‘Mrs Whitlow likes that sort of thing,’ said the Senior Wrangler calmly. ‘But she did say it was still a bit warm, so possibly you can fan her with a palm leaf while I peel these grapes for her.’
‘Once again it is left to me to point out the elementary unfairness,’ said the Dean. ‘Merely waving a leaf is a very menial activity compared to removing grape skins, and I happen to outrank you. Senior Wrangler.’
‘Indeed, Dean? And exactly how do you work that out?’
‘It’s not my opinion, man, it’s written into the Faculty structure!’
‘Of where, precisely?’
‘Have you gone totally Bursar? Unseen University, of course!’
‘And where is that, exactly?’ said the Senior Wrangler, carefully arranging some lilies in a pleasing design.
‘Ye gods, man, it’s . . . it’s . . .’ The Dean flapped a hand in the direction of the horizon, and his voice trailed off as certain facts of time and space bore in on him.
‘I’ll leave you to work it out, shall I?’ said the Senior Wrangler, getting off his knees and raising the tray reverentially.
‘I’ll help!’ shouted the Dean, lumbering to his feet.
‘It’s very light, I assure you—’
‘No, no, I can’t let you do it all by yourself!’
Each holding the tray with one hand, and trying to push the other man away with the spare hand, they lurched forward, leaving a trail of spilt coconut milk and petals.
Ridcully rolled his eyes. It must be the heat, he thought. He turned to the Chair of Indefinite Studies, who was trying to tie a short log to a long stick with a piece of creeper.
‘I was just thinking’, he said, ‘that everyone’s gone a little bit mad except me and you . . . Er, what are you doing there?’
‘I was just wondering whether Mrs Whitlow might like a game of croquet,’ said the Chair. He waggled his eyebrows conspiratorially.
The Archchancellor sighed and wandered off along the deck. The Librarian had gone back to being a deckchair as a suitable mode for shipboard life, and the Bursar had gone to sleep on him.
The big leaf moved slightly. Ridcully got the feeling that the green trumpets on the mast were sniffing.
The wizards were already a little way from shore, but he saw the column of dust come down the track. It stopped at the beach and became a dot, which plunged into the sea.
The sail creaked again, and flapped as the wind grew.
‘Ahoy there!’ shouted Ridcully.
The distant figure waved for a moment and then continued swimming.
Ridcully filled his pipe and watched with interest as Ponder Stibbons caught up with the boat.
‘Very well swum, if I may say so,’ he said.
‘Permission to come aboard, sir?’ said Ponder, treading water. ‘Could you throw down a creeper?’
‘Why, certainly.’
The Archchancellor puffed his pipe as the wizard climbed aboard. ‘Possibly a record time over that distance, Mister Stibbons.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Ponder, dripping water on the deck.
‘And may I congratulate you on being properly dressed. You are wearing your pointy hat, which is the sine qua non of a wizard in public.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘It is a good hat.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
They say a wizard without his hat is undressed, Mister Stibbons.’
‘So I have heard, sir.’
‘But in your case, I must point out, you are with your hat but you are still, in a very real sense, undressed.’
‘I thought the robe would slow me down, sir.’
‘And, while it is good to see you, Stibbons, albeit rather more of you than I would usually care to contemplate, I am moved to ask why you are, in fact, here.’
‘I suddenly felt it would be unfair to deprive the University of my services, sir.’
‘Really? A sudden rush of nostalgia for the old alma mater, eh?’
‘You could say that, sir.’
Ridcully’s eyes twinkled behind the smoke and, not for the first time, Ponder suspected that the man was sometimes rather cleverer than he appeared. It would not be hard.
The Archchancellor shrugged, removed his pipe, and poked around inside it to remove a particularly obstructive clinker.
