Terry Pratchett - Discworld 09 - Eric

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Faust Eric
The bees of Death are big and black, they buzz low and sombre, they keep
their honey in combs of wax as white as alter candles. The honey is black as
night, thick as sin and sweet as treacle.
It is well known the eight colours make up white. But there are also eight
colours of blackness, for those that have the seeing of them, and the hives of
Death are among the black grass in the black orchard under the black-blossomed,
ancient boughs of trees that will, eventually, produce apples that... put it
like this... probably won't be red.
The grass was short now. The scythe that had done the work leaned against
the gnarled bole of a pear tree. Now Death was inspecting his bees, gently
lifting the combs in his skeletal fingers.
A few bees buzzed around him. Like all beekeepers, Death wore a veil. It
wasn't that he had anything to sting, but sometimes a bee would get inside his
skull and buzz around and give him a headache.
As he held a comb up to the grey light of his little world between the
realities there was the faintest of tremors. A hum went up from the hive, a leaf
floated down. A wisp of wind blew for a moment through the orchard, and that was
the most uncanny thing, because the air in the land of Death is always warm and
still.
Death fancied that he heard, very briefly, the sound of running feet and a
voice saying, no, a voice thinking oshitoshitoshit, I'm gonna die I'm gonna die
I'm gonna DIE!
Death is almost the oldest creature in the universe, with habits and modes
of thought that mortal man cannot begin to understand, but because he was also a
good beekeeper he carefully replaced the comb in its rack and put the lid on the
hive before reacting.
He strode back through the dark garden to his cottage, removed his veil,
carefully dislodged a few bees who had got lost in the depths of his cranium,
and retired to his study.
As he sat down at his desk there was another gust of wind, which rattled
the hour-glasses on the shelves and made the big pendulum clock in the hall
pause briefly in its interminable task of slicing time into manageable bits.
Death sighed, and focused his gaze.
There is nowhere Death will not go, no matter how distant and dangerous.
In fact the more dangerous it is, the more likely he is to be there already.
Now he stared through the mists of time and space.
OH, he said. IT'S HIM.
It was a hot afternoon in the late summer in Ankh-Morpork, normally the
most thriving, bustling and above all the most crowded city on the Disc. Now the
spears of the sun had achieved what innumerable invaders, several civil wars and
the curfew law had never achieved. It had pacified the place.
Dogs lay panting in the scalding shade. The river Ankh, which never what
you might call sparkled, oozed between its banks as if the heat had sucked all
the spirit out of it. The streets were empty, oven-brick hot.
No enemies had ever taken Ankh-Morpork. Well, technically they had, quite
often; the city welcomed free-spending barbarian invaders, but somehow the
puzzled raiders always found, after a few days, that they didn't own their own
horses any more, and within a couple of months they were just another minority
group with its own graffiti and food shops.
But the heat had besieged the city and triumphed over the walls. It lay
over the trembling streets like a shroud. Under the blowlamp of the sun
assassins were too tired to kill. It turned thieves honest. In the ivy-covered
fastness of the Unseen University, premier college of wizardry, the inmates
dozed with their pointy hats over their faces. Even bluebottles were too
exhausted to bang against windowpanes. The city siesta'd, awaiting the sunset
and the brief, hot, velvet surcease of the night.
Only the librarian was cool. He was also swinging and hanging out.
This was because he'd rigged up a few ropes and rings in one of the sub-
basements of the Unseen University library - the one where they kept the, um,
erotic1 books. In vats of crushed ice. And he was dreamily dangling in the
chilly vapour above them.
All books of magic have a life of their own. Some of the really energetic
ones can't simply be chained the bookshelves; they have to be nailed shut or
kept between steel plates. Or, in the case of the volumes on tantric sex magic
for the serious connoisseur, kept under very cold water to stop them bursting
into flames and scorching their severely plain covers.
The Librarian swung gently back and forth above the seething vats, dozing
peacefully.
