‘Bracing air up here, isn’t it?’ said the Archchancellor, walking to the edge and waving a hand towards the city.
‘Oh, certainly,’ said Rincewind, tottering towards the corrugated battlements. ‘Why, I expect you can see all the way to the gr— Aaargh!’
The Archchancellor grabbed him and pulled him back.
‘That’s— It’s—’ Rincewind gasped.
‘Want to go back down again?’
Rincewind glared at the wizard and inched his way carefully back to the stairs. He looked down, ready at an instant’s notice to draw his head back, and carefully counted the steps.
Then he walked back gingerly to the parapet and risked looking over the edge.
There was the fiery speck of the burning brewery. There was Bugarup, and its harbour . . .
Rincewind raised his gaze.
There was the red desert, glittering under the moonlight.
‘How high is this?’ he croaked.
‘On the outside? About half a mile, we think,’ said the Archchancellor.
‘And on the inside?’
‘You climbed it. Two storeys.’
‘You’re trying to tell me you’ve got a tower that’s taller at the top than it is at the bottom?’
‘Good, isn’t it?’ said the Archchancellor happily.
‘That’s . . . very clever,’ said Rincewind.
‘We’re a clever country—’
‘Rincewind!’
The voice came from below. Rincewind looked very carefully down the steps. It was one of the wizards.
‘Yes?’ he said.
‘Not you,’ snapped the wizard. ‘I want the Archchancellor!’
‘I’m Rincewind,’ said Rincewind.
The Archchancellor tapped him on the shoulder. That’s a coincidence,’ he said. ‘So am I.’
Ponder very carefully handed the bullroarer back to the little Librarian.
There, you can have it,’ he said. ‘I’m giving it to you and, in return, perhaps you can take your teeth out of my leg.’
From the other side of the rock came the voice of reason: There’s no need to fight, gentlemen. Let’s vote on it: now, all those who think a duck has webbed feet, raise your hands . . .’
The Librarian swung the thing a few more times.
‘Doesn’t seem to be a very good one,’ said Ponder. ‘Not much of a noise . . . honestly, how much longer are they going to be?’
. . . whum . . .
‘Eek!’
‘Yes, yes, very good . . .’
. . . whum . . . whum . . . whUUMMMMM . . .
Ponder looked up as yellow light spread across the plain.
There was a circle of blue sky opening above. The rain was stopping.
‘Eek?’
It occurred to Ponder to wonder what a little old man was doing painting pictures in a bare landscape on a whole new continent . . .
And then there was darkness.
The old man smiled with something like satisfaction, and turned away from the drawing he’d just completed. It had a lot of pointy hats in it, and it had faded right into the rock.
And he was as happy as anything, and had drawn all the spiders and several possums before he found out what was missing.
He never even knew about the very strange and unhappy duck-billed creature that slid silently into the river a little way off.
‘Got to be at least some kind of cousins,’ said the Archchancellor. ‘It’s not a common name. Have another beer.’
‘I had a look through the Unseen records once,’ said Rincewind morosely. They never had a Rincewind before.’ He upended the can of beer and finished the dregs. ‘Never had a relative before, come to that. Never ever.’ He pulled the top off another can. ‘No one to do all those little things relatives are s’posed to do, like . . . like . . . like send you some horrible cardigan at Hogswatch, stuff like that.’
‘You got a first name? Mine’s Bill.’
‘ ‘s a good name, Bill Rincewind. Dunno if I’ve even got a first name.’
‘What do people usually call you, mate?’
‘Well, they usually say, “Stop him!”‘ said Rincewind, and took a deep draught of beer. ‘Of course, that’s just a nickname. When they want to be formal they shout “Don’t let him get away!”‘
He squinted at the can. ‘ ‘s much better than that other stuff,’ he said. ‘What’s this say? “Funnelweb”? ‘s a funny name for a beer.’
‘You’re reading the list of ingredients,’ said Bill.
‘Really?’ mumbled Rincewind. ‘Where was I?’
‘Pointy hats. Water running out. Talking kangaroos. Pictures coming alive.’
‘That’s right,’ said the Dean. ‘If that’s what you’re like sober, we want to see what effect the beer has.’
