Sourcery - Terry Pratchett [97]
Rincewind did a little dance of uncertainty as his feet, legs, instincts and incredibly well-developed sense of self-preservation overloaded his nervous system to the point where, just as it was on the point of fusing, his conscience finally got its way.
He leapt into the fire and reached the staff.
The wizards fled. Several of them levitated down from the tower.
They were a lot more perspicacious than those that used the stairs because, about thirty seconds later, the tower vanished.
The snow continued to fall around a column of blackness, which buzzed.
And the surviving wizards who dared to look back saw, tumbling slowly down the sky, a small object trailing flames behind it. It crashed into the cobbles, where it smouldered for a bit before the thickening snow put it out.
Pretty soon it became just a small mound.
A little while later a squat figure swung itself across the courtyard on its knuckles, scrabbled in the snow, and hauled the thing out.
It was, or rather it had been, a hat. Life had not been kind to it. A large part of the wide brim had been burned off, the point was entirely gone, and the tarnished silver letters were almost unreadable. Some of them had been torn off in any case. Those that were left spelled out: WIZD.
The Librarian turned around slowly. He was entirely alone, except for the towering column of burning blackness and the steadily falling flakes.
The ravaged campus was empty. There were a few other pointy hats that had been trampled by terrified feet, and no other sign that people had been there.
All the wizards were wazards.
“War?”
“Wazzat?”
“Wasn’t there,” Pestilence groped for his glass, “something?”
“Wazzat?”
“We ought to be…there’s something we ought to be doing,” said Famine.
“S’right. Got an appointment.”
“The—” Pestilence gazed reflectively into his drink. “Thingy.”
They stared gloomily at the bar counter. The innkeeper had long ago fled. There were several bottles still unopened.
“Okra,” said Famine, eventually. “That was it.”
“Nah.”
“The Apos…the Apostrophe,” said War, vaguely.
They shook their heads. There was a lengthy pause.
“What does ‘apocrustic’ mean?” said Pestilence, gazing intently into some inner world.
“Astringent,” said War, “I think.”
“It’s not that, then?”
“Shouldn’t think so,” said Famine, glumly.
There was another long, embarrassed silence.
“Better have ’nother drink,” said War, pulling himself together.
“S’right.”
About fifty miles away and several thousand feet up, Conina at last managed to control her stolen horse and brought it to a gentle trot on the empty air, displaying some of the most determined nonchalance the Disc had ever seen.
“Snow?” she said.
Clouds were roaring soundlessly from the direction of the Hub. They were fat and heavy and shouldn’t be moving so fast. Blizzards trailed beneath them, covering the landscape like a sheet.
It didn’t look like the kind of snow that whispers down gently in the pit of the night and in the morning turns the landscape into a glittering wonderland of uncommon and ethereal beauty. It looked like the kind of snow that intends to make the world as bloody cold as possible.
“Bit late in the year,” said Nijel. He glanced downwards, and then immediately closed his eyes.
Creosote watched in delighted astonishment. “Is that how it happens?” he said. “I’ve only heard about it in stories. I thought it sprouted out of the ground somehow. Bit like mushrooms, I thought.”
“Those clouds aren’t right,” said Conina.
“Do you mind if we go down now?” said Nijel weakly. “Somehow it didn’t look so bad when we were moving.”
Conina ignored this. “Try the lamp,” she commanded. “I want to know about this.”
Nijel fumbled in his pack and produced the lamp.
The voice of the genie sounded rather tinny and far off, and said: “If you would care to relax a little…trying to connect you.” There then followed some tinkly little music, the kind that perhaps a Swiss chalet would make if you could play it, before a trapdoor