Then the footsteps came out of nowhere, raced across the floor with a
noise that scraped the raw surface of the soul, and disappeared through the
wall. There was a faint, distant scream that sounded like ogodsogodsogods, this
is IT, I'm gonna DIE.
The Librarian woke up, lost his grip, and flopped into the few inches of
tepid water that was all that stood between The Joy of Tantric Sex with
Illustrations for the Advanced Student, by A Lady, and spontaneous combustion.
And it would have gone badly for him if the Librarian had been a human
being. Fortunately, he was currently an orang-utan. With so much raw magic
sloshing around in the Library it would be surprising if accidents did not
happen sometimes, and one particularly impressive one had turned him into an
ape. Not many people get the chance to leave the human race while still alive,
and he'd strenuously resisted all efforts to turn him back. Since he was the
only librarian in the universe who could pick up books with his feet the
University hadn't pressed the point.
It also meant that his idea of desirable female companionship now looked
something like a sack of butter thrown through a roll of old inner tubes, and so
he was lucky to get away with only minor burns, a headache, and some rather
ambivalent feelings about cucumbers, which wore off by teatime.
In the Library above, the grimoires creaked and rustled their pages in
astonishment as the invisible runner passed straight through the bookshelves and
disappeared, or rather disappeared even more...
Ankh-Morpork gradually awoke from its slumber. Something invisible and
yelling at the top of its voice was passing through every part of the city,
dragging in its wake a trail of destruction. Wherever it went, things changed.
A fortune-teller in the Street of Cunning Artificers heard the footsteps
run across her bedroom floor and found her crystal ball had turned into a little
glass sphere with a cottage in it, plus snowflakes.
In a quite corner of the Mended Drum tavern, where the adventuresses
Herrena the Henna-Haired Harridan, Red Scharron and Diome, Witch of the Night,
were meeting for some girl talk and a game of canasta, all the drinks turned
into small yellow elephants.
"It's them wizards up at the university," said the barman, hastily
replacing the glasses. "It oughtn't to be allowed."
Midnight dropped off the clock.
The Council of Wizardry rubbed their eyes and stared blearily at one
another. They felt it oughtn't to be allowed too, especially since they weren't
the ones that were allowing it.
Finally the new Archchancellor, Ezrolith Churn, suppressed a yawn, sat up
straight in his chair, and tried to look suitably magisterial. He knew he wasn't
really Archchancellor material. He hadn't really wanted the job. He was ninety-
eight, and had achieved this worthwhile age by carefully not being any trouble
to anyone. He had hoped to spend his twilight years completing his seven-volume
treatise on Some Little Known Aspects of Kuian Rain-making Rituals, which were
an ideal subject for academic study in his opinion since the rituals only ever
worked in Ku, and that particular continent had slipped into the ocean several
thousand years ago.2 The trouble was that in recent years the lifespan of
Archchancellors seemed to be a bit on the short side, and the natural ambition
of all wizards for the job had given way to a curious, self-effacing politeness.
He'd come down one morning to find everyone calling him 'sir'. It had taken him
days to find out why.
His head ached. He felt it was several weeks past his bedtime. But he had
to say something.
"Gentlemen -" he began.
"Oook."
"Sorry, and mo -"
"Oook."
"I mean apes, of course -"
"Oook."
The Archchancellor opened and shut his mouth in silence for a while,
trying to re-route his train of thought. The Librarian was, ex officio, a member
of the college council. No-one had been able to find any rule about orang-utans
being barred, although they had surreptitiously looked very hard for one.
"It's a haunting," he ventured. "Some sort of a ghost, maybe. A bell, book
and a candle job."
The Bursar sighed. "We tried that, Archchancellor."
The Archchancellor leaned towards him.
"Eh?" he said.
"I said, we tried that, Archchancellor," said the Bursar loudly, directing
his voice at the old man's ear. "After dinner, you remember? We used
Humptemper's Names of the Ants and rang Old Tom."3
"Did we, indeed. Worked, did it?"
"No, Archchancellor."
"Eh?"
"Anyway, we've never had trouble with ghosts before," said the Senior
Tutor. "Wizards just don't haunt places."
