‘I’m sure they wouldn’t,’ he said.
‘I mean, even that far away,’ he said.
‘They wouldn’t dare,’ he said.
‘Not magic. Surely not?’ he said.
‘I’ve never trusted those grubby-handed bastards!’ he said. ‘They’re not like us, you know. They’ve got no idea of proper dignity!’
The crowd surging around the box office was getting deeper and more angry by the minute.
‘Well, have you gone through all your pockets?’ demanded the Chair.
‘Yes!’ muttered the Dean.
‘Have another look, then.’
As far as wizards were concerned, paying to get into anything was something that happened to other people. A pointy hat usually did nicely.
While the Dean struggled, the Chair beamed madly at the young woman who was selling tickets. ‘But I assure you, dear lady,’ he said desperately, ‘we are wizards.’
‘I can see your false beards,’ said the girl, and sniffed. ‘We get all sorts in here. How do I know you aren’t three little boys in your dad’s coat?’
‘Madam!’
‘I’ve got two dollars and fifteen pence,’ said the Dean, picking the coins out of a handful of fluff and mysterious occult objects.
‘That’s two in the stalls, then,’ said the girl, grudgingly unreeling two tickets. The Chair scooped them up.
‘Then I’ll take Windle in,’ he said quickly, turning to the others. ‘I’m afraid the rest of you had better get back to your honest trading.’ He moved his eyebrows up and down suggestively.
‘I don’t see why we should-‘ the Dean began.
‘Otherwise we’ll be in arrears,’ the Chair went on, mugging furiously. ‘If you don’t get back.’
‘See here, that was my money, and-‘ the Dean said, but the Lecturer in Recent Runes grabbed his arm.
‘Just come along,’ he said, winked slowly and deliberately at the Chair. ‘Time we were getting back.’
‘I don’t see why-‘the Dean gurgled, as they dragged him off.
Grey clouds swirled in the Archchancellor’s magic mirror. Many wizards had them, but not many ever bothered to use them. They were quirky and unreliable. They weren’t even much good for shaving in.
Ridcully was surprisingly adept at using one.
‘Stalkin’,’ he offered as a brief explanation. ‘Couldn’t be having with all that crawlin’ around in damp bracken for hours, bigods. Help yourself to a drink, man. And one for me.’
The clouds flickered.
‘Can’t seem to see anything else,’ he said. ‘Odd, that. Just fog, flashing away.
The Archchancellor coughed. It was beginning to dawn on the Bursar that, against all expectation, the Archchancellor was quite bright.
‘Ever seen one of these shadow moving puppet play picture things?’ Ridcully asked.
‘The servants go,’ said the Bursar. This, Ridcully decided, meant ‘no’.
‘I think we should have a look,’ he said.
‘Very well, Archchancellor,’ said the Bursar, meekly.
An inviolable rule about buildings for the showing of moving pictures, applicable throughout the multiverse, is that the ghastliness of the architecture around the back is inversely proportional to the gloriousness of the architecture in the front. At the front: pillars, arches, gold leaf, lights. At the back: weird ducts, mysterious prolapses of pipework, blank walls, fetid alleys.
And the window to the lavatories.
‘There’s no reason at all why we should have to do this,’ moaned the Dean, as the wizards struggled in the darkness.
‘Shut up and keep pushing,’ muttered the Lecturer in Recent Runes, from the other side of the window.
‘We should have changed something into money,’ said the Dean. ‘Just a quick illusion. Where’s the harm in that?’
‘It’s called watering the currency,’ said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. ‘You can get thrown into the scorpion pit for stuff’ like that. Where am I putting my feet? Where am I putting my feet?’
‘You’re fine,’ said a wizard. ‘Right, Dean. Up you come.’
‘Oh, dear,’ moaned the Dean, as he was dragged through the narrow window into the unmentionable gloom beyond. ‘No good will come of this.’
‘Just watch where you’re putting your feet. Now see what you’ve done? Didn’t I tell you to watch where you were putting your feet? Anyway, come on.’
The wizards skulked, or in the Dean’s case, squelched furtively through the backstage area and into the darkened, bustling auditorium, where Windle Poons was keeping some seats free by the simple expedient of waving his stick at anyone who came near them. They sidled in, tripping over one another’s legs, and sat down.
