Sourcery - Terry Pratchett [103]
They found an echo in the outside world. The ape glanced around, and then pushed Coin hurriedly to one side as something squat and battered and with hundreds of little legs barrelled across the stricken courtyard and, without so much as pausing in its stride, leapt into the disappearing darkness, which flickered for one last time and vanished.
There was a sudden flurry of snow across the air where it had been.
Coin wrenched free of the Librarian’s grip and ran into the circle, which was already turning white. His feet scuffed up a sprinkle of fine sand.
“He didn’t come out!” he said.
“Oook,” said the Librarian, in a philosophic manner.
“I thought he’d come out. You know, just at the last minute.”
“Oook?”
Coin looked closely at the cobbles, as if by mere concentration he could change what he saw. “Is he dead?”
“Oook,” observed the Librarian, contriving to imply that Rincewind was in a region where even things like time and space were a bit iffy, and that it was probably not very useful to speculate as to his exact state at this point in time, if indeed he was at any point in time at all, and that, all in all, he might even turn up tomorrow or, for that matter, yesterday, and finally that if there was any chance at all of surviving then Rincewind almost certainly would.
“Oh,” said Coin.
He watched the Librarian shuffle around and head back for the Tower of Art, and a desperate loneliness overcame him.
“I say!” he yelled.
“Oook?”
“What should I do now?”
“Oook?”
Coin waved vaguely at the desolation.
“You know, perhaps I could do something about all this?” he said in a voice tilting on the edge of terror. “Do you think that would be a good idea? I mean, I could help people. I’m sure you’d like to be human again, wouldn’t you?”
The Librarian’s everlasting smile hoisted itself a little further up his face, just enough to reveal his teeth.
“Okay, perhaps not,” said Coin hurriedly, “but there’s other things I could do, isn’t there?”
The Librarian gazed at him for some time, then dropped his eyes to the boy’s hand. Coin gave a guilty start, and opened his fingers.
The ape caught the little silver ball neatly before it hit the ground and held it up to one eye. He sniffed it, shook it gently, and listened to it for a while.
Then he wound up his arm and flung it away as hard as possible.
“What—” Coin began, and landed full length in the snow when the Librarian pushed him over and dived on top of him.
The ball curved over at the top of its arc and tumbled down, its perfect path interrupted suddenly by the ground. There was a sound like a harp string breaking, a brief babble of incomprehensible voices, a rush of hot wind, and the gods of the Disc were free.
The were very angry.
“There is nothing we can do, is there?” said Creosote.
“No,” said Conina.
“The ice is going to win, isn’t it?” said Creosote.
“Yes,” said Conina.
“No,” said Nijel.
He was trembling with rage, or possibly with cold, and was nearly as pale as the glaciers that rumbled past below them.
Conina sighed. “Well, just how do you think—” she began.
“Take me down somewhere a few minutes ahead of them,” said Nijel.
“I really don’t see how that would help.”
“I wasn’t asking your opinion,” said Nijel, quietly. “Just do it. Put me down a little way ahead of them so I’ve got a while to get sorted out.”
“Get what sorted out?”
Nijel didn’t answer.
“I said,” said Conina, “get what—”
“Shut up!”
“I don’t see why—”
“Look,” said Nijel, with the patience that lies just short of axe-murdering. “The ice is going to cover the whole world, right? Everyone’s going to die, okay? Except for us for a little while, I suppose, until these horses want their, their, their oats or the lavatory or whatever, which isn’t much use to us except maybe Creosote will just about have time to write a sonnet or something about how cold it is all of a sudden, and the whole of human history is about to be scraped up and in these circumstances I would like