bother . . .’
It was quite a large spot. Devious Collabone was opening and shutting his mouth on the other side of the glass like a stranded fish.
In front of him, Mustrum Ridcully reddened with anger, his tried and tested approach to most problems.
‘. . . sorry, sir, but this is what it says and you asked me to read it,’ Collabone protested. ‘It goes on and on, sir—’
‘And that’s what the clacks people gave you?’ the Archchancellor demanded. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, sir. They did look at me in a funny way, sir, but this is definitely it. Why should I make anything up, Archchancellor? I spend most of my time in a tank, sir. A boring, boring, lonely tank, sir.’
‘Not one more word!’ screamed Greenyham. ‘I forbid it!’ Beside him, Mr Nutmeg had sprayed his drink across several dripping guests.
‘Excuse me? You forbid, sir?’ said Ridcully, turning on Greenyham in sudden fury. ‘Sir, I am the Master of this college! I will not, sir, be told what to do in my own university! If there is anything to be forbidden here, sir, I will do the forbidding! Thank you! Go ahead, Mr Collabone!’
‘Er, er, er . . .’ Collabone panted, longing for death.
‘I said carry on, man!’
‘Er, er . . . yes . . . “There was no safety. There was no pride. All there was, was money. Everything became money, and money became everything. Money treated us as if we were things, and we died—”‘
‘Is there no law in this place? That is outright slander!’ shouted Stowley. ‘It’s a trick of some sort!’
‘By whom, sir?’ roared Ridcully. ‘Do you mean to suggest that Mr Collabone, a young wizard of great integrity, who I may say is doing wonderful work with snakes—’
‘—shellfish—’ murmured Ponder Stibbons.
‘—shellfish, is playing some kind of joke? How dare you, sir! Continue, Mr Collabone!’
‘I, I, I—’
‘That is an order, Dr Collabone!’*
* Archchancellor Ridcully was a great believer in retaliation by promotion. You couldn’t have civilians criticizing one of his wizards. That was his job.
‘Er . . . “Blood oils the machinery of the Grand Trunk as willing, loyal people pay with their lives for the Board’s culpable stupidity—” ’
The hubbub rose again. Moist saw Lord Vetinari’s gaze traverse the room. He didn’t duck in time. The Patrician’s stare passed right through him, carrying away who knew what. An eyebrow rose in interrogation. Moist looked away, and sought out Gilt.
He wasn’t there.
In the omniscope Mr Collabone’s nose now glowed like a beacon. He struggled, dropping pages, losing his place, but pressing on with the dogged, dull determination of a man who could spend all day
watching one oyster.
‘—nothing less than an attempt to blacken our good names in front of the whole city!’ Stowley was protesting.
‘ “—unaware of the toll that is being taken. What can we say of the men who caused this, who sat in comfort round their table and killed us by numbers? This—” ’
‘I will sue the University! I will sue the University!’ screamed Greenyham. He picked up a chair and hurled it at the omniscope. Halfway to the glass it turned into a small flock of doves, which panicked and soared up to the roof.
‘Oh, please sue the University!’ Ridcully bellowed. ‘We’ve got a pond full of people who tried to sue the University—’
‘Silence,’ said Vetinari.
It wasn’t a very loud word, but it had an effect rather like that of a drop of black ink in a glass of clear water. The word spread out in coils and tendrils, getting everywhere. It strangled the noise.
Of course, there is always someone not paying attention. ‘And furthermore,’ Stowley went on, oblivious of the hush unfolding in his own little world of righteous indignation, ‘it’s plain that—’
‘I will have silence,’ Vetinari stated.
Stowley stopped, looked around and deflated. Silence ruled.
‘Very good,’ said Vetinari quietly. He nodded at Commander Vimes of the Watch, who whispered to another watchman, who pushed his way though the crowd and towards the door.