‘The Senior Wrangler’s bathing costume is around somewhere,’ he said. ‘I should put it on, if I were you. I suspect that offending Mrs Whitlow at the moment will get you hanged. All right? And if there is anything you want to talk about, my door is always open.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Right now, of course, I don’t have a door.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Imagine it as being open, nevertheless.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
After all, Ponder thought as he slipped gratefully away, the wizards of UU were merely crazy. Not even the Bursar was insane.
Even now, if he closed his eyes, he could still see the God of Evolution beaming so happily as the cockroach stirred.
Rincewind rattled the bars. ‘Don’t I get a trial?’ he shouted.
After a while a warder wandered along the corridor. ‘Wha’d’yew want a trial for, mister?’
‘What? Well, call me Mister Silly, but it might just prove that I wasn’t trying to steal the damn sheep, mightn’t it?’ said Rincewind. ‘I was in fact rescuing it. If only you people would track down the thief, he’d tell you!’
The warder leaned against the wall and stuck his hands in his belt.
‘Yeah, well, it’s a funny thing,’ he said, ‘but. y’know, we searched and searched and put up notices and everything but, funny thing, yew’ll never believe this, the bastard hasn’t had the decency to come forward? Makes yew despair of human nature, eh?’
‘So what’s going to happen to me?’
The warder scratched his nose. ‘Gonna hang you by the neck until you’re dead, mate. Tomorrow morno.’
‘You couldn’t perhaps just hang me by the neck until I’m sorry?’
‘No, mate. Got to be dead.’
‘Good grief, it was only a sheep when all’s said and done!’
The warder grinned widely. ‘Ah, a lot of men have gone to the gallows sayin’ that in the past,’ he said, ‘ ‘s’matterofact, you’re the first sheep-stealer we’ve had here for years. All our big heroes have been sheep-stealers. You’re gonna get a big crowd.’
‘Baah!’
‘Maybe a flock, too,’ said the warder.
‘That’s another thing,’ said Rincewind. ‘Why’s this sheep in my cell?’
‘Evidence, mate.’
Rincewind looked down at the sheep. ‘Oh. Well, no worries, then.’
The warder wandered off. Rincewind sat down on the bunk.
Well, he could look on the bright side, couldn’t he? This was civilization. He hadn’t seen much of it, what with being tied across the back of a horse and everything, but what he’d been able to see was full of ruts and hoofprints and smelled pretty bad, which civilization often does. They were going to hang him in the morning. This building was the first one made of stone he’d seen in this country. They had watchmen, even. They were going to hang him in the morning. There were the sounds of carts and people filtering in through the high window. They were going to hang him in the morning.
He gazed around the cell. It looked as though whoever’d built it had unaccountably forgotten to include any useful trapdoors.
Trapdoors . . . Now there was a word he shouldn’t think about.
He’d been in nastier places than this. Much, much nastier. And that made it worse, because he’d been up against nasty, weird and magical things which suddenly seemed a lot easier to contemplate than the fact that he was held in some stone box and in the morning some perfectly nice people who he might quite like if he met them in a bar were going to march him out and make him stand on a really unsafe floor in a very tight collar.
‘Baah!’
‘Shut up.’
‘Baah?’
‘Couldn’t you have had a bath, or a dip or something? It’s a bit agricultural in here.’
The wall, now his eyes had become accustomed to the gloom, was covered with scrawls, and in particular those little wicket gate tallies drawn by prisoners who were counting the days. They were going to hang him in the morning, so that was one chore he wouldn’t have to . . . Shut up, shut up.
Now he came to look closer, most of the counts went up to one.
He lay back with his eyes closed. Of course he’d get rescued, he’d always got rescued. Although, come to think of it, always in circumstances that put him in such a lot more danger than a prison cell usually held.
Well, he’d been in enough cells. There were ways to handle these things. The important thing was to be direct. He got up and banged on the bars until the warder sauntered along the corridor.
‘Yes, mate?’
‘I just want to get things sorted out,’ said Rincewind. ‘It’s not as though I’ve got time to waste, okay?’