Moving Pictures - Terry Pratchett [108]
“Wait and see,” said Victor hoarsely. “It’s Holy Wood! Holy Wood’s been brought to Ankh-Morpork!”
“Yes, but—”
“Don’t you remember anything? That night in the hill? Before you woke up?”
“No. I told you.”
“Wait and see,” Victor repeated. He glanced at a decorated easel against one wall.
It said: “Three showings a day!”
And he thought of sand dunes, and ancient myths, and lobsters.
Map-making had never been a precise art on the Discworld. People tended to start off with good intentions and then get so carried away with the spouting whales, monsters, waves and other twiddly bits of cartographic furniture that they often forgot to put the boring mountains and rivers in at all.
The Archchancellor put an overflowing ashtray on a corner that threatened to roll up. He dragged a finger across the grubby surface.
“Says here ‘Here be Dragons,’” he said. “Right inside the city, too. Odd, that.”
“That’s just Lady Ramkin’s Sunshine Sanctuary for Sick Dragons,” said the Bursar, distractedly.
“And here there’s ‘Terra Incognita,’” said the Archchancellor. “Why’s that?”
The Bursar craned to see. “Well, it’s probably more interesting than putting in lots of cabbage farms.”
“And there’s ‘Here be Dragons’ again.”
“I think that’s just a lie, in fact.”
The Archchancellor’s horny thumb continued in the direction they’d worked out. He brushed aside a couple of fly specks.
“Nothing here at all,” he said, peering closer. “Just the sea. And—” he squinted—“The Holy Wood. Mean anything?”
“Isn’t that where the alchemists all went?” said the Bursar.
“Oh, them.”
“I suppose,” said the Bursar slowly, “they wouldn’t be doing some kind of magic out there?”
“Alchemists. Doing magic?”
“Sorry. Ridiculous idea, I know. The porter told me they do some sort of, oh, shadow play or something. Or puppets. Or something similar. Pictures. Or something. I wasn’t really paying attention. I mean…alchemists. Really! I mean, assassins…yes. Thieves…yes. Even merchants…merchants can be really devious, sometimes. But alchemists—show me a more unworldly, bumbling, well-meaning…”
His voice trailed off as his ears caught up with his mouth.
“They wouldn’t dare, would they?” he said.
“Would they?”
The Bursar gave a hollow laugh. “No-o-o. They wouldn’t dare! They know we’d be down on them like a ton of bricks if they tried any magic around here…” His voice trailed off again.
“I’m sure they wouldn’t,” he said.
“I mean, even that far away,” he said.
“They wouldn’t dare,” he said.
“Not magic. Surely not?” he said.
“I’ve never trusted those grubby-handed bastards!” he said. “They’re not like us, you know. They’ve got no idea of proper dignity!”
The crowd surging around the box office was getting deeper and more angry by the minute.
“Well, have you gone through all your pockets?” demanded the Chair.
“Yes!” muttered the Dean.
“Have another look, then.”
As far as wizards were concerned, paying to get into anything was something that happened to other people. A pointy hat usually did nicely.
While the Dean struggled, the Chair beamed madly at the young woman who was selling tickets. “But I assure you, dear lady,” he said desperately, “we are wizards.”
“I can see your false beards,” said the girl, and sniffed.
“We get all sorts in here. How do I know you aren’t three little boys in your dad’s coat?”
“Madam!”
“I’ve got two dollars and fifteen pence,” said the Dean, picking the coins out of a handful of fluff and mysterious occult objects.
“That’s two in the stalls, then,” said the girl, grudgingly unreeling two tickets. The Chair scooped them up.
“Then I’ll take Windle in,” he said quickly, turning to the others. “I’m afraid the rest of you had better get back to your honest trading.” He moved his eyebrows up and down suggestively.
“I don’t see why we should—” the Dean began.
“Otherwise we’ll be in arrears,” the Chair went on, mugging furiously. “If you don’t get back.”
“See here, that was my money, and—” the Dean said, but the Lecturer in Recent Runes grabbed his arm.
“Just come along,” he said, winked slowly