The Archchancellor groped for a crumb of comfort.
"Perhaps it's just something natural," he said. "Possibly the rumblings of
an underground spring. Earth movements, perhaps. Something in the drains. They
can make very funny noises, you know, when the wind is in the right direction."
He sat back and beamed.
The rest of the council exchanged glances.
"The drains don't sound like hurrying feet, Archchancellor," said the
Bursar wearily.
"Unless someone left a tap running," said the Senior Tutor.
The Bursar scowled at him. He'd been in the tub when the invisible
screaming thing had hurtled through his room. It was not an experience he wanted
to repeat.
The Archchancellor nodded at him.
"That's settled, then," he said, and fell asleep.
The Bursar watched him in silence. Then he pulled the old man's hat off
and tucked it gently under his head.
"Well?" he said wearily. "Has anyone got any suggestions?"
The Librarian put his hand up.
"Oook," he said.
"Yes, well done, good boy," said the Bursar, breezily. "Anyone else?"
The orang-utan glared at him as the other wizards shook their heads.
"It's a tremor in the texture of reality," said the Senior Tutor. "That's
what it is."
"What should we do about it, then?"
"Search me. Unless we tried the old -"
"Oh, no," said the Bursar. "Don't say it. Please. It's far too dangerous -
"
His words were chopped off by a scream that began at the far end of the
room and dopplered along the table, accompanied by the sound of many running
feet. The wizards ducked in a scatter of overturned chairs.
The candle flames were drawn into long thin tongues of octarine light
before being snuffed out.
Then there was silence, the special kind that you get after a really
unpleasant noise.
And the Bursar said, "All right. I give in. We will try the Rite of
AshkEnte."
It is the most serious ritual eight wizards can undertake. It summons
Death, who naturally knows everything that is going on everywhere.
And of course it is done with reluctance, because senior wizards are
generally very old and would prefer not to do anything to draw Death's attention
in their direction.
It took place in the midnight in the University's Great Hall, in a welter
of incense, candlesticks, runic inscriptions and magic circles, none of which
was strictly necessary but made the wizards feel better. Magic flared, the
chants were chanted, the invocations were truly invoked.
The wizards stared into the magic octogram, which remained empty. After a
while the circle of robed figures began to mutter amongst themselves.
"We must have done something wrong."
"Oook."
"Maybe He is out."
"Or busy..."
"Do you think we could give up and go back to bed?"
WHO ARE WE WAITING FOR, EXACTLY?
The Bursar turned slowly to the figure beside him. You could always tell a
wizard's robe; it was bedecked with sequins, sigils, fur and lace, and there was
usually a considerable amount of wizard inside it. This robe, however, was very
black. The material looked as though it had been chosen for its hard-wearing
qualities. So did its owner. He looked as though if he wrote a diet book it
would be a bestseller.
Death was watching the octogram with an expression of polite interest.
"Er," said the Bursar. "The fact is, in fact, that, er, you should be on
the inside."
I'M SO SORRY.
Death stalked in a dignified way into the centre of the room and watched
the Bursar expectantly.
I HOPE WE ARE NOT GOING TO HAVE ANY OF THIS "FOUL FIEND" BUSINESS AGAIN,
he said.
"I trust we are not interrupting any important enterprise?" said the
Bursar.
TO SOMEBODY.
"Er. Er. The reason, o fou - sir, that we have called you here, is for the
reason -"
IT IS RINCEWIND.
"What?"
THE REASON YOU HAVE SUMMONED ME. THE ANSWER IS: IT IS RINCEWIND.
"But we haven't asked you the question yet!"
NEVERTHELESS THE ANSWER IS: IT IS RINCEWIND.
"Look, what we want to know is, what is causing this outbreak of... oh."
Death pointedly picked invisible particles off the edge of his scythe.
The Archchancellor cupped a gnarled hand over his ear.
"What'd he say? Who's the fella with the stick?"
"It's Death, sir. You know."
"Tell him we don't want any," said the old wizard, waving his stick.
The Bursar sighed. "We summoned him, Archchancellor."
