Twoflower panted up behind Rincewind, and looked down.
‘They’re blank,’ he whispered. ‘Every page is completely blank.’
‘Then he did it,’ said Wert. ‘He’s read the spells. Successfully, too. I wouldn’t have believed it.’
‘There was all that noise,’ said Rincewind doubtfully. ‘The light, too. Those shapes. That didn’t sound so successful to me.’
‘Oh, you always get a certain amount of extradimen-sional attention in any great work of magic,’ said Panter dismissively. ‘It impresses people, nothing more.’
‘It looked like monsters up there,’ said Twoflower, standing closer to Rincewind.
‘Monsters? Show me some monsters!’ said Wert.
Instinctively they looked up. There was no sound. Nothing moved against the circle of light.
‘I think we should go up and, er, congratulate him,’ said Wert.
‘Congratulate?’ exploded Rincewind. ‘He stole the Octavo! He locked you up!’
The wizards exchanged knowing looks.
‘Yes, well,’ said one of them. ‘When you’ve advanced in the craft, lad, you’ll know that there are times when the important thing is success.’
‘It’s getting there that matters,’ said Wert bluntly. ‘Not how you travel.’
They set off up the spiral.
Rincewind sat down, scowling at the darkness.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Twoflower, who was holding the Octavo.
‘This is no way to treat a book,’ he said. ‘Look, he’s bent the spine right back. People always do that, they’ve got no idea of how to treat them.’
‘Yah,’ said Rincewind vaguely.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Twoflower.
‘I’m not worried, I’m just angry,’ snapped Rincewind. ‘Give me the bloody thing!’
He snatched the book and snapped it open viciously.
He rummaged around in the back of his mind, where the Spell hung out.
‘All right,’ he snarled. You’ve had your fun, you’ve ruined my life, now get back to where you belong!’
‘But I—’ protested Twoflower.
‘The Spell, I mean the Spell,’ said Rincewind. ‘Go on, get back on the page!’
He glared at the ancient parchment until his eyes crossed.
‘Then I’ll say you!’ he shouted, his voice echoing up the tower. ‘You can join the rest of them and much good may it do you!’
He shoved the book back into Twoflower’s arms and staggered off up the steps.
The wizards had reached the top and disappeared from view. Rincewind climbed after them.
‘Lad, am I?’ he muttered. ‘When I’m advanced in the craft, eh? I just managed to go around with one of the Great Spells in my head for years without going totally insane, didn’t I?’ He considered the last question from all angles. Yes, you did,’ he reassured himself. ‘You didn’t start talking to trees, even when trees started talking to you.’
His head emerged into the sultry air at the top of the tower.
He had expected to see fire-blackened stones criss-crossed with talon marks, or perhaps something even worse.
Instead he saw the seven senior wizards standing by Trymon, who seemed totally unscathed. He turned and smiled pleasantly at Rincewind.
‘Ah, Rincewind. Come and join us, won’t you?’
So this is it, Rincewind thought. All that drama for nothing. Maybe I really am not cut out to be a wizard, maybe —
He looked up and into Trymon’s eyes.
Perhaps it was the Spell, in its years of living in Rincewind’s head, that had affected his eyes. Perhaps his time with Twoflower, who only saw things as they ought to be, had taught him to see things as they are.
But what was certain was that by far the most difficult thing Rincewind did in his whole life was look at Trymon without running in terror or being very violently sick.
The others didn’t seem to have noticed.
They also seemed to be standing very still.
Trymon had tried to contain the seven Spells in his mind and it had broken, and the Dungeon Dimensions had found their hole, all right. Silly to have imagined that the Things would have come marching out of a sort of rip in the sky, waving mandibles and tentacles. That was old-fashioned stuff, far too risky. Even nameless terrors learned to move with the times. All they really needed to enter was one head.
His eyes were empty holes.
Knowledge speared into Rincewind’s mind like a knife of ice. The Dungeon Dimensions would be a playgroup compared to what the Things could do in a universe of order. People were craving order, and order they would get – the order of the turning screw, the immutable law of straight lines and numbers. They would beg for the harrow . . .
