The Light Fantastic - Terry Pratchett [52]
Rincewind was first to it.
It was the Octavo. But it lay on the stone as limp and lifeless as any other book, its pages fluttering in the breeze that blew up the tower.
Twoflower panted up behind Rincewind, and looked down.
“They’re blank,” he whispered. “Every page is completely blank.”
“Then he did it,” said Wert. “He’s read the spells. Successfully, too. I wouldn’t have believed it.”
“There was all that noise,” said Rincewind doubtfully. “The light, too. Those shapes. That didn’t sound so successful to me.”
“Oh, you always get a certain amount of extradimensional attention in any great work of magic,” said Panter dismissively. “It impresses people, nothing more.”
“It looked like monsters up there,” said Twoflower, standing closer to Rincewind.
“Monsters? Show me some monsters!” said Wert.
Instinctively they looked up. There was no sound. Nothing moved against the circle of light.
“I think we should go up and, er, congratulate him,” said Wert.
“Congratulate?” exploded Rincewind. “He stole the Octavo! He locked you up!”
The wizards exchanged knowing looks.
“Yes, well,” said one of them. “When you’ve advanced in the craft, lad, you’ll know that there are times when the important thing is success.”
“It’s getting there that matters,” said Wert bluntly. “Not how you travel.”
They set off up the spiral.
Rincewind sat down, scowling at the darkness.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Twoflower, who was holding the Octavo.
“This is no way to treat a book,” he said. “Look, he’s bent the spine right back. People always do that, they’ve got no idea of how to treat them.”
“Yah,” said Rincewind vaguely.
“Don’t worry,” said Twoflower.
“I’m not worried, I’m just angry,” snapped Rincewind. “Give me the bloody thing!”
He snatched the book and snapped it open viciously.
He rummaged around in the back of his mind, where the Spell hung out.
“All right,” he snarled. “You’ve had your fun, you’ve ruined my life, now get back to where you belong!”
“But I—” protested Twoflower.
“The Spell, I mean the Spell,” said Rincewind. “Go on, get back on the page!”
He glared at the ancient parchment until his eyes crossed.
“Then I’ll say you!” he shouted, his voice echoing up the tower. “You can join the rest of them and much good may it do you!”
He shoved the book back into Twoflower’s arms and staggered off up the steps.
The wizards had reached the top and disappeared from view. Rincewind climbed after them.
“Lad, am I?” he muttered. “When I’m advanced in the craft, eh? I just managed to go around with one of the Great Spells in my head for years without going totally insane, didn’t I?” He considered the last question from all angles. “Yes, you did,” he reassured himself. “You didn’t start talking to trees, even when trees started talking to you.”
His head emerged into the sultry air at the top of the tower.
He had expected to see fire-blackened stones crisscrossed with talon marks, or perhaps something even worse.
Instead he saw the seven senior wizards standing by Trymon, who seemed totally unscathed. He turned and smiled pleasantly at Rincewind.
“Ah, Rincewind. Come and join us, won’t you?”
So this is it, Rincewind thought. All that drama for nothing. Maybe I really am not cut out to be a wizard, maybe—
He looked up and into Trymon’s eyes.
Perhaps it was the Spell, in its years of living in Rincewind’s head, that had affected his eyes. Perhaps his time with Twoflower, who only saw things as they ought to be, had taught him to see things as they are.
But what was certain was that by far the most difficult thing Rincewind did in his whole life was look at Trymon without running in terror or being very violently sick.
The others didn’t seem to have noticed.
They also seemed to be standing very still.
Trymon had tried to contain the seven Spells in his mind and it had broken, and the Dungeon Dimensions had found their hole, all right. Silly to have imagined that the Things would have come marching out of a sort