‘What good are they?’ said the Senior Wrangler.
There was a noticeable drop in metaphorical temperature.
A carpet undulated past.
The Archchancellor met the gaze of the enormous Chief Priest of Blind Io who, as senior priest of the senior god in the Discworld’s rambling pantheon, was the nearest thing Ankh-Morpork had to a spokesman on religious affairs.
‘Credulous fools,’ muttered the Senior Wrangler.
‘Godless tinkerers,’ said a small acolyte, peering out from behind the Chief Priest’s bulk.
‘Gullible idiots!’
‘Atheistic scum!’
‘Servile morons!’
‘Childish conjurors!’
‘Bloodthirsty priests!’
‘Interfering wizards!’
Ridcully raised an eyebrow. The Chief Priest nodded very slightly.
They left the two groups hurling imprecations at each other from a safe distance and strolled nonchalantly towards a comparatively quiet part of the room where, beside a statue of one of the Patrician’s predecessors, they turned and faced one another again.
‘So … how are things in the godbothering business?’ said Ridcully.
‘We do our humble best. How is the dangerous meddling with things man was not meant to understand?’
‘Pretty fair. Pretty fair.’ Ridcully removed his hat and fished inside the pointy bit. ‘Can I offer you a drop of something?’
‘Alcohol is a snare for the spirit. Would you care for a cigarette? I believe you people indulge.’
‘Not me. If I was to tell you what that stuff does to your lungs—’
Ridcully unscrewed the very tip of his hat and poured a generous measure of brandy into it.
‘So,’ he said, ‘what’s happening?’
‘We had an altar float up into the air and drop on us.’
‘A chandelier unscrewed itself. Everything’s unscrewing itself. You know, I saw a suit of clothes run past on the way here? Two pairs of pants for seven dollars!’
‘Hmm. Did you see the label?’
‘Everything’s throbbing, too. Notice the way everything’s throbbing?’
‘We thought it was you people.’
‘It’s not magic. I suppose the gods aren’t more than usually unhappy?’
‘Apparently not.’
Behind them, the priests and the wizards were screaming chin to chin.
The Chief Priest moved a little closer.
‘I think I could be strong enough to master and defeat just a little snare,’ he said. ‘I haven’t felt like this since Mrs Cake was one of my flock.’
‘Mrs Cake? What’s a Mrs Cake?’
‘You have … ghastly Things from the Dungeon Dimensions and things, yes? Terrible hazards of your ungodly profession?’ said the Chief Priest.
‘Yes.’
‘We have someone called Mrs Cake.’
Ridcully gave him an enquiring look.
‘Don’t ask,’ said the priest, shuddering. ‘Just be grateful you’ll never have to find out.
Ridcully silently passed him the brandy.
‘Just between the two of us,’ said the priest, ‘have you got any ideas about all this? The guards are trying to dig his lordship out. You know he’ll want answers. I’m not even certain I know the questions.’
‘Not magic and not gods,’ said Ridcully. ‘Can I have the snare back? Thank you. Not magic and not gods. That doesn’t leave us much, does it?’
‘I suppose there’s not some kind of magic you don’t know about?’
‘If there is, we don’t know about it.’
‘Fair enough,’ the priest conceded.
‘I suppose it’s not the gods up to a bit of ungodliness on the side?’ said Ridcully, clutching at one last straw. ‘A couple of ’em had a bit of a tiff or something? Messing around with golden apples or something?’{16}
‘It’s very quiet on the god front right now,’ said the Chief Priest. His eyes glazed as he spoke, apparently reading from a script inside his head. ‘Hyperopia, goddess of shoes, thinks that Sandelfon, god of corridors, is the long-lost twin brother of Grune, god of unseasonal fruit. Who put the goat in the bed of Offler, the Crocodile God? Is Offler forging an alliance with Seven-handed Sek? Meanwhile, Hoki the Jokester is up to his old tricks—’
‘Yes, yes, all right,’ said Ridcully. ‘I’ve never been able to get interested in all that stuff, myself.’
Behind them, the Dean was trying to prevent the Lecturer in Recent Runes from attempting to turn the priest of Offler the Crocodile God into a set of matching suitcases, and the Bursar had a bad nosebleed from a lucky blow with a thurible.
‘What we’ve got to present here,’ said Ridcully, ‘is a united front. Right?’
‘Agreed,’ said the Chief Priest.
‘Right. For now.’
A small rug sinewaved past at eye level. The Chief Priest handed back the brandy bottle.
‘Incidentally, mother says you haven’t written lately,’ he said.
‘Yeah …’ The other wizards would have been surprised at their Archchancellor’s look of contrite embarrassment. ‘I’ve been busy. You know how it is.’
‘She said to be sure to remind you she’s expecting both of us over for lunch on Hogswatchday.’
‘I haven’t forgotten,’ said Ridcully, glumly. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’ He turned to the mêlée behind them.
‘Cut it out, you fellows,’ he said.
‘Brethren! Desist!’ bellowed the Chief Priest.
The Senior Wrangler released his grip on the head of the high priest of the Cult of Hinki. A couple of curates stopped kicking the Bursar. There was a general adjustment of clothing, a finding of hats and a bout of embarrassed coughing.
‘That’s better,’ said Ridcully. ‘Now then, his Eminence the Chief Priest and myself have decided—’
The Dean glowered at a very small bishop.
‘He kicked me! You kicked me!’
‘Ooo! I never did, my son.’
‘You bloody well did,’ the Dean hissed. ‘Sideways, so they wouldn’t see!’
‘—have decided—’ repeated Ridcully, glaring at the Dean, ‘to pursue a solution to the current disturbances in the spirit of brotherhood and goodwill and that includes you, Senior Wrangler.’
‘I couldn’t help it! He pushed me.’
‘Well! May you be forgiven!’ said the Archdeacon of Thrume, stoutly.
There was a crash from above. A chaise-longue cantered down the stairs and smashed through the hall door.
‘I think perhaps the guards are still trying to free the Patrician,’ said the High Priest. ‘Apparently even his secret passages locked themselves.’
‘All of them? I thought the sly devil had ’em everywhere,’ said Ridcully.
‘All locked,’ said the High Priest. ‘All of them.’
‘Almost all of them,’ said a voice behind him.
Ridcully’s tones did not change as he turned around, except that a slight extra syrup was added.
A figure had apparently stepped out of the wall. It was human, but only by default. Thin, pale, and clad all in dusty black, the Patrician always put Ridcully in mind of a predatory flamingo, if you could find a flamingo that was black and had the patience of a rock.
‘Ah, Lord Vetinari,’ he said, ‘I am so glad you are unhurt.’
‘I will see you gentleman in the Oblong Office,’ said the Patrician. Behind him, a panel in the wall slid back noiselessly.
‘I, um, I believe there are a number of guards upstairs trying to free—’ the Chief Priest began.
The Patrician waved a thin hand at him. ‘I wouldn’t dream of stopping them,’ he said. ‘It gives them something to do and makes them feel important. Otherwise they just have to stand around all day looking fierce and controlling their bladders. Come this way.’