"Is it? What'd we go and do that for? Bloody silly thing to do."
The Bursar gave Death an embarrassed grin. He was on the point of asking
him to excuse the Archchancellor on account of his age, but realised that this
would in the circumstances be a complete waste of breath.
"Are we talking about the wizard Rincewind? The one with the -" the Bursar
gave a shudder - "horrible Luggage on legs? But he got blown up when there was
all that business with the sourcerer, didn't he?"4
INTO THE DUNGEON DIMENSIONS. AND NOW HE IS TRYING TO GET BACK HOME.
"Can he do that?"
THERE WOULD NEED TO BE AN UNUSUAL CONJUNCTION OF CIRCUMSTANCES. REALITY
WOULD NEED TO BE WEAKENED IN CERTAIN UNEXPECTED WAYS.
"That isn't likely to happen, is it?" said the Bursar anxiously. People
who have it on record that they were visiting their aunt for two months are
always nervous about people turning up who may have mistakenly thought that they
weren't, and owing to some trick of the light might have believed they had seen
them doing things that they couldn't have been doing owing to being at their
aunt's.
IT WOULD BE A MILLION TO ONE CHANCE, said Death. EXACTLY A MILLION TO ONE
CHANCE.
"Oh," said the Bursar, intensely relieved. "Oh dear. What a shame." He
brightened up considerably. "Of course, there's all the noise. But,
unfortunately, I expect he won't survive for long."
THIS COULD BE THE CASE, said Death blandly. I AM SURE, THOUGH, THAT YOU
WOULD NOT WISH ME TO MAKE A PRACTICE OF ISSUING DEFINITIVE STATEMENTS IN THIS
FIELD.
"No! No, of course not," said the Bursar hurriedly. "Right. Well, many
thanks. Poor chap. What a great pity. Still can't be helped. Perhaps we should
be philosophical about these things."
PERHAPS YOU SHOULD.
"And we had better not keep you," the Bursar added politely.
THANK YOU.
"Goodbye."
BE SEEING YOU.
In fact the noise stopped just before breakfast. The Librarian was the
only one unhappy about it. Rincewind had been his assistant and his friend, and
was a good man when it came to peeling a banana. He had also been uniquely good
at running away from things. He was not, the Librarian considered, the type to
be easily caught.
There had probably been an unusual conjunction of circumstances.
That was a far more likely explanation.
There had been an unusual conjunction of circumstances.
By exactly a million to one chance there had been someone watching,
studying, looking for the right tools for a special job.
And here was Rincewind.
It was almost too easy.
So Rincewind opened his eyes. There was a ceiling above him; if it was the
floor, then he was in trouble.
So far, so good.
He cautiously felt the surface he was laying on. It was grainy, woody in
fact, with the odd nail-hole. A human sort of surface.
His ears picked up the crackle of a fife and a bubbling noise, source
unknown.
His nose, feeling that it was being left out of things, hastened to report
a whiff of brimstone.
Right, so where did that leave him? Lying on a rough wooden floor in a
firelit room with something that bubbled and gave off sulphurous smells. In his
unreal, dreamy state he felt quite pleased at this process of deduction.
What else?
Oh, yes.
He opened his mouth and screamed and screamed and screamed.
This made him feel slightly better.
He lay there a bit longer. Though the tumbled heap of his memories came
the recollections of mornings in bed when he was a little boy, desperately
subdividing the passing time into smaller and smaller units to put off the
terrible moment of getting up and having to face all the problems of life such
as, in this case, who he was, where he was, and why he was.
"What are you?" said a voice on the edge of his consciousness.
"I was coming to that," muttered Rincewind.
The room oscillated into focus as he pushed himself up on his elbows.
"I warn you," said the voice, which seemed to be coming from a table, "I
am protected by many powerful amulets."
"Jolly good," said Rincewind. "I wish I was."
