Moving Pictures - Terry Pratchett [107]
“How can I do that?” she demanded.
“Well…why not pretend it’s a click…?”
The Dibblers, uncle and nephew, exchanged glances. Then Soll cupped his hands around his face like the eye of a picture box and Dibbler, after a prompting nudge, placed one hand on his nephew’s head and turned an invisible handle in his ear.
“Action!” he directed.
The carriage door swung open.
The crowd gasped, like a mountain breathing in. Victor stepped out, reached up, took Ginger’s hand…
The crowd cheered, madly.
The Lecturer in Recent Runes bit his fingers in sheer excitement. The Chair made a strange hoarse noise in the back of his throat.
“You know you said what could a boy find to do that was better than being a wizard?” he said.
“A true wizard should only be interested in one thing,” muttered the Dean. “You know that.”
“Oh, I know it.”
“I was referring to magic.”
The Chair peered at the advancing figures.
“You know, that is young Victor. I’ll swear it,” he said.
“That’s disgusting,” said the Dean. “Fancy choosing to hang around young women when he could have been a wizard.”
“Yeah. What a fool,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, who was having trouble with his breathing.
There was a sort of communal sigh.
“You got to admit she’s a bit of a corker, though,” said the Chair.
“I’m an old man and if someone doesn’t let me see very soon,” said a cracked voice behind them, “someone’s going to be feeling the wrong end of, mm, my stick, all right?”
Two of the wizards edged aside and eased the wheelchair through. Once moving, it coasted right up to the edge of the carpet, bruising any knees or ankles that stood in its way.
Poons’ mouth fell open.
Ginger gripped Victor’s hand.
“There’s a group of fat old men in false beards waving at you over there,” she said through clenched and grinning teeth.
“Yes, I think they’re wizards,” Victor grinned back.
“One of them keeps bouncing up and down in his wheelchair and shouting things like ‘Way-hey!’ and ‘Whoopwhoop!’ and ‘Hubba-hubba’”
“That’s the oldest wizard in the world,” said Victor. He waved at a fat lady in the crowd, who fainted.
“Good grief! What was he like fifty years ago?”
“Well, for one thing he was eighty. 25 Don’t blow him a kiss!”
The crowd roared its approval.
“He looks sweet.”
“Just keep smiling and waving.”
“Oh, gods, look at all those people waiting to be introduced to us!”
“I can see ’em,” said Victor.
“But they’re important!”
“Well, so are we. I guess.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re us. It’s like you said, that time on the beach. We’re us, just as big as we can be. It’s just what you wanted. We’re—”
He stopped.
The troll at the door of the Odium gave him a hesitant salute. The thump as its hand smacked into its ear was quite audible above the roar of the crowd…
Gaspode waddled at high speed down an alleyway, with Laddie trotting obediently at his heels. No one had paid them any attention when they jumped, or in Gaspode’s case plopped, down from the carriage.
“All evening in some stuffy pit ain’t my idea of a good night out,” muttered Gaspode. “This is the big city. This ain’t Holy Wood. You stick by me, pup, and you’ll be all right. First stop, the back door of Harga’s House of Ribs. They know me there. OK?”
“Good boy Laddie!”
“Yeah,” said Gaspode.
“Look at what it’s wearing!” said Victor.
“Red velvet jacket with gold frogging,” said Ginger out of the corner of her mouth. “So what? A pair of trousers would have been a good idea.”
“Oh, gods,” breathed Victor.
They stepped into the brightly-lit foyer of the Odium.
Bezam had done his best. Trolls and dwarfs had worked overnight to finish it.
There were red plush drapes, and pillars, and mirrors.
Plump cherubs and miscellaneous fruit, all painted gold, seemed to cover every surface.
It was like stepping into a box of very expensive chocolates.
Or a nightmare. Victor half expected to hear the roar of the sea, to see drapes fall away with a smear of black slime.
“Oh, gods,” he repeated.
“What’s the matter with you?” said Ginger, grinning fixedly at the line of civic dignitaries