The Light Fantastic - Terry Pratchett [10]
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Thank you, yes.” And then, because it’s as well not to make enemies even among the creatures of night, he added politely, “I hope it is a good party.”
Death didn’t answer. He was looking at Spold in the same way that a dog looks at a bone, only in this case things were more or less the other way around.
“I said I hope it is a good party,” said Galder, loudly.
AT THE MOMENT IT IS, said Death levelly. I THINK IT MIGHT GO DOWNHILL VERY QUICKLY AT MIDNIGHT.
“Why?”
THAT’S WHEN THEY THINK I’LL BE TAKING MY MASK OFF.
He vanished, leaving only a cocktail stick and a short paper streamer behind.
There had been an unseen observer of all this. It was of course entirely against the rules, but Trymon knew all about rules and had always considered they were for making, not obeying.
Long before the eight mages had got down to some serious arguing about what the apparition had meant he was down in the main levels of the University library.
It was an awe-inspiring place. Many of the books were magical, and the important thing to remember about grimoires is that they are deadly in the hands of any librarian who cares about order, because he’s bound to stick them all on the same shelf. This is not a good idea with books that tend to leak magic, because more than one or two of them together form a critical Black Mass. On top of that, many of the lesser spells are quite particular about the company they keep, and tend to express any objections by hurling their books viciously across the room. And, of course, there is always the half-felt presence of the Things from the Dungeon Dimensions, clustering around the magical leakage and constantly probing the walls of reality.
The job of magical librarian, who has to spend his working days in this sort of highly charged atmosphere, is a high-risk occupation.
The Head Librarian was sitting on top of his desk, quietly peeling a orange, and was well aware of that.
He glanced up when Trymon entered.
“I’m looking for anything we’ve got on the Pyramid of Tshut,” said Trymon. He had come prepared: he took a banana out of his pocket.
The librarian looked at it mournfully, and then flopped down heavily on the floor. Trymon found a soft hand poked gently into his and the librarian led the way, waddling sadly between the bookshelves. It was like holding a little leather glove.
Around them the books sizzled and sparked, with the occasional discharge of undirected magic flashing over to the carefully placed earthing rods nailed to the shelves. There was a tinny, blue smell and, just at the very limit of hearing, the horrible chittering of the dungeon creatures.
Like many other parts of Unseen University the library occupied rather more space than its outside dimensions would suggest, because magic distorts space in strange ways, and it was probably the only library in the universe with Mobius shelves. But the librarian’s mental catalogue was ticking over perfectly. He stopped by a soaring stack of musty books and swung himself up into the darkness. There was the sound of rustling paper, and a cloud of dust floated down to Trymon. Then the librarian was back, a slim volume in his hands.
“Oook,” he said.
Trymon took it gingerly.
The cover was scratched and very dog-eared, the gold of its lettering had long ago curled off, but he could just make out, in the old magic tongue of the Tsort Valley, the words: lyt Gryet Teymple hyte Tsort, Y Hiystory Myistical.
“Oook?” said the librarian, anxiously.
Trymon turned the pages cautiously. He wasn’t very good at languages, he’d always found them highly inefficient things which by rights ought to be replaced by some sort of easily understood numerical system, but this seemed exactly what he was looking for. There were whole pages covered with meaningful hieroglyphs.
“Is this the only book you’ve got about the Pyramid of Tsort?” he said slowly.
“Oook.”
“You