Details began to distil out of the blur. It was a long, low room, one end
of which was occupied by an enormous fireplace. A bench all down one wall
contained a selection of glassware apparently created by a drunken glassblower
with hiccups, and inside its byzantine coils coloured liquids seethed and
bubbled. A skeleton hung from a hook in a relaxed fashion. On a perch beside it
someone had nailed a stuffed bird. Whatever sins it had committed in life, it
hadn't deserved what the taxidermist had done to it.
Rincewind's gaze swept across the floor. It was obvious that it was the
only sweeping the floor had had for some time. Only around him had space been
cleared among the debris of broken glass and overturned retorts for -
A magic circle.
It looked an extremely thorough job. Whoever had chalked it was clearly
aware that its purpose was to divide the universe into two bits, the inside and
the outside.
Rincewind was, of course, inside.
"Ah," he said, feeling a familiar and almost comforting sense of dread
sweep over him.
"I adjure and conjure thee against all aggressive acts, o demon of the
pit," said the voice from, Rincewind now realised, behind the table.
"Fine, fine," said Rincewind quickly. "That's all right by me. Er. It
isn't possible that there has been the teeniest little mistake here, could
there?"
"Avaunt!"
"Right!" said Rincewind. He looked around him desperately. "How?"
"Don't you think you can lure me to my doom with thy lying tongue, o fiend
of Shamharoth," said the table. "I am learned in the ways of demons. Obey my
every command or I will return thee unto the boiling hell from which you came.
Thou came, sorry. Thou came'st, in fact. And I really mean it."
The figure stepped out. It was quite short, and most of it was hidden by a
variety of charms, amulets and talismans which, even if not effective against
magic, would have protected it against a tolerably determined sword thrust. It
wore glasses and had a hat with long sidepieces that gave it the air of a short-
sighted spaniel.
It held a sword in one shaking hand. It was so heavily etched with sigils
that it was beginning to bend.
"Boiling hell, did you say?" said Rincewind weakly.
"Absolutely. Where the screams of anguish and the tortured torments -"
"Yes, yes, you've made your point," said Rincewind. "Only, you see, the
thing is, in fact, that I am not a demon. So if you would just let me out?"
"I am not fooled by thy outer garb, demon," said the figure. In a more
normal voice it added, "Anyway, demons always lie. Well-known fact."
"It is?" said Rincewind, clutching at this straw. "In that case, then - I
am a demon."
"Aha! Condemned out of your own mouth!"
"Look, I don't have to put up with this," said Rincewind. "I don't know
who you are or what's happening, but I'm going to have a drink, all right?"
He went to walk out of the circle, and went rigid with shock as sparks
crackled up from the runic inscriptions and earthed themselves all over his
body.
"Thou mays'nt - thou maysn't - thou mays'n't -" The conjurer of demons
gave up. "Look, you can't step over the circle until I release you, right? I
mean, I don't want to be unpleasant, it's just that if I let you out of the
circle you will be able to resume your true shape, and a pretty awful shape it
is too, I expect. Avaunt!" he added feeling that he wasn't keeping up the tone.
"All right. I'm avaunting. I'm avaunting," said Rincewind, rubbing his
elbow. "But I'm still not a demon."
"How come you answered the conjuration, then? I suppose you just happened
to be passing through the paranatural dimensions, eh?"
"Something like that, I think. It's all a bit blurred."
"Pull the other one, it has got bells on." The conjurer leaned his sword
against a lectern on which a heavy book, dripping bookmarks, lay open. Then he
did a mad little jig on the floor.
"It's worked!" he said. "Heheh!" He caught sight of Rincewind's horrified
gaze and pulled himself together. He gave an embarrassed cough, and stepped up
to the lectern.
"I really am not -" Rincewind began.
"I had this list here somewhere," said the figure. "Let's see, now. Oh,
yes. I command you - thee, I mean - to, ah, grant me three wishes. Yes. I want
mastery of the kingdoms of the world, I want to meet the most beautiful woman
who has ever lived, and I wan to live forever." He gave Rincewind an encouraging
look.
"All that?" said Rincewind.
"Yes."
"Oh, no problem," said Rincewind sarcastically. "And then I get to have
the rest of the day off, right?"
