The wizards looked down.
Below was utter darkness. Something small skittered away on what sounded very much like more than four legs. There was the smell of very old, very stale beer.
‘No worries,’ said Rincewind, waving a tin expansively. ‘I’ll go down first, shall I?’
This was fun.
There was a rusted ladder bolted to the wall below him. It creaked under his weight, and gave way when he was a few feet from the cellar floor, dropping him on to the stones. The wizards heard him laugh.
Then he called up: ‘Do any of you know someone called Dibbler?’
‘What – old Fair Go?’ said Bill.
‘ ‘s right. He’ll be outside selling stuff to the crowd, right?’
‘Very likely.’
‘Can someone go and get me one of his floating meat pies with extra tomato sauce? I could really do with one.’
The Dean looked at Archchancellor Rincewind. ‘How much beer did he drink?’
‘Three or four tinnies. He must be allergic, poor bastard.’
‘I reckon I could even eat two,’ Rincewind called up.
”Two?
‘No worries. Anyone got a torch? It’s dark down here.’
‘Do you want the gourmet pies or the ordinary?’ said the Dean.
‘Oh, the ordinary will do me. No swank, eh?’
‘Poor bastard,’ said Bill, and sorted through his small change.
It was indeed dark in the cellars, but enough dim light filtered through the trapdoor for Rincewind to make out huge pipes in the gloom.
It was obvious that some time after the brewery had been closed, but before people had got around to securely locking every entrance, the cellars had been employed by young people as such places are when you live with your parents, the house is too small, and no one has got around to inventing the motorcar.
In short, they’d written on the walls. Rincewind could make out careful inscriptions telling posterity that, for example, B. Smoth Is A Pozza. While he didn’t know what a pozza was, he was quite, quite sure that B. Smoth didn’t want to be called one. It was amazing how slang seemed to radiate its meaning even in another language.
There was a thump behind him as the Luggage landed on the stone floor.
‘Me old mate Trunkie,’ said Rincewind. ‘No worries!’
Another ladder was eased down and the wizards, with some care, joined him. Arch-chancellor Rincewind was holding a staff with a glowing end.
‘Found anything?’ he said.
‘Well, yes. I wouldn’t shake hands with anyone called B. Smoth,’ said Rincewind.
‘Oh, the Dean’s not a bad bloke when you get to know him—What’s up?’
Rincewind pointed to the far end of the room.
‘There, on a door, someone had drawn some pointy hats, in red. They glistened in the light.
‘My word. Blood,’ said Rincewind.
His cousin ran a finger over it. ‘It’s ochre,’ he said. ‘Clay . . .’
The door led to another cellar. There were a few empty barrels, some broken crates, and nothing else except musty darkness.
Dust whirled up on the floor from the draught of their movement, in a series of tiny, inverted whirlwinds. Pointy hats again.
‘Hmm, solid walls all round,’ said Bill. ‘Better pick a direction, mate.’
Rincewind had a drink, shut his eyes and pointed a finger at random.
‘That way!’
The Luggage plunged forward and struck the brickwork, which fell away to reveal a dark space beyond.
Rincewind stuck his head through. All the builders had done was wall up and square off a part of a cave. From the feel of the air, it was quite a large one.
Neilette and the wizards climbed through behind him.
‘I’m sure this place wasn’t here when the brewery was built!’ said Neilette.
‘It’s big,’ said the Dean. ‘How’d it get made?’
‘Water,’ said Rincewind.
‘You what? Water makes great big holes in rock?’
‘Yes. Don’t ask me why— What was that?’
‘What?’
‘Did you hear something?’
‘You said, “What was that?”‘
Rincewind sighed. The cold air was sobering him up.
‘You really are wizards, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘Real honest-to-goodness wizards. You’ve got hats that’re more brim than point, the whole university’s made of tin, you’ve got a tiny tower which is, I must admit, good grief, a lot taller on the outside, but you’re wizards all right, and will you now, please, shut up?’
In the silence there was, very faintly, a plink.
Rincewind stared into the depths of the cave. The light from the staffs only made them worse. It cast shadows. Darkness was just darkness, but anything could be hiding in shadows.