Trymon was looking at him. Something was looking at him. And still the others hadn’t noticed. Could he even explain it? Trymon looked the same as he had always done, except for the eyes, and a slight sheen to his skin.
Rincewind stared, and knew that there were far worse things than Evil. All the demons in Hell would torture your very soul, but that was precisely because they valued souls very highly; evil would always try to steal the universe, but at least it considered the universe worth stealing. But the grey world behind those empty eyes would trample and destroy without even according its victims the dignity of hatred. It wouldn’t even notice them.
Trymon held out his hand.
‘The eighth spell,’ he said. ‘Give it to me.’
Rincewind backed away.
‘This is disobedience, Rincewind. I am your superior, after all. In fact, I have been voted the supreme head of all the Orders.’
‘Really?’ said Rincewind hoarsely. He looked at the other wizards. They were immobile, like statues.
‘Oh yes,’ said Trymon pleasantly. ‘Quite without prompting, too. Very democratic.’
‘I preferred tradition,’ said Rincewind. ‘That way even the dead get the vote.’
‘You will give me the spell voluntarily,’ said Trymon. ‘Do I have to show you what I will do otherwise? And in the end you will still yield it. You will scream for the opportunity to give it to me.’
If it stops anywhere, it stops here, thought Rincewind.
‘You’ll have to take it,’ he said. 1 won’t give it to you.’
‘I remember you,’ said Trymon. ‘Not much good as a student, as I recall. You never really trusted magic, you kept on saying there should be a better way to run a universe. Well, you’ll see. I have plans. We can —’
‘Not we,’ said Rincewind firmly.
‘Give me the Spell!’
‘Try and take it,’ said Rincewind, backing away. 1 don’t think you can.’
‘Oh?’
Rincewind jumped aside as octarine fire flashed from Trymon’s fingers and left a bubbling rock puddle on the stones.
He could sense the Spell lurking in the back of his mind. He could sense its fear.
In the silent caverns of his head he reached out for it. It retreated in astonishment, like a dog faced with a maddened sheep. He followed, stamping angrily through the disused lots and inner-city disaster areas of his subconscious, until he found it cowering behind a heap of condemned memories. It roared silent defiance at him, but Rincewind wasn’t having any.
Is this it? he shouted at it. When it’s time for the showdown, you go and hide? You’re frightened?
The Spell said, that’s nonsense, you can’t possibly believe that, I’m one of the Eight Spells. But Rincewind advanced on it angrily, shouting, Maybe, but the fact is I do believe it and you’d better remember whose head you’re in, right? I can believe anything I like in here!
Rincewind jumped aside again as another bolt of fire lanced through the hot night. Trymon grinned, and made nother complicated motion with his hands.
Pressure gripped Rincewind. Every inch of his skin felt as though it was being used as an anvil. He flopped onto his knees.
‘There are much worse things,’ said Trymon pleasantly. ‘I can make your flesh burn on the bones, or fill your body with ants. I have the power to —’
‘I have a sword, you know.’
The voice was squeaky with defiance.
Rincewind raised his head. Through a purple haze of pain he saw Twoflower standing behind Trymon, holding a sword in exactly the wrong way.
Trymon laughed, and flexed his fingers. For a moment his attention was diverted.
Rincewind was angry. He was angry at the Spell, at the world, at the unfairness of everything, at the fact that he hadn’t had much sleep lately, at the fact that he wasn’t thinking quite straight. But most of all he was angry with Trymon, standing there full of the magic Rincewind had always wanted but had never achieved, and doing nothing worthwhile with it.
He sprang, striking Trymon in the stomach with his head and flinging his arms around him in desperation. Twoflower was knocked aside as they slid along the stones.
Trymon snarled, and got out the first syllable of a spell before Rincewind’s wildly flailing elbow caught him in the neck. A blast of randomised magic singed Rincewind’s hair.
Rincewind fought as he always fought, without skill or fairness or tactics but with a great deal of whirlwind effort. The strategy was to prevent an opponent getting enough time to realise that in fact Rincewind wasn’t a very good or strong fighter, and it often worked.