"And I want a chest full of gold, too. Just to be going on with."
"I can see you've got it all thought out."
"Yes. Avaunt!"
"Right, right. Only -" Rincewind thought hurriedly, he's quite mad, but
mad with a sword in his hands, the only chance I've got is to argue him out of
it on his own terms," - only, d'you see, I'm not a very superior kind of demon
and I'm afraid those sort of errands are a bit out of my league, sorry. You can
avaunt as much as you like, but they're just beyond me."
The little figure peered over the top of its glasses.
"I see," he said testily. "What could you manage then, do you think?"
"Well, er -" said Rincewind, "I suppose I could go down to the shops and
get a packet of mints, or something."
There was a pause.
"You really can't do all those things?"
"Sorry. Look I'll tell you what. You just release me, and I'll be sure to
pass the word around when I get back to -" Rincewind hesitated. Where the hell
did demons live, anyway? "Demon City," he said hopefully.
"You mean Pandemonium?" said his captor suspiciously.
"Yes, that's right. That's what I meant. I'll tell everyone, next time
you're in the real world be sure and look up - what's your name?"
"Thursley. Eric Thursley."
"Right"
"Demonologist. Midden Lane, Pseudopolis. Next door to the tannery," said
Thursley hopefully.
"Right you are. Don't you worry about it. Now, if you'll just let me out -
"
Thursley's face fell.
"You're sure you really can't do it?" he said, and Rincewind couldn't help
noticing the edge of pleading in his voice. "Even a small chest of gold would
do. And, I mean, it needn't be the most beautiful woman in the whole of history.
Second most beautiful would do. Or third. You pick any one out of, you know, the
top one hundr - thousand. Whatever you've got in stock, sort of thing." By the
end of the sentence his voice twanged with longing.
Rincewind wanted to say: Look, what you should do is stop all this messing
around with chemicals in dark rooms and have a shave, a haircut, a bath, make
that two baths, buy yourself a new wardrobe and get out of an evening and then -
but he'd have to be honest, because even washed, shaved and soaked in body
splash Thursley wasn't going to win any prizes - and then you could have your
face slapped by any woman of your choice.
I mean, it wouldn't be much, but it would be body contact.
"Sorry," he said again.
Thursley sighed. "The kettle's on," he said. "Would you like a cup of
tea?"
Rincewind stepped forward into a crackle of psychic energy.
"Ah," said Thursley uncertainly, as the wizard sucked his fingers, "I'll
tell you what. I'll put you under a conjuration of duress."
"There's no need, I assure you."
"No, it's best this way. It means you can move around. I had it all ready
anyway, in case you could go and fetch, you know, her."
"Fine," said Rincewind. As the demonologist mumbled words from the book he
thought: Feet. Door. Stairs. What a great combination.
It occurred to him that there was something about the demonologist that
wasn't quite usual, but he couldn't put his finger on it. He looked pretty much
like the demonologists Rincewind had known back in Ankh-Morpork, who were all
bent and chemical-stained and had eyes with pupils like pinheads from all the
chemical fumes. This one would have fitted in easily. It was just that there was
something odd.
"To be honest," said Thursley, industriously mopping away part of the
circle, "you're my first demon. It's never worked before. What is your name?"
"Rincewind."
Thursley thought about this. "It doesn't ring a bell," he said. "There's a
Riinjswin in the Demonologie. And a Winswin. But they've got more wings than
you. You can step out now. I must say that's a first-class materialisation. No-
one would think you were a fiend, to look at you. Most demons, when they want to
look human, materialise in the shape of nobles, kings and princes. This moth-
eaten-wizard look is very clever. You could've almost fooled me. It's a shame
you can't do any of those things."
"I can't see why you'd want to live for ever," said Rincewind, privately
determining that the words "moth-eaten" would be paid for, if ever he got the
opportunity. "Being young again, I can understand that."
"Huh. Being young's not much fun," said Thursley, and then clapped his
hand over his mouth.
Rincewind leaned forward.
About fifty years. That was what was missing.
"That's a false beard!" he said. "How old are you?"
