The Light Fantastic - Terry Pratchett [49]
At last they came to a door set in an alcove. It looked strong enough to hold back the sea. There was a tiny grille.
“Hey!” shouted Rincewind. It wasn’t very useful, but he couldn’t think of anything better.
There was a sudden silence. Then a voice from the other side of the door said, very slowly, “Who is out there?”
Rincewind recognized that voice. It had jerked him from daydreams into terror on many a hot classroom afternoon, years before. It was Lemuel Panter, who had once made it his personal business to hammer the rudiments of scrying and summoning into young Rincewind’s head. He remembered the eyes like gimlets in a piggy face and the voice saying “And now Mister Rincewind will come out here and draw the relevant symbol on the board” and the million mile walk past the waiting class as he tried desperately to remember what the voice had been droning on about five minutes before. Even now his throat was going dry with terror and randomized guilt. The Dungeon Dimensions just weren’t in it.
“Please sir, it’s me, sir, Rincewind, sir,” he squeaked. He saw Twoflower and Bethan staring at him, and coughed. “Yes,” he added, in as deep a voice as he could manage. “That’s who it is. Rincewind. Right.”
There was a susurration of whispers on the other side of the door.
“Rincewind?”
“Prince who?”
“I remember a boy who wasn’t any—”
“The spell, remember?”
“Rincewind?”
There was a pause. Then the voice said, “I suppose the key isn’t in the lock, is it?”
“No,” said Rincewind.
“What did he say?”
“He said no.”
“Typical of the boy.”
“Um, who is in there?” said Rincewind..
“The Masters of Wizardry,” said the voice, haughtily.
“Why?”
There was another pause, and then a conference of embarrassed whispers.
“We, uh, got locked in,” said the voice, reluctantly.
“What, with the Octavo?”
Whisper, whisper.
“The Octavo, in fact, isn’t in here, in fact,” said the voice slowly.
“Oh. But you are?” said Rincewind, as politely as possible while grinning like a necrophiliac in a morgue.
“That would appear to be the case.”
“Is there anything we can get you?” said Twoflower anxiously.
“You could try getting us out.”
“Could we pick the lock?” said Bethan.
“No use,” said Rincewind. “Totally thief-proof.”
“I expect Cohen would have been able to,” said Bethan loyally. “Wherever he’s got to.”
“The Luggage would soon smash it down,” agreed Twoflower.
“Well, that’s it then,” said Bethan. “Let’s get out into the fresh air. Fresher air, anyway.” She turned to walk away.
“Hang on, hang on,” said Rincewind. “That’s just typical, isn’t it? Old Rincewind won’t have any ideas, will he? Oh, no, he’s just a makeweight, he is. Kick him as you pass. Don’t rely on him, he’s—”
“All right,” said Bethan. “Let’s hear it, then.”
“—a nonentity, a failure, just a—what?”
“How are you going to get the door open?” said Bethan.
Rincewind looked at her with his mouth open. Then he looked at the door. It really was very solid, and the lock had a smug air.
But he had gotten in, once, long ago. Rincewind the student had pushed at the door and it had swung open, and then a moment later the Spell had jumped into his mind and ruined his life.
“Look,” said a voice from behind the grille, as kindly as it could manage. “Just go and find us a wizard, there’s a good fellow.”
Rincewind took a deep breath.
“Stand back,” he rasped.
“What?”
“Find something to hide behind,” he barked, with his voice shaking only slightly. “You too,” he said to Bethan and Twoflower.
“But you can’t—”
“I mean it!”
“He means it,” said Twoflower. “That little vein on the side of his forehead, you know, when it throbs like that, well—”
“Shut up!”
Rincewind raised one arm uncertainly and pointed it at the door.
There was total silence.
Oh gods, he thought, what happens now?
In the blackness at the back of his mind the Spell shifted uneasily.
Rincewind tried to get in