‘Fair enough, ‘ the priest conceded.
‘I suppose it’s not the gods up to a bit of ungodliness on the side?’ said Ridcully, clutching at one last straw. ‘A couple of ‘em had a bit of a tiff or something? Messing around with golden apples or something?’
‘It’s very quiet on the god front right now, ‘ said the Chief Priest. His eyes glazed as he spoke, apparently reading from a script inside his head.‘Hyperopia, goddess of shoes, thinks that Sandelfon, god of corridors, is the long-lost twin brother of Grune, god of unseasonal fruit. Who put the goat in the bed of Offler, the Crocodile God? Is Offler forging an alliance with Seven-handed Sek? Meanwhile, Hoki the Jokester is up to his old tricks -‘
‘Yes, yes, all right,’ said Ridcully.‘I’ve never been able to get interested in all that stuff, myself.’
Behind them, the Dean was trying to prevent the Lecturer in Recent Runes from attempting to turn the priest of Offler the Crocodile God into a set of matching suitcases, and the Bursar had a bad nosebleed from a lucky blow with a thurible.
‘What we’ve got to present here, ‘ said Ridcully, ‘is a united front. Right?’
‘Agreed, ‘ said the Chief Priest.
‘Right. For now.’
A small rug sinewaved past at eye level. The Chief Priest handed back the brandy bottle.
‘Incidentally, mother says you haven’t written lately, ‘ he said.
‘Yeah …’ The other wizards would have been
surprised at their Archchancellor’s look of contrite embarrassment.‘I’ve been busy. You know how it is.’
‘She said to be sure to remind you she’s expecting both of us over for lunch on Hogswatchday.’
‘I haven’t forgotten,’ said Ridcully, glumly. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’ He turned to the melee behind them.
‘Cut it out, you fellows,’ he said.
‘Brethren! Desist!’ bellowed the Chief Priest.
The Senior Wrangler released his grip on the head of the high priest of the Cult of Hinki. A couple of curates stopped kicking the Bursar. There was a general adjustment of clothing, a finding of hats and a bout of embarrassed coughing.
‘That’s better,’ said Ridcully.‘Now then, his Eminence the Chief Priest and myself have decided -‘
The Dean glowered at a very small bishop.
‘He kicked me! He kicked me!’
‘Ooo! I never did, my son.’
‘You bloody well did,’ the Dean hissed. ‘Sideways, so they wouldn’t see!’
‘- have decided -‘ repeated Ridcully, glaring at the Dean, ‘to pursue a solution to the current disturbances in a spirit of brotherhood and goodwill and that includes you, Senior Wrangler.’
‘I couldn’t help it! He pushed me.’
‘Well! May you be forgiven!’ said the Archdeacon of Thrume, stoutly.
There was a crash from above. A chaise-longue cantered down the stairs and smashed through the hall door.
‘I think perhaps the guards are still trying to free the Patrician,’ said the High Priest. ‘Apparently even his secret passages locked themselves.’
‘All of them? I thought the sly devil had ‘em everywhere,’ said Ridcully.
‘All locked,’ said the High Priest. ‘All of them.’
‘Almost all of them,’ said a voice behind him.
Ridcully’s tones did not change as he turned around, except that a slight extra syrup was added.
A figure had apparently stepped out of the wall. It was human, but only by default. Thin, pale, and clad all in dusty black, the Patrician always put Ridcully in mind of a predatory flamingo, if you could find a flamingo that was black and had the patience of a rock.
‘Ah, Lord Vetinari,’ he said, ‘I am so glad you are unhurt.’
‘I will see you gentlemen in the Oblong Office, ‘ said the Patrician. Behind him, a panel in the wall slid back noiselessly.
‘I, um, I believe there are a number of guards upstairs trying to free -‘ the Chief Priest began.
The Patrician waved a thin hand at him.‘I wouldn’t dream of stopping them,’ he said. ‘It gives them something to do and makes them feel important. Otherwise they just have to stand around all day looking fierce and controlling their bladders. Come this way.’
The leaders of the other Ankh-Morpork Guilds turned up in ones and twos, gradually filling the room.
The Patrician sat gloomily staring at the paperwork on his desk as they argued.
‘Well, it’s not us,’ said the head of the Alchemists.
‘Things are always flying through the air when you fellows are around,’ said Ridcully.