"Eighty-seven!" squeaked Thursley.
"I can see the hooks over your ears!"
"Seventy-eight, honest! Avaunt!"
"You're a little boy!"
Eric pulled himself up haughtily. "I'm not!" he snapped. "I'm nearly
fourteen!"
"Ah-ha!"
The boy waved the sword at Rincewind. "It doesn't matter, anyway!" he
shouted. "Demonologists can be any age, you're still my demon and you have to do
as I say!"
"Eric!" came a voice from somewhere below them.
Eric's face went white.
"Yes, mother?" he shouted, his eyes fixed on Rincewind. His mouth shaped
the words: don't say anything, please.
"What's all that noise up there?"
"Nothing, mother!"
"Come down and wash your hands, dear, your breakfast's ready!"
"Yes, mother." He looked sheepishly at Rincewind. "That's my mother," he
said.
"She's got a good pair of lungs, hasn't she," said Rincewind.
"I'd, I'd better go, then," said Eric. "You'll have to stay up here, of
course."
It dawned on him that he was losing a certain amount of credibility at
this point. He waved the sword again.
"Avaunt!" he said. "I command you not to leave this room!"
"Right. Sure," said Rincewind, eyeing the windows.
"Promise? Otherwise you'll be sent back to the Pit."
"Oh, I don't want that," said Rincewind. "Off you trot. Don't worry about
me."
"I'm going to leave the sword and stuff here," said Eric, removing most of
his accoutrements to reveal a slim, dark-haired young man whose face would be a
lot better when his acne cleared up. "If you touch them, terrible things will
befall."
"Wouldn't dream of it," said Rincewind.
When he was left alone he wandered he wandered over to the lectern and
looked at the book. The title, in impressively flickering red letters, was
Mallificarum Sumpta Diabolicite Occularis Singularum, the Book of Ultimate
Control. He knew about it. There was a copy in the Library somewhere, although
wizards never bothered with it.
This might seem odd, because if there is one thing a wizard would trade
his grandfather for, it is power. But it wasn't all that strange, because any
wizard bright enough to survive for five minutes was also bright enough to
realise that if there was any power in demonology, then it lay with the demons.
Using it for your own purposes would be like trying to beat mice to death with a
rattlesnake.
Even wizards thought demonologists were odd; they tended to be
surreptitious, pale men who got up to complicated things in darkened rooms and
had damp, weak handshakes. It wasn't like good clean magic. No self-respecting
wizard would have any truck with the demonic regions, whose inhabitants were as
big a collection of ding-dong as you'd find outside a large belfry.
He inspected the skeleton closely, just in case. It didn't seem inclined
to make a contribution to the situation.
"It belonged to his wossname, grandfather," said a cracked voice behind
him
"Bit of an unusual bequest," said Rincewind.
"Oh, not personally. He got it in a shop somewhere. It's one of them
wossname, articulate wossnames."
"It's not saying much right now," said Rincewind, and then went very quiet
and thoughtful.
"Er," he said, without moving his head, "what, precisely, am I talking
to?"
"I'm a wossname. Tip of my tongue. Begins with a P."
Rincewind turned around slowly.
"You're a parrot?" he said.
"That's it."
Rincewind stared at the thing on the perch. It had one eye that glittered
like a ruby. Most of the rest of it was pink and purple skin, studded with the
fag-ends of feathers, so that the net effect was of an oven-ready hairbrush. It
jiggled arthritically on its perch and then slowly lost its balance, until it
was hanging upside down.
"I thought you were stuffed," said Rincewind.
"Up yours, wizard."
Rincewind ignored it and crept over to the window. It was small, but gave
out on to a gently sloping roof. And out there was a real life, real sky, real
buildings. He reached out to open the shutters -
A crackling current coursed up his arm and earthed itself in his
cerebellum.
He sat on the floor, sucking his fingers.
"He tole you," said the parrot, swinging backwards and forwards upside
down. "But you wouldn't wossname. He's got you by the wossnames."
"But it should only work on demons!"