‘Y’see, when the sun’s up,’ said Archchancellor Bill, ‘I’ve got to go down to the prison and see the prime minister and explain why we don’t know what’s happened to the water. Anything you can do to assist would be very useful. Give him another tinnie, Dean. People’re already banging on the gates. Once the beer runs out, we’re in strife.’
Rincewind felt that he was in a warm amber haze. He was among wizards. You could tell by the way they bickered all the time. And, somehow, the beer made it easier to think.
A wizard leaned over his shoulder and put an open book in front of him.
‘This is a copy of a cave painting from Cangoolie,’ he said. ‘We’ve often wondered what the blobs are above the figures . . .’
‘That’s rain,’ said Rincewind, after a glance.
‘You mentioned this before,’ said Bill. ‘Little drops of water flying through the air, right?’
‘Dropping,’ Rincewind corrected him.
‘And it doesn’t hurt?’
‘Nope.’
‘Water’s heavy. Can’t say the idea of big white bags of the stuff floating around over our heads appeals.’
Rincewind had never studied meteorology, although he had been an end-user all his life.
He waved his hands vaguely. ‘They’re like . . . steam,’ he said, and hiccuped. ‘ ‘s right. Lovely fluffy steam.’
‘They’re boiling?’
‘No, no. Nono. Ver’ cold, clouds. Sometimes they come down ver’ low, they even touch the ground.’
The wizards looked at one another.
‘Y’know, we’re making some bloody good beer these days,’ said Bill.
‘Clouds sound bloody dangerous to me,’ said the Dean. ‘We don’t want them knocking over trees and buildings, do we?’
‘Ah, but. But. They’re soft, see? Like smoke.’
‘But you said they weren’t hot!’
Rincewind suddenly saw the perfect explanation.
‘Have you ever huffed on a cold mirror?’ he said, beaming.
‘Not on a regular basis, but I know what you mean.’
‘Well, basically, that’s clouds! Can I have another beer? It’s amazing, it doesn’t feem to have any essect on me, no matter how much I dnirk. Helps me think clearerer.’
Archchancellor Rincewind drummed his fingers on the table. ‘You and this rain stuff – you’ve got to be connected, yes? We’ve run out of water and you turn up . . .’
Rincewind burped. ‘Got to put something right, too,’ he said. ‘Pointy hats, all floating in the air . . .’
‘Where did you last see them?’
‘In the brewery with no beer in it. Said it’s haunted, haha. Pointy hat haunting, hahah . . .’
Bill stared at him. ‘Right,’ he said. He looked at the forlorn figure of his distant cousin, now very close up. ‘Let’s get down there.’ He glanced at Rincewind again and seemed to think for a moment.
‘And we’ll take some beer,’ he added.
Ponder Stibbons tried to think, but his thoughts seemed to be going very slowly. Everything was dark and he couldn’t move but, somehow, it wasn’t too bad. It felt like those treasured moments in bed when you’re just awake enough to know that you’re still nicely asleep. It’s amazing how time passes.
There was a huge bucket chain now, stretching all the way from the harbour to the brewery. Despite the tangily refreshing oak spiciness of their Chardonnays, the Ecksians weren’t the kind of people to let a brewery burn. It didn’t matter that there was no beer in it. There was a principle at stake.
The wizards marched through the crowd to a chorus of mutters and the occasional jeer from someone safely tucked away at the back.
Smoke and steam came out of the main doorway, which had been burst open by a battering ram.
Archchancellor Rincewind stepped inside, dragging his happily smiling relative with him.
The smouldering Roo Beer sign, reduced to a metal skeleton, still lay in the middle of the floor.
‘He kept waving at it and going on about points hats,’ Neilette volunteered.
‘Test it for magic, Dean,’ said Archchancellor Rincewind.
The Dean waved a hand. Sparks flew up. ‘Nothing there,’ he said. ‘I said we—’
For a moment some pointed shapes hung in the air, and then vanished.
‘That’s not magic,’ said one of the wizards. That’s ghosts.’
‘Everyone knows this place is haunted. Evil spirits, they say.’
‘Should’ve stuck to beer,’ said Archchancellor Rincewind.
Neilette pointed to the trapdoor. ‘But it doesn’t go anywhere,’ she said. ‘There’s a hatch to the outside and some storerooms and that’s about it.’