‘You from the agency, mate?’
Rincewind peered into the steam.
‘An’ I hope you can do puddings, ’cos cheffy’s banging his head on the wall,’ went on a figure emerging from the wisps. It was wearing a tall white hat.
‘No worries,’ said Rincewind, hopefully. ‘Ah, this is a kitchen, is it?’
‘You pullin’ my leg?’
‘Only I thought it was some kind of opera house or something—’
‘Best bloody opera house in the world, mate. Come on, this way …’
It wasn’t a very big kitchen and, like most of the ones Rincewind had been in, it was full of men working very hard at cross purposes.
‘The boss upstairs only decided to throw a big dinner for the prima donna,’ said the cook, forcing his way through the throng. ‘And all of a sudden Charley sees the pudding staring him in the face.’
‘Ah, right,’ said Rincewind, on the basis that sooner or later he’d be given a clue.
‘Boss says, you can do the pudding for her, Charley.’
‘Just like that, eh?’
‘He sez, it ought to be the best one yet, Charley.’
‘No worries?’
‘He sez, the great Nunco invented the Strawberry Sackville for Dame Wendy Sackville, and the famous chef Imposo created the Apple Glazier for Dame Margyreen Glazier, and your own father, Charley, honoured Dame Janeen Ormulu with the Orange Ormulu and tonight, Charley, it’s your big chance.’ The cook shook his head as he reached a table where a small man in a white uniform was sobbing uncontrollably into his hands. There was a stack of empty beer cans in front of him. ‘Poor bastard’s been on the beer ever since, and we thought we’d better get someone in. I’m a steak and prawns man, myself.’
‘So, you want me to make a pudding? Named after an opera singer?’ said Rincewind. ‘That’s the tradition, is it?’
‘Yeah, and you’d better not let Charley down, mate. It’s not his fault.’
‘Oh, well …’ Rincewind thought about puddings. Basically it was just fruit and cream and custard, wasn’t it? And cakes and stuff. He couldn’t see where the problem lay.
‘No worries,’ he said. ‘I think I can knock up something right away.’
The kitchen became silent as the scurrying cooks stopped to watch him.
‘First,’ said Rincewind, ‘what fruit have we got?’
‘Peaches was all we could find at this time of night.’
‘No worries. And we’ve got some cream?’
‘Yep. Of course.’
‘Fine, fine. Then all I need to know is the name of the lady in question …’
He felt the silence open up. ‘She’s a beaut singer, mind you,’ said a cook, in a defensive tone of voice.
‘Good. And her name?’ said Rincewind.
‘Er … that’s the trouble, see,’ said another cook.
‘Why?’
Ponder opened his eyes. The water was calm, or at least calmer than it had been. There were even patches of blue sky above, although cloud banks were criss-crossing the air as if each were in possession of its own bag of wind.
His mouth tasted as though he’d been sucking a tin spoon.
Around him, some of the wizards managed to push themselves to their knees. The Dean frowned, removed his hat, and pulled out a small crab.
‘’s a good boat,’ he murmured.
The green mast stem still stood, although the leaf sail looked ragged. Nevertheless, the boat was tacking nicely against the wind off — the continent. It was a red wall, glowing under the thunder light.
Ridcully got uncertainly to his feet and pointed to it. ‘Not far now!’ he said.
The Dean actually growled. ‘I’ve just about had enough of that insufferable cheerfulness,’ he said. ‘So just shut up, will you?’
‘Enough of that. I am your Archchancellor, Dean,’ said Ridcully.
‘Well, let’s just talk about that, shall we?’ said the Dean, and Ponder saw the nasty gleam in his eye.
‘This is hardly the time, Dean!’
‘Exactly on what basis are you giving orders, Ridcully? You’re the Archchancellor of what, precisely? Unseen University doesn’t even exist! Tell him, Senior Wrangler!’
‘I don’t have to if I don’t want to,’ sniffed the Senior Wrangler.
‘What? What?’ snapped the Dean.
‘I don’t believe I have to take orders from you, Dean!’
When the Bursar climbed up on deck a minute later the boat was already rocking. It was hard to say how many factions there were, since a wizard is capable of being a faction all by himself, but there were broadly two sides, both liaisons being as stable as an egg on a seesaw.
What amazed Ponder Stibbons, when he thought about it later, was that no one had yet resorted to using magic. The wizards had spent a lot of time in an atmosphere where a cutting remark did more damage than a magic sword and, for sheer malign pleasure, a well structured memo could do more real damage than a fireball every time. Besides, no one had their staff, and no one had any spells handy, and in those circumstances it’s easier to hit someone, although in the case of wizards non-magical fighting usually means flailing ineffectually at the opponent while trying to keep out of his way.
The Bursar’s fixed smile faded a little.
‘I got three per cent more than you in my finals!’
‘Oh, and how do you know that, Dean?’
‘I looked up the paper when you were appointed Archchancellor!’
‘What? After forty years?’
‘An examination is an examination!’
‘Er …’ the Bursar began.
‘Ye gods, that’s petty! That’s just the sort of thing I’d expect from a student who even had a separate pen for red ink!’
‘Hah! At least I didn’t spend all my time drinking and betting and staying out at all hours!’
‘Hah! I bloody well did, yes, and I learned the ways of the world and I still got nearly as many marks as you in spite of a prize-winning hangover, you puffed-up barrel of lard!’
‘Oh? Oh? It’s personal remarks now, is it?’
‘Absolutely, Two-chairs! Let’s have some personal remarks! We always said that walking behind you made people seasick!’
‘I wonder if at this point …’ said the Bursar.
The air crackled around the wizards. A wizard in a foul temper attracts magic like overripe fruit gets flies.
‘You think I’d make a better Archchancellor, don’t you, Bursar?’ said the Dean.
The Bursar blinked his watery eyes. ‘I, er, the two of you … er … many good points … er … perhaps this is the time to, er, make a common cause …’
They spent just a moment considering this.
‘Well said,’ said the Dean.
‘Got a point,’ said Ridcully.
‘Because, you know, I’ve never liked the Lecturer in Recent Runes very much …’
‘Smirks all the time,’ Ridcully agreed. ‘Not a member of the team.’
‘Oh, really?’ The Lecturer in Recent Runes put on a particularly evil smirk. ‘At least I got higher marks than you and am noticeably thinner than the Dean! Although a great many things are! Tell them, Stibbons!’
‘That’s Mister Stibbons, fatman!’ Ponder heard the voice. He knew it was his. He felt as though he was hypnotized. He could stop any time he liked, it was just that he didn’t quite feel like it.
‘Could I just, er, say …’ the Bursar tried.
‘Shut up, Bursar!’ roared Ridcully.
‘Sorry, sorry. Sorry …’
Ridcully waved a finger at the Dean. ‘Now you listen to me …’
A crimson spark leapt off his hand, left a trail of smoke past the Dean’s ear, and hit the mast, which exploded.