He'd made a big concession for the occasion. He'd unstitched the few remaining sequins from the word WIZZARD' on his hat. Given its general lack of shape, and his robe's raggedness, it now made him look far more like one of the crowd, albeit a one that knew the meaning of the word
'soap'.
He worked his way back through the throng to the wizards, who had managed to get real seats.
'How is it going?' said Ridcully. 'Remember, lad, the show must go on!'
'Things are fine, as far as I can see,' whispered Rincewind. 'No sign of any elves at all. We did spot a fishmonger in the crowd, so the Librarian slugged him and hid him behind the theatre, just in case.'
'You know,' said the Chair of Indefinite Studies, who was leafing through the script, 'this chap would write much better plays if he didn't have to have actors in them. They seem to get in the way all the time.'
'I read the Comedy of Errors last night,' said the Dean. 'And I could see the error right there.
There wasn't any comedy. Thank gods for directors.'
The wizards looked at the crowd. It wasn't as well behaved even as the ones back home; people were picnicking, small parties were being held, and there was a general sense that the audience looked upon the actual play as pleasant background noise to their personal social occasions.
'How will we know when it starts?' said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.
'Oh, trumpets get blown,' said Rincewind, 'and then generally two actors come on and tell one another what they already know.'
'No sign of the elves anywhere,' said the Dean, looking around with a hand over one eye. 'I don't like it. It's too quiet.'
'No, sir, no, sir,' said Rincewind. 'That's not the time not to like it. The time not to like it is when it's suddenly as noisy as all hell, sir.'
'Well, you get backstage with Stibbons and the Librarian, will you?' said Ridcully. 'And try not to look conspicuous. We mustn't take any chances.'
Rincewind worked his away around behind the stage, trying not to look conspicuous. But it was a first night, and there was an informality about the whole business that he'd never seen back home. People just seemed to wander around. Back home, there never seemed to be so much pretence; here, the actors played at being people and, down below, people played at being an audience. The overall effect was rather pleasing. The plays had a conspiratorial quality. Make it interesting enough, their audience was saying, and we'll believe anything. If you don't, we'll have a party with our friends right here and throw nuts at you.
Rincewind sat down on a pile of boxes offstage and watched as the play began. There were raised voices and the gentle, subtle sound of an expectant audience ready to tolerate quite a lot of plot exposition provided there was a joke or a murder at the end of it.
There was no sign of elves, no telltale shimmer in the air. The play wound on. Sometimes there was laughter, in which the deep boom of Ridcully was distinctly noticeable, especially, for some reason, when the clowns were on stage.
The stage elves met with approval, too. Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Moth and Mustardseed ...
creatures of blossom and air. Only Puck seemed to Rincewind to be anything like the elves he knew, and even he seemed more of a prankster than anything else. Of course, the elves could be pranksters, too, especially if a footpath ran beside a really dangerous ravine. And the glamour they used ... well, here it was charming ...
... and there was the Queen, a few feet away. She didn't flash into existence, she emerged from the scenery. A group of lines and shadows that had always been there suddenly, without actually changing, became a figure.
She was wearing a black lace dress hung about with diamonds, so that she looked like walking night.
She turned to Rincewind, with a smile.
'Ah, potato man,' she said. 'We see your wizardly friends out there. But they won't be able to do anything. This show will go on, you know. Just as written.'
'... will go on ...' murmured Rincewind. He couldn't move. She'd hit him with her full force. In desperation, he tried to fill his mind with potatoes.
'We know you told him a garbled version,' said the Queen, walking around his quivering body.
And a lot of nonsense it was. So I appeared to him in his room and put the whole thing in his mind. So simple.'
Roast potatoes, thought Rincewind. Sort of gold with brown edges, and maybe almost black here and there so they're nice and crunchy ...
'Can't you hear the applause?' said the Queen. 'They like us. They actually like us. We'll be in their paintings and stories from now on. You'll never get us out of there ...'
Chips, thought Rincewind, straight from the deep fryer, with little bubbles of fat still spitting and popping ... but he couldn't stop his treacherous head from nodding.
The Queen looked puzzled.
'Don't you think about anything but potatoes?' she said.
Butter, thought Rincewind, chopped chives, melted cheese, salt ...
But he couldn't stop the thought. It opened up inside his head, pushing away all potato-shaped fantasies. All we have to do is nothing, and we've won!
'What?' said the Queen.
Mash! Huge mounds of mash! Creamed mash!
'You're trying to hide something, wizard!' said the Queen, a few inches from his face. 'What is it?'
Potato cakes, fried potato skins, potato croquettes ...
... no, not potato croquettes, no one ever did them properly ... and it was too late, the Queen was reading him like a book.
'So ...' she said. 'You think only mysteries last? Knowledge in unbelief? Seeing is disbelieving?
There was a creaking above them.
'The play's not over, wizard,' said the Queen. 'But it's going to stop right now!'
At this point, the Librarian dropped on her head.
Winkin the glove stitcher and Coster the apple seller discussed the play on the way home.
'The bit with the queen and the man with the asses ears was good,' said Winkin.
'Aye, it was.'
And the wall bit, too. When the man said "he is no crescent, and his horns are invisible within the circumference", I nearly widdled my breeches. I like a good joke, me.'
'Aye.'
'But I didn't understand why all those people in the fur and feathers and stuff were chased across the stage by the man in the hairy red costume, and why the fat men in the expensive seats all got up and on to the stage and why the idiot in the red dress was running around screaming about potatoes, whatever they are. While Puck was speaking at the end I definitely thought I could hear a fight going on.'
'Experimental theatre,' said Winkin.
'Good dialogue,' said Coster.
'And you've got to hand it to those actors, the way they kept going,' said Winkin.
Yeah, and I could have sworn there was another Quene up on stage,' said Coster, 'and she looked like a woman. You know, the one who was trying to strangle that man babbling about potatoes.'
'A woman on stage? Don't be daft,' said Winkin. 'Good play, though.' 'Yeah. I think they could cut out the chase sequence, though,' said Coster. 'And frankly I don't think you could get a girdle that big.' 'Yes, it would be dreadful if special effects took over,' said Winkin.
Wizards, like many large men, can be quite light on their feet. Rincewind was impressed. By the sound of it, they were right behind him as he sped along the path by the river.
'Best not to wait for a curtain call, I thought,' Ridcully panted.
'Did you see me ... wallop the Queen with a horseshoe?' wheezed the Dean.
'Yes ... pity it was an actor,' said Ridcully. 'The other one was the elf. Still, not a complete waste of a horseshoe.'
'But we certainly showed them, eh?' said the Dean.
'The history is completed,' said the voice of Hex, from Ponder's bouncing pocket. 'Elves will be viewed as fairies and such they will become. Over the course of several centuries belief in them will dwindle as they are moved into the realm of art and literature, which is where the remnant of them will subsequently exist. They will become a subject suitable for the amusement of children.