They stared at the shadowy grey rectangle at the other end of the hall.
After a while the Chair said, ‘Can’t see what people see in it, myself.’
‘Has anyone done “Deformed Rabbit”?’ said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.
‘It hasn’t started yet,’ hissed the Dean.
‘I’m hungry,’ complained Poons. ‘I’m an old man, mm, and I’m hungry.’
‘Do you know what he did?’ said the Chair. ‘Do you know what the old fool did? When a young lady with a torch was showing us to our seats he pinched her on the . . . the fundament!’
Poons sniggered. ‘Hubba-hubba! Does your mother know you’re out?’ he cackled.
‘It’s all too much for him,’ the Chair complained. ‘We never should have brought him.’
‘Do you realize we’re missing our dinner?’ said the Dean.
The wizards fell silent at this. A stout woman edging past Poons’ wheelchair suddenly started and looked around suspiciously and saw nothing except a dear old man, obviously fast asleep.
‘And it’s goose on Tuesdays,’ said the Dean.
Poons opened one eye and honked the horn on his wheelchair.
‘Tantarabobs! How’s your granny off for soap!’ he muttered triumphantly.
‘See what I mean?’ said the Chair. ‘He doesn’t know what century it is.’
Poons turned a beady black eye on him.
‘Old I am, mm, and daft I may be,’ he said, ‘but I ain’t goin’ to be hungry.’ He rummaged around in the unspeakable depths of the wheelchair and produced a greasy black bag. It jingled. ‘I saw a young lady up the front a-selling of special moving-picture food,’ he said.
‘You mean you had money all the time?’ said the Dean. ‘And you never told us?’
‘You never asked,’ said Poons.
The wizards stared hungrily at the bag.
‘They be having buttered banged grains and sausages in buns and chocolate things with things on and things,’ said Poons. He gave them a toothless and crafty look. ‘You can have some too, if you like,’ he added graciously.
The Dean ticked off his purchases. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘that’s six Patrician-sized tubs of banged grains with extra butter, eight sausages in a bun, a jumbo cup of fizzy drink, and a bag of chocolate-covered raisins.’ He handed over the money.
‘Right,’ said the Chair, gathering up the containers. ‘Er. Do you think we should get something for the others?’
In the picture-throwing room Bezam cursed as he threaded the huge reel of Blown Away into the picture-throwing box.
A few feet away, in a roped-off section of the balcony, the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, Lord Vetinari, was also ill at ease.
They were, he had to admit, a pleasant enough young couple. He just wasn’t sure why he was sitting next to them, and why they were so important.
He was used to important people, or at least to people who thought they were important. Wizards became important through high deeds of magic. Thieves became important for daring robberies and so, in a slightly different way, did merchants. Warriors became important through winning battles and staying alive. Assassins became important through skilful inhumations. There were many roads to prominence, but you could see them, you could work them out. They made some sort of sense.
Whereas these two people had merely moved interestingly in front of this new-fangled moving-picture machinery. The rankest actor in the city’s theatre was a mufti-skilled master of thespianism by comparison to them, but it wouldn’t occur to anyone to line the streets and shout out his name.
The Patrician had never visited the clicks before. As far as he could ascertain, Victor Maraschino was famous for a sort of smouldering look that had middle-aged ladies who should know better swooning in the aisles, and Miss De Syn’s forte was acting languidly, slapping faces, and looking fantastic while lying among silken cushions.
While he, Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, ruled the city, preserved the city, loved the city, hated the city and had spent a lifetime in the service of the city . . .
And, as the common people had been filing into the stalls, his razor-keen hearing had picked up the conversation of two of them:
‘Who’s that up there?’
‘That’s Victor Maraschino and Delores De Syn! Do you know nothing?’
‘I mean the tall guy in black.’
‘Oh, dunno who he is. Just some bigwig, I expect.’
Yes, it was fascinating. You could become famous just for being, well, famous. It occurred to him that this was an extremely dangerous thing and he might probably have to have someone killed one day, although it would be with reluctance.[26] In the meantime, there was a kind of secondary glory that came from being in the company of the truly celebrated, and to his astonishment he was enjoying it.