‘There seems to be some uncertainty?’ said Coin.
‘If I may counsel-’ Hakardly began.
Coin waved a hand. The walls vanished. The wizards stood at the top of the tower of sourcery, and as one man their eyes turned to the distant pinnacle of Cori Celesti, home of the gods.
‘When you’ve beaten everyone else, there’s only the gods left to fight,’ said Coin. ‘Have any of you seen the gods?’
There was a chorus of hesitant denials.
‘I will show them to you.’
‘You’ve got room for another one in there, old son,’ said War.
Pestilence swayed unsteadily. ‘I’m sure we should be getting along,’ he muttered, without much conviction.
‘Oh, go on.’
‘Just a half, then. And then we really must be going.’
War slapped him on the back, and glared at Famine.
‘And wed better have another fifteen bags of peanuts,’ he added.
‘Oook,’ the Librarian concluded.
‘Oh,’ said Rincewind. ‘It’s the staff that’s the problem, then.’
‘Oook.’
‘Hasn’t anyone tried to take it away from him?’
‘Oook.’
‘What happened to them, then?’
‘Eeek.’
Rincewind groaned.
The Librarian had put his candle out because the presence of the naked flame was unsettling the books, but now that Rincewind had grown accustomed to the dark, he realised it wasn’t dark at all. The soft octarine glow from the books filled the inside of the tower with something that, while it wasn’t exactly light, was a blackness you could see by. Now and again the ruffle of stiff pages floated down from the gloom.
‘So, basically, there’s no way our magic could defeat him, isn’t that right?’
The Librarian cooked disconsolate agreement and continued to spin around gently on his bottom.
‘Pretty pointless, then. It may have struck you that I am not exactly gifted in the magical department? I mean, any duel is going to go on the lines of “Hallo, I’m Rincewind” closely followed by bazaam!’
‘Oook.’
‘Basically, what you’re saying is that I’m on my own.’
‘Oook.’
‘Thanks.’
By their own faint glow Rincewind regarded the books that had stacked themselves around the inner walls of the ancient tower.
He sighed, and marched briskly to the door, but slowed down noticeably as he reached it.
‘I’ll be off, then,’ he said.
‘Oook.’
‘To face who knows what dreadful perils,’ Rincewind added. ‘To lay down my life in the service of mankind-’
‘Eeek.’
‘All right, bipeds-’
‘Woof.’
‘- and quadrapeds, all right.’ He glanced at the Patrician’s jamjar, a beaten man.
‘And lizards,’ he added. ‘Can I go now?’
A gale was howling down out of a clear sky as Rincewind toiled towards the tower of sourcery. Its high white doors were shut so tightly it was barely possible to see their outline in the milky surface of the stone.
He hammered on it for a bit, but nothing much happened. The doors seemed to absorb the sound.
‘Fine thing,’ he muttered to himself, and remembered the carpet. It was lying where he had left it, which was another sign that Ankh had changed. In the thieving days before the sourcerer nothing stayed for long where you left it. Nothing printable, anyway.
He rolled it out on the cobbles so that the golden dragons writhed against the blue ground, unless of course the blue dragons were flying against a golden sky.
He sat down.
He stood up.
He sat down again and hitched up his robe and, with some effort, unrolled one of his socks. Then he replaced his boot and wandered around for a bit until he found, among the rubble, a half-brick. He inserted the half-brick into the sock and gave the sock a few thoughtful swings.
Rincewind had grown up in Morpork. What a Morpork citizen liked to have on his side in a fight was odds of about twenty to one, but failing that a sockful of half-brick and a dark alley to lurk in was generally considered a better bet than any two magic swords you cared to name.
He sat down again.
‘Up,’ he commanded.
The carpet did not respond. Rincewind peered at the pattern, then lifted a corner of the carpet and tried to make out if the underside was any better.
‘All right,’ he conceded, ‘down. Very, very carefully. Down.’
‘Sheep,’ slurred War. ‘It was sheep.’ His helmeted head hit the bar with a clang. He raised it again. ‘Sheep.’
