Eric - Terry Pratchett [6]
I mean, it wouldn’t be much, but it would be body contact.
“Sorry,” he said again.
Thursley sighed. “The kettle’s on,” he said. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
Rincewind stepped forward into a crackle of psychic energy.
“Ah,” said Thursley uncertainly, as the wizard sucked at his fingers, “I’ll tell you what. I’ll put you under a conjuration of duress.”
“There’s no need, I assure you.”
“No, it’s best this way. It means you can move around. I had it all ready anyway, in case you could go and fetch, you know, her.”
“Fine,” said Rincewind. As the demonologist mumbled words from the book he thought: Feet. Door. Stairs. What a great combination.
It occurred to him that there was something about the demonologist that wasn’t quite usual, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He looked pretty much like the demonologists Rincewind had known back in Ankh-Morpork, who were all bent and chemical-stained and had eyes with pupils like pinheads from all the chemical fumes. This one would have fitted in easily. It was just that there was something odd.
“To be honest,” said Thursley, industriously mopping away part of the circle, “you’re my first demon. It’s never worked before. What is your name?”
“Rincewind.”
Thursley thought about this. “It doesn’t ring a bell,” he said. “There’s a Riinjswin in the Demonologie. And a Winswin. But they’ve got more wings than you. You can step out now. I must say that’s a first-class materialization. No one would think you were a fiend, to look at you. Most demons, when they want to look human, materialize in the shape of nobles, kings and princes. This moth-eaten-wizard look is very clever. You could’ve almost fooled me. It’s a shame you can’t do any of those things.”
“I can’t see why you’d want to live forever,” said Rincewind, privately determining that the words “moth-eaten” would be paid for, if ever he got the opportunity. “Being young again, I can understand that.”
“Huh. Being young’s not much fun,” said Thursley, and then clapped his hand over his mouth.
Rincewind leaned forward.
About fifty years. That was what was missing.
“That’s a false beard!” he said. “How old are you?”
“Eighty-seven!” squeaked Thursley.
“I can see the hooks over your ears!”
“Seventy-eight, honest! Avaunt!”
“You’re a little boy!”
Eric pulled himself up haughtily. “I’m not!” he snapped. “I’m nearly fourteen!”
“Ah-ha!”
The boy waved the sword at Rincewind. “It doesn’t matter, anyway!” he shouted. “Demonologists can be any age, you’re still my demon and you have to do as I say!”
“Eric!” came a voice from somewhere below them.
Eric’s face went white.
“Yes, Mother?” he shouted, his eyes fixed on Rincewind. His mouth shaped the words: don’t say anything, please.
“What’s all that noise up there?”
“Nothing, Mother!”
“Come down and wash your hands, dear, your breakfast’s ready!”
“Yes, Mother.” He looked sheepishly at Rincewind. “That’s my mother,” he said.
“She’s got a good pair of lungs, hasn’t she,” said Rincewind.
“I’d, I’d better go, then,” said Eric. “You’ll have to stay up here, of course.”
It dawned on him that he was losing a certain amount of credibility at this point. He waved the sword again.
“Avaunt!” he said. “I command you not to leave this room!”
“Right. Sure,” said Rincewind, eyeing the windows.
“Promise? Otherwise you’ll be sent back to the Pit.”
“Oh, I don’t want that,” said Rincewind. “Off you trot. Don’t worry about me.”
“I’m going to leave the sword and stuff here,” said Eric, removing most of his accoutrements to reveal a slim, dark-haired young man whose face would be a lot better when his acne cleared up. “If you touch them, terrible things will befall.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Rincewind.
When he was left alone he wandered over to the lectern and looked at the book. The title, in impressively flickering red letters, was Mallificarum Sumpta Diabolicite Occularis Singularum, the Book of Ultimate Control. He knew about it. There was a copy in the Library somewhere, although wizards