The Light Fantastic - Terry Pratchett [2]
The eight spells imprisoned in its pages led a secret and complex life of their own, and it was generally believed that—
Galder’s brow furrowed as he stared into the troubled room. Of course, there were only seven spells now. Some young idiot of a student wizard had stolen a look at the book one day and one of the spells had escaped and lodged in his mind. No one had ever managed to get to the bottom of how it had happened. What was his name, now? Winswand?
Octarine and purple sparks glittered on the spine of the book. A thin curl of smoke was beginning to rise from the lectern, and the heavy metal clasps that held the book shut were definitely beginning to look strained.
“Why are the spells so restless?” said one of the younger wizards.
Galder shrugged. He couldn’t show it, of course, but he was beginning to be really worried. As a skilled eighth-level wizard he could see the half-imaginary shapes that appeared momentarily in the vibrating air, wheedling and beckoning. In much the same way that gnats appear before a thunderstorm, really heavy build-ups of magic always attracted things from the chaotic Dungeon Dimensions—nasty Things, all misplaced organs and spittle, forever searching for any gap through which they might sidle into the world of men. *
This had to be stopped.
“I shall need a volunteer,” he said firmly.
There was a sudden silence. The only sound came from behind the door. It was the nasty little noise of metal parting under stress.
“Very well, then,” he said. “In that case I shall need some silver tweezers, about two pints of cat’s blood, a small whip and a chair—”
It is said that the opposite of noise is silence. This isn’t true. Silence is only the absence of noise. Silence would have been a terrible din compared to the sudden soft implosion of noiselessness that hit the wizards with the force of an exploding dandelion clock.
A thick column of spitting light sprang up from the book, hit the ceiling in a splash of flame, and disappeared.
Galder stared up at the hole, ignoring the smoldering patches in his beard. He pointed dramatically.
“To the upper cellars!” he cried, and bounded up the stone stairs. Slippers flapping and nightshirts billowing the other wizards followed him, falling over one another in their eagerness to be last.
Nevertheless, they were all in time to see the fireball of occult potentiality disappear into the ceiling of the room above.
“Urgh,” said the youngest wizard, and pointed to the floor.
The room had been part of the library until the magic had drifted through, violently reassembling the possibility particles of everything in its path. So it was reasonable to assume that the small purple newts had been part of the floor and the pineapple custard may once have been some books. And several of the wizards later swore that the small sad orangutan sitting in the middle of it all looked very much like the head librarian.
Galder stared upward. “To the kitchen!” he bellowed, wading through the custard to the next flight of stairs.
No one ever found out what the great cast-iron cooking range had been turned into, because it had broken down a wall and made good its escape before the disheveled party of wild-eyed mages burst into the room. The vegetable chef was found much later hiding in the soup cauldron, gibbering unhelpful things like “The knuckles! The horrible knuckles!”
The last wisps of magic, now somewhat slowed, were disappearing into the ceiling.
“To the Great Hall!”
The stairs were much wider here, and better lit. Panting and pineapple-flavored, the fitter wizards got