Far below drums sounded in the scented, shadowy jungles and columns of curling mist rose from hidden rivers where nameless beasts lurked under the surface and waited for supper to walk past.
“There’s no more cheese, you’ll have to have the ham,” said Ysabell. “What’s that light over there?”
“The Light Dams,” said Mort. “We’re getting closer.” He pulled the hourglass out of his pocket and checked the level of the sand.
“But not close enough, dammit!”
The Light Dams lay like pools of light hubwards of their course, which is exactly what they were; some of the tribes constructed mirror walls in the desert mountains to collect the Disc sunlight, which is slow and slightly heavy. It was used as currency.
Binky glided over the campfires of the nomads and the silent marshes of the Tsort river. Ahead of them dark, familiar shapes began to reveal themselves in the moonlight.
“The Pyramids of Tsort by moonlight!” breathed Ysabell, “How romantic!”
MORTARED WITH THE BLOOD OF THOUSANDS OF SLAVES, observed Mort.
“Please don’t.”
“I’m sorry, but the practical fact of the matter is that these—”
“All right, all right, you’ve made your point,” said Ysabell irritably.
“It’s a lot of effort to go to to bury a dead king,” said Mort, as they circled above one of the smaller pyramids. “They fill them full of preservative, you know, so they’ll survive into the next world.”
“Does it work?”
“Not noticeably.” Mort leaned over Binky’s neck. “Torches down there,” he said. “Hang On.”
A procession was winding away from the avenue of pyramids, led by a giant statue of Offler the Crocodile God borne by a hundred sweating slaves. Binky cantered above it, entirely unnoticed, and performed a perfect four-point landing on the hard-packed sand outside the pyramid’s entrance.
“They’ve pickled another king,” said Mort. He examined the glass again in the moonlight. It was quite plain, not the sort normally associated with royalty.
“That can’t be him,” said Ysabell. “They don’t pickle them when they’re still alive, do they?”
“I hope not, because I read where, before they do the preserving, they, um, cut them open and remove—”
“I don’t want to hear it—”
“—all the soft bits,” Mort concluded lamely. “It’s just as well the pickling doesn’t work, really, just imagine having to walk around with no—”
“So it isn’t the king you’ve come to take,” said Ysabell loudly. “Who is it, then?”
Mort turned towards the dark entrance. It wouldn’t be sealed until dawn, to give time for the dead king’s soul to leave. It looked deep and foreboding, hinting at purposes considerably more dire than, say, keeping a razor blade nice and sharp.{31}
“Let’s find out,” he said.
“Look out! He’s coming back!”
The University’s eight most senior wizards shuffled into line, tried to smooth out their beards and in general made an unsuccessful effort to look presentable. It wasn’t easy. They had been snatched from their workrooms, or a postprandial brandy in front of a roaring fire, or quiet contemplation under a handkerchief in a comfy chair somewhere, and all of them were feeling extremely apprehensive and rather bewildered. They kept glancing at the empty pedestal.
Only one creature could have duplicated the expressions on their faces, and that would be a pigeon who has heard not only that Lord Nelson has got down off his column but has also been seen buying a 12-bore repeater and a box of cartridges.
“He’s coming up the corridor!” shouted Rincewind, and dived behind a pillar.
The assembled mages watched the big double doors as if they were about to explode, which shows how prescient they were, because they exploded. Matchstick-sized bits of oak rained down among them and a small thin figure stood outlined against the light. It held a smoking staff in one hand. The other held a small yellow toad.
“Rincewind!” bawled Albert.
“Sir!”
“Take this thing away and dispose of it.”
The toad crawled into Rincewind’s hand and gave him an apologetic look.
“That’s the last time that bloody landlord gives any lip to a wizard,” said Albert with smug satisfaction. “It seems I turn my back for a few hundred years and suddenly people in this town are encouraged to think they can talk back to wizards, eh?”
One of the senior wizards mumbled something.
“What was that? Speak up, that man!”
“As the bursar of this university I must say that we’ve always encouraged a good neighbour policy with respect to the community,” mumbled the wizard, trying to avoid Albert’s gimlet stare. He had an upturned chamber pot on his conscience, with three cases of obscene graffiti to be taken into consideration.
Albert let his mouth drop open. “Why?” he said.
“Well, er, a sense of civic duty, we feel it’s vitally important that we show an examp—arrgh!”
The wizard tried desperately to beat out the flames in his beard. Albert lowered his staff and looked slowly along the row of mages. They swayed away from his stare like grass in a gale.
“Anyone else want to show a sense of civic duty?” he said. “Good neighbours, anybody?” He drew himself up to his full height. “You spineless maggots! I didn’t found this University so you could lend people the bloody lawnmower! What’s the use of having the power if you don’t wield it? Man doesn’t show you respect, you don’t leave enough of his damn inn to roast chestnuts on, understand?”
Something like a soft sigh went up from the assembled wizards. They stared sadly at the toad in Rincewind’s hand. Most of them, in the days of their youth, had mastered the art of getting rascally drunk at the Drum. Of course, all that was behind them now, but the Guild of Merchants’ annual knife-and-fork supper would have been held in the Drum’s upstairs room the following evening, and all the Eighth Level wizards had been sent complimentary tickets; there would have been roast swan and two kinds of trifle and lots of fraternal toasts to “Our esteemed, nay, distinguished guests” until it was time for the college porters to turn up with the wheelbarrows.
Albert strutted along the row, poking the occasional paunch with his staff. His mind danced and sang. Go back? Never! This was power, this was living; he’d challenge old boniface and spit in his empty eye.
“By the Smoking Mirror of Grism, there’s going to be a few changes around here!”
Those wizards who had studied history nodded uncomfortably. It would be back to the stone floors and getting up when it was still dark and no alcohol under any circumstances and memorising the true names of everything until the brain squeaked.
“What’s that man doing!”
A wizard who had absent-mindedly reached for his tobacco pouch let the half-formed cigarette fall from his trembling fingers. It bounced when it hit the floor and all the wizards watched it roll with longing eyes until Albert stepped forward smartly and squashed it.
Albert spun round. Rincewind, who had been following him as a sort of unofficial adjutant, nearly walked into him.
“You! Rincething! D’yer smoke?”
“No, sir! Filthy habit!” Rincewind avoided the gaze of his superiors. He was suddenly aware that he had made some lifelong enemies, and it was no consolation to know that he probably wouldn’t have them for very long.
“Right! Hold my staff. Now, you bunch of miserable back-sliders, this is going to stop, d’yer hear? First thing tomorrow, up at dawn, three times round the quadrangle and back here for physical jerks! Balanced meals! Study! Healthy exercise! And that bloody monkey goes to a circus, first thing!”