"Ah," said the parrot, achieving enough momentum to swing upright again,
whereupon it steadied itself with the stubby remains of what had once been
wings. "It's all according, isn't it. If you come in the door marked `wossnames`
that means you get treated as a wossname, right? Demon, I mean. Subject to all
the rules and wossnames. Tough one for you."
"But you know I'm a wizard, don't you!"
The parrot gave a squawk. "I've seen 'em, mate. The real McWossname. Some
of the ones we've had in here, they'd make you choke on your millet. Great scaly
fiery wossnames. Took weeks to get the soot off the walls," it added, in an
approving tone of voice. "That was in his granddad's day, of course. The kid
hasn't been any good at it. Up to now. Bright lad. I blame the wossnames,
parents. New money, you know. Wine business. Spoil him rotten, let him play with
his wossname's old stuff, `Oh, he's such an intelligent lad, nose always in a
book`," the parrot mimicked. "They never give him any of the things a sensitive
growing wossname really needs, if you was to ask me."
"What you mean love and guidance?" said Rincewind.
I was thinking of a bloody good wossname, thrashing," said the parrot.
Rincewind clutched at his aching head. If this was what demons usually had
to go through, no wonder they were always so annoyed.
"Polly want a biscuit," said the parrot vaguely, in much the same way as a
human would say "Er" or "As I was saying", and went on, "His granddad was keen
on it. That and his pigeons."
"Pigeons," said Rincewind
"Not that he was particularly successful. It was all a bit trial and
wossname."
"I thought you said great big scaly -
"Oh, yes. But that wasn't what he was after. He was trying to conjure up a
succubus." It should be impossible to leer when all you've got is a beak, but
the parrot managed it. "That's a female demon what comes in the night and makes
mad passionate wossn -"
"I've heard of them," said Rincewind. "Bloody dangerous things."
The parrot put its head on one side. "It never worked. All he ever got was
a neuralger."
"What's that?"
"It's a demon that comes and has a headache at you."
Demons have existed on the Discworld for at least as long as the gods, who
in many ways they closely resemble. The difference is basically the same as that
between terrorists and freedom fighters.
Most of the demons occupy a spacious dimension close to reality,
traditionally decorated in shades of flame and maintained at roasting point.
This isn't actually necessary, but if there is one thing that your average demon
is, it is a traditionalist.
In the centre of the inferno, rising majestically from a lake of lava
substitute and with unparalleled views of the Eight Circles, lies the city of
Pandemonium.5 At the moment, it was living up to its name.
Astfgl, the new King of the Demons, was furious. Not simply because the
air-conditioning had broken down again, not because he felt surrounded by idiots
and plotters on every side, and not even because no-one could pronounce his name
properly yet, but also because he had just been given bad news. The demon who
had been chosen by lottery to deliver it cowered in front of his throne with its
tail between its legs. It was immortally afraid that something wonderful was
soon to happen to it.6
"It did what?" said Astfgl.
"It, er, it opened, o lord. The circle in Pseudopolis."
"Ah. The clever boy. We have great hopes of him."
"Er. Then it closed again, lord." The demon shut its eyes.
"And who went through?"
"Er." The demon looked around at its colleagues, clustered at the far end
of the mile-long throne room.
"I said, and who went through?"
"In point of fact, o lord -"
"Yes?"
"We don't know. Someone."
"I gave orders, did I not, that when the boy succeeded the Duke Vassenego
was to materialise unto him, and offer him forbidden pleasures and dark delights
to bend him to Our will?"
The King growled. The problem with being evil, he'd been forced to admit,
was that demons were not great innovatory thinkers and really needed the spice
摘要：

FaustEricThebeesofDeatharebigandblack,theybuzzlowandsombre,theykeeptheirhoneyincombsofwaxaswhiteasaltercandles.Thehoneyisblackasnight,thickassinandsweetastreacle.Itiswellknowntheeightcoloursmakeupwhite.Buttherearealsoeightcoloursofblackness,forthosethathavetheseeingofthem,andthehivesofDeathareamongt...

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