‘Nonono,’ said Famine, raising a thin finger unsteadily. ‘Some other domess … dummist … tame animal. Like pig. Heifer. Kitten? Like that. Not sheep.’
‘Bees,’ said Pestilence, and slid gently out of his seat.
‘O-kay,’ said War, ignoring him, ‘right. Once again, then. From the top.’ He rapped the side of his glass for the note.
‘We are poor little … unidentified domesticated animals … that have lost our way …’ he quavered.
‘Baabaabaa,’ muttered Pestilence, from the floor.
War shook his head. ‘It isn’t the same, you know,’ he said. ‘Not without him. He used to come in beautifully on the bass.’
‘Baabaabaa,’ Pestilence repeated.
‘Oh, shut up,’ said War, and reached uncertainly for a bottle.
The gale buffeted the top of the tower, a hot, unpleasant wind that whispered with strange voices and rubbed the skin like fine sandpaper.
In the centre of it Coin stood with the staff over his head. As dust filled the air the wizards saw the lines of magic force pouring from it.
They curved up to form a vast bubble that expanded until it must have been larger than the city. And shapes appeared in it. They were shifting and indistinct, wavering horribly like visions in a distorting mirror, no more substantial than smoke rings or pictures in the clouds, but they were dreadfully familiar.
There, for a moment, was the fanged snout of Offler. There, clear for an instant in the writhing storm, was Blind lo, chief of the gods, with his orbiting eyes.
Coin muttered soundlessly and the bubble began to contract. It bulged and jerked obscenely as the things inside fought to get out, but they could not stop the contraction.
Now it was bigger than the University grounds.
Now it was taller than the tower.
Now it was twice the height of a man, and smoke grey.
Now it was an iridescent pearl, the size of … well, the size of a large pearl.
The gale had gone, replaced by a heavy, silent calm. The very air groaned with the strain. Most of the wizards were flat on the floor, pressed there by the unleashed forces that thickened the air and deadened sound like a universe of feathers, but every one of them could hear his own heart beating loud enough to smash the tower.
‘Look at me,’ Coin commanded.
They turned their eyes upwards. There was no way they could disobey.
He held the glistening thing in one hand. The other held the staff, which had smoke pouring from its ends.
‘The gods,’ he said. ‘Imprisoned in a thought. And perhaps they were never more than a dream.’
His voice become older, deeper. ‘Wizards of Unseen University,’ it said, ‘have I not given you absolute dominion?’
Behind. them the carpet rose slowly over the side of the tower, with Rincewind trying hard to keep his balance. His eyes were wide with the sort of terror that comes naturally to anyone standing on a few threads and several hundred feet of empty air.
He lurched off the hovering thing and on to the tower, swinging the loaded sock around his head in wide, dangerous sweeps.
Coin saw him reflected in the astonished stares of the assembled wizards. He turned carefully and watched the wizard stagger erratically towards him.
‘Who are you?’ he said.
‘I have come,’ said Rincewind thickly, ‘to challenge the sourcerer. Which one is he?’
He surveyed the prostrate wizardry, hefting the half-brick in one hand.
Hakardly risked a glance upwards and made frantic eyebrow movements at Rincewind who, even at the best of times, wasn’t much good at interpreting non-verbal communication. This wasn’t the best of times.
‘With a sock?’ said Coin. ‘What good is a sock?’
The arm holding the staff rose. Coin looked down at it in mild astonishment.
‘No, stop,’ he said. ‘I want to talk to this man.’ He stared at Rincewind, who was swaying back and forth under the influence of sleeplessness, horror and the after-effects of an adrenaline overdose.
‘Is it magical?’ he said, curiously. ‘Perhaps it is the sock of an Archchancellor? A sock of force?’
Rincewind focused on it.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘I think I bought it in a shop or something. Um. I’ve got another one somewhere.’
‘But in the end it has something heavy?’
‘Um. Yes,’ said Rincewind. He added, ‘It’s a half-brick.’
‘But it has great power.’
‘Er. You can hold things up with it. If you had another one, you’d have a brick.’ Rincewind spoke slowly. He was assimilating the situation by a kind of awful osmosis, and watching the staff turn ominously in the boy’s hand.