These caves must’ve been explored,’ he said. It was a hope rather than a statement. History here was rather a rubbery thing.
‘Never heard of ’em,’ said the Dean.
‘Points again, look,’ said Bill, as they advanced.
‘Just stalactites and stalagmites,’ said Rincewind. ‘I don’t know how it works, but water drips on stuff and leaves piles of stuff. Takes thousands of years. Perfectly ordinary.’
‘Is this the same kind of water that floats through the sky and gouges out big caves in rocks?’ said the Dean.
‘Er . . . yes . . . er, obviously,’ said Rincewind.
‘It’s good luck for us we only have the drinking and washing sort, then.’
‘Had,’ said Rincewind.
There were hurrying feet behind them and a junior wizard ran up, holding a plate covered with a lid.
‘Got the last one!’ he said. ‘It’s a gourmet pie, too.’
He lifted the lid. Rincewind stared, and swallowed. ‘Oh dear . . .’
‘What’s up?’
‘Have you got some more of that beer? I think I might be losing . . . concentration . . .’
His cousin stepped forward, ripping the top off a can of Funnel web.
‘Cartwright, you cover that pie up and keep it warm. Rincewind, you drink this.’
They watched him drain the tin.
‘Right, mate,’ said the Archchancellor. ‘How about a nice meat pie upside down in a big bowl of mushy green peas covered with tomato sauce?’
He looked at the colour change on Rincewind’s face, and nodded.
‘You need another tin,’ he said firmly.
They watched him drink this.
‘Okay,’ said the Archchancellor after a while. ‘Now, Rincewind, how about a nice one of Fair Go’s pie floaters, eh? Meat pie in pea soup and tomato sauce?’
Rincewind’s face twitched a bit as amber blessings shut down vital protective systems.
‘Sounds . . . good,’ he said. ‘Maybe with some coconut on the top?’
The wizards relaxed.
‘So now we know,’ said Archchancellor Rincewind. ‘We’ve got to keep you just drunk enough so that Dibbler’s pies sound tasty, but not so drunk that it causes lasting brain damage.’
‘That’s a very narrow window we’ve got there,’ said the Dean.
Bill looked up at the roof, where the shadows danced among the stalactites, unless they were stalagmites.
‘This is right under the city,’ he said. ‘How come we’ve never heard of it?’
‘Good question,’ said the Dean. The men who built the cellar must’ve seen it.’
Rincewind tried to think. ‘It wasn’t here then,’ he said.
‘You said these stalag things took thousands of—’
‘They probably weren’t here last month but now they’ve been here for thousands of years.’ said Rincewind. He hiccuped. ‘It’s like your tower,’ he said. Taller onna outside.’
‘Huh?’
‘Prob’ly only works here,’ said Rincewind. The more geography you’ve got, the less hist’ry, ever notice that? More space, less time. I bet it only took a second or two for this place to be here for thousands of years, see? Shorter on the outside. Makes serfect pense.’
‘I don’t think I’ve drunk enough beer to understand that,’ said the Dean.
Something nudged him in the back of the legs. He looked down at the Luggage. It was one of its habits to come up so close behind people that, when they looked down, they felt seriously over-feeted.
‘Or this,’ he added.
The wizards grew quieter as Rincewind led them onward. He wasn’t sure who was leading him. Still, no worries.
Contrary to the usual procedures it began to grow lighter, although the proliferation of luminous fungi or iridescent crystals in deep caves where the torchlessly improvident hero needs to see is one of the most obvious intrusions of narrative causality into the physical universe. In this case, the rocks were glowing, not from some mysterious inner light but simply as though the sun were shining on them, just after dawn.
There are other imperatives that operate on the human brain. One says: the bigger the space, the softer the voice, and refers to the natural tendency to speak very, very quietly when stepping into somewhere huge. So when Archchancellor Rincewind stepped out into the big cave he said, ‘Strewth, it’s bloody big!’ in a low whisper.
The Dean, however, shouted, ‘Coo-eee!’ because there’s always one.
Stalactites crowded the cave here, too, and in the very centre a gigantic stalactite had almost touched its mirror-image stalagmite. The air was chokingly hot.