‘Yes, but that’s only because of unforeseen exothermic reactions, ‘ said the alchemist.
‘Things keep blowing up,’ translated the deputy-head alchemist, without looking up.
‘They may blow up, but they come down again.They don’t flutter around and, e.g., start unscrewing themselves,’ said his chief, giving him a warning frown. ‘Anyway, why’d we do it to ourselves? I tell you, it’s hell in my workshop! There’s stuff whizzing everywhere! Just before I came out, a huge and very expensive piece of glassware broke into splinters !’
‘Marry, ‘twas a sharp retort, ‘ said a wretched voice.
The press of bodies moved aside to reveal the General Secretary and Chief Butt of the Guild of Fools and Joculators. He flinched under the attention, but he generally flinched all the time anyway. He had the look of a man whose face has been Ground Zero for one custard pie too many, whose trousers have been too often awash with whitewash, whose nerves would disintegrate completely at the sound of just one more whoopee-cushion. The other Guild leaders tried to be nice to him, in the same way that people try to be kind to other people who are standing on the ledges of very high buildings.
‘What do you mean, Geoffrey?’ said Ridcully, as kindly as he could.
The Fool gulped. ‘Well, you see,’ he mumbled, ‘we have sharp as in splinters, and retort as in large glass alchemical vessel, ~~d thus we get a pun on “sharp retort” which also means, well, a scathing answer. Sharp retort. You see? It’s a play on words. Um. It’s not very good, is it.’
The Archchancellor looked into eyes like two runny eggs.
‘Oh, apun,’ he said.‘Of course. Hohoho.’ He waved a hand encouragingly at the others.
‘Hohoho, ‘ said the Chief Priest.
‘Hohoho, ‘ said the leader of the Assassins’ Guild.
‘Hohoho,’ said the head Alchemist. ‘And, you know, what makes it even funnier is that it was actually an alembic.’
‘So what you’re telling me,’ said the Patrician, as considerate hands led the Fool away, ‘is that none of you are responsible for these events?’
He gave Ridcully a meaningful look as he spoke.
The Archchancellor was about to answer when his eye was caught by a movement on the Patrician’s desk.
There was a little model of the Palace in a glass globe. And next to it was a paperknife.
The paperknife was slowly bending.
‘Well?’ said the Patrician.
‘Not us,’ said Ridcully, his voice hollow. The Patrician followed his gaze.
The knife was already curved like a bow.
The Patrician scanned the sheepish crowd until he found Captain Doxie of the City Guard Day Watch.
‘Can’t you do something?’ he said.
‘Er. Like what, sir? The knife? Er. I suppose I could arrest it for being bent.’
Lord Vetinari threw his hands up in the air.
‘So! It’s not magic! It’s not gods! It’s not people! What is it? And who’s going to stop it? Who am I going to call?’
Half an hour later the little globe had vanished.
No-one noticed. They never do.
Mrs Cake knew who she was going to call.
‘You there, One-Man-Bucket?’ she said.
Then she ducked, just in case.
A reedy and petulant voice oozed out of the air.
where have you been I can’t move in here!
Mrs Cake bit her lip. Such a direct reply meant her spirit guide was worried. When he didn’t have anything on his mind he spent five minutes talking about buffaloes and great white spirits, although if One-Man-Bucket had ever been near white spirit he’d drunk it and it was anyone’s guess what he’d do to a buffalo. And he kept putting ‘ums’ and ‘hows ‘ into the conversation.
‘What d’you mean?’
– there been a catastrophe or something, some kind of ten-second plague?
‘No. Don’t think so.’
– there’s real pressure here, you know. what’s hokeing everything up?
‘What do you mean?’
– shutupshutupshutup I’m trying to talk to the lady!
– you lot over there, keep the noise down! oh yeaha sez you –
Mrs Cake was aware of other voices trying to drown him out.
‘One-Man-Bucket!’
– heathen savage, am I? so you know what this heathen savage says to youa yeah? listen, I’ve been over here for a hundred years, me! I don’t have to take talk like that from someone who’s still warm! Tight – that does it, you …
His voice faded.
Mrs Cake set her jaw.
His voice came back.
– oh yeah? oh yeaha well, maybe you was big when you was alive, friend, but here and now you’re just a bedsheet with holes in it! Oh, so you don’t like that, eh –