The Light Fantastic - Terry Pratchett [9]
The heads of the eight orders were all of this persuasion, traditionalists to a mage, and the utensils that were heaped around the octogram had a definite, no-nonsense occult look about them. Rams horns, skulls, baroque metalwork and heavy candles were much in evidence, despite the discovery by younger wizards that the Rite of AshkEnte could perfectly well be performed with three small bits of wood and 4 cc of mouse blood.
The preparations normally took several hours, but the combined powers of the senior wizards shortened it considerably and, after a mere forty minutes, Galder chanted the final words of the spell. They hung in front of him for a moment before dissolving.
The air in the center of the octogram shimmered and thickened, and suddenly contained a tall, dark figure. Most of it was hidden by a black robe and hood and this was probably just as well. It held a long scythe in one hand and one couldn’t help noticing that what should have been fingers were simply white bone.
The other skeletal hand held small cubes of cheese and pineapple on a stick.
“WELL?” said Death, in a voice with all the warmth and color of an iceberg. He caught the wizards’ gaze, and glanced down at the stick.
I WAS AT A PARTY, he added, a shade reproachfully.
“O Creature of Earth and Darkness, we do charge thee to abjure from—” began Galder in a firm, commanding voice. Death nodded.
YES, YES, I KNOW ALL THAT, he said. WHY HAVE YOU SUMMONED ME?
“It is said that you can see both the past and future, said Galder a little sulkily, because the big speech of binding and conjuration was one he rather liked and people had said he was very good at it.
THAT IS ABSOLUTELY CORRECT.
“Then perhaps you can tell us what exactly it was that happened this morning?” said Galder. He pulled himself together, and added loudly, “I command this by Azimrothe, by T’chikel, by—”
ALL RIGHT, YOU’VE MADE YOUR POINT, said Death. WHAT PRECISELY WAS IT YOU WISHED TO KNOW? QUITE A LOT OF THINGS HAPPENED THIS MORNING, PEOPLE WERE BORN, PEOPLE DIED, ALL THE TREES GREW A BIT TALLER, RIPPLES MADE INTERESTING PATTERNS ON THE SEA—
“I mean about the Octavo,” said Galder coldly.
THAT? OH, THAT WAS JUST A READJUSTMENT OF REALITY. I UNDERSTAND THE OCTAVO WAS ANXIOUS NOT TO LOSE THE EIGHTH SPELL. IT WAS DROPPING OFF THE DISC, APPARENTLY.
“Hold on, hold on,” said Galder. He scratched his chin. “Are we talking about the one inside the head of Rincewind? Tall thin man, bit scraggy? The one—”
—THAT HE HAS BEEN CARRYING AROUND ALL THESE YEARS, YES.
Galder frowned. It seemed a lot of trouble to go to. Everyone knew that when a wizard died all the spells in his head would go free, so why bother to save Rincewind? The spell would just float back eventually.
“Any idea why?” he said without thinking and then, remembering himself in time, added hastily, “By Yrriph and Kcharla I do abjure thee and—”
I WISH YOU WOULDN’T KEEP DOING THAT, said Death, ALL THAT I KNOW IS THAT ALL THE SPELLS HAVE TO BE SAID TOGETHER NEXT HOGSWATCHNIGHT OR THE DISC WILL BE DESTROYED.
“Speak up there!” demanded Greyhald Spold.
“Shut up!” said Galder.
ME?
“No, him. Daft old—”
“I heard that!” snapped Spold, “You young people—” He stopped. Death was looking at him thoughtfully, as if he was trying to remember his face.
“Look,” said Galder, “just repeat that bit again, will you? The Disc will be what?”
DESTROYED, said Death. CAN I GO NOW? I LEFT MY DRINK.
“Hang on,” said Galder hurriedly. “By Cheliliki and Orizone and so forth, what do you mean, destroyed?”
IT’S AN ANCIENT PROPHECY WRITTEN ON THE INNER WALLS OF THE GREAT PYRAMID OF TSORT. THE WORD “DESTROYED” SEEMS QUITE SELF-EXPLANTORY TO ME.
“That’s all you can tell us?”
YES.
“But Hogswatchnight is only two months away!”
YES.
“At least you can tell us where Rincewind is now!”
Death shrugged. It was a gesture he was particularly well built for.
THE FOREST OF SKUND, RIMWARD OF THE RAMTOP MOUNTAINS.
“What is he doing there?”
FEELING VERY SORRY FOR HIMSELF.
“Oh.”
NOW MAY I GO?
Galder nodded distractedly. He had been thinking wistfully of