Terry Pratchett - Discworld 02 - The Light Fantastic

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Terry Pratchett - The Light FantasticThe sun rose slowly, as if it wasn't sure
it was worth all the effort.
Another Disc day dawned, but very gradually, and this is why.
When light encounters a strong magical field it loses ail sense of urgency. It
slows right down. And on the Discworld the magic was embarrassingly strong,
which meant that the soft yellow light of dawn flowed over the sleeping
landscape like the caress of a gentle lover or, as some would have it, like
golden syrup. It paused to fill up valleys. It piled up against mountain
ranges.
When it reached Cori Celesti, the ten mile spire of grey stone and green ice
that marked the hub of the Disc and was the home of its gods, it built up in
heaps until it finally crashed in great lazy tsunami as silent as velvet,
across
the dark landscape beyond.
It was a sight to be seen on no other world.
Of course, no other world was carried through the starry infinity on the backs
of four giant elephants, who A'ere themselves perched on the shell of a giant
turtle. His name – or Her name, according to another school of thought – was
Great A'Tuin; he – or, as it might be, she – will not take a central role in
what follows but it is vital to an understanding of the Disc that he – or she
–
is there, down below the mines and sea ooze and fake fossil bones put there by
a
Creator with nothing better to do than upset archeologists and give them silly
ideas.
Great A'Tuin the star turtle, shell frosted with frozen methane, pitted with
meteor craters, and scoured with asteroidal dust. Great A'Tuin, with eyes like
ancient seas and a brain the size of a continent through which thoughts moved
like little glittering glaciers. Great A'Tuin of the great slow sad flippers
and
star-polished carapace, labouring through the galactic night under the weight
of
the Disc. As large as worlds. As old as Time. As patient as a brick.
Actually, the philosophers have got it all wrong. Great A'Tuin is in fact
having
a great time.
Great A'Tuin is the only creature in the entire universe that knows exactly
where it is going.
Of course, philosophers have debated for years about where Great A'Tuin might
be
going, and have often said how worried they are that they might never find
out.
They're due to find out in about two months. And then they're really going to
worry . . .
Something else that has long worried the more imaginative philosophers on the
Disc is the question of Great A'Tuin's sex, and quite a lot of time and
trouble
has been spent in trying to establish it once and for all.
In fact, as the great dark shape drifts past like an endless tortoiseshell
hairbrush, the results of the latest effort are just coming into view.
Tumbling past, totally out of control, is the bronze shell of the Potent
Voyager, a sort of neolithic spaceship built and pushed over the edge by the
astronomer-priests of Krull, which is conveniently situated on the very rim of
the world and proves, whatever people say, that there is such a thing as a
free
launch.
Inside the ship is Twoflower, the Disc's first tourist. He had recently spent
some months exploring it and is now rapidly leaving it for reasons that are
rather complicated but have to do with an attempt to escape from Krull.
This attempt has been one thousand per cent successful.
But despite all the evidence that he may be the Disc's last tourist as well,
he
is enjoying the view.
Plunging along some two miles above him is Rincewind the wizard, in what on
the
Disc passes for a spacesuit. Picture it as a diving suit designed by men who
have never seen the sea. Six months ago he was a perfectly ordinary failed
wizard. Then he met Twoflower, was employed at an outrageous salary as his
guide, and has spent most of the intervening time being shot at, terrorised,
chased and hanging from high places with no hope of salvation or, as is now
the
case, dropping from high places.
He isn't looking at the view because his past life keeps flashing in front of
his eyes and getting in the way. He is learning why it is that when you put on
a
spacesuit it is vitally important not to forget the helmet.
A lot more could be included now to explain why these two are dropping out of
the world, and why Twoflower's Luggage, last seen desperately trying to follow
him on hundreds of little legs, is no ordinary suitcase, but such questions
take
time and could be more trouble than they are worth. For example, it is said
that
someone at a party once asked the famous philosopher Ly Tin Weedle 'Why are
you
here?' and the reply took three years.
What is far more important is an event happening way overhead, far above
A'Tuin,
the elephants and the rapidly-expiring wizard. The very fabric of time and
space
is about to be put through the wringer.
The air was greasy with the distinctive feel of magic, and acrid with the
smoke
of candles made of a black wax whose precise origin a wise man wouldn't
inquire
about.
There was something very strange about this room deep in the cellars of Unseen
University, the Disc's premier college of magic. For one thing it seemed to
have
too many dimensions, not exactly visible, just hovering out of eyeshot. The
walls were covered with occult symbols, and most of the floor was taken up by
the Eightfold Seal of Stasis, generally agreed in magical circles to have all
the stopping power of a well-aimed half brick.
The only furnishing in the room was a lectern dark wood, carved into the shape
of a bird – well, to be frank, into the shape of a winged thing it is probably
best not to examine too closely – and on the lectern, fastened to it by a
heavy
chain covered in padlocks, was a book.
A large, but not particularly impressive, book. Other books in the
University's
libraries had covers inlaid with rare jewels and fascinating wood, or bound
with
dragon skin. This one was just a rather tatty leather. It looked the sort of
book described in library catalogues as 'slightly foxed', although it would be
more honest to admit that it looked as though it had been badgered, wolved and
possibly beared as well.
Metal clasps held it shut. They weren't decorated, they were just very heavy –
like the chain, which didn't so much attach the book to the lectern as tether
it.
They looked like the work of someone who had a pretty definite aim in mind,
and
who had spent most of his life making training harness for elephants.
The air thickened and swirled. The pages of the book began to crinkle in a
quite
horrible, deliberate way, and blue light spilled out from between them. The
silence of the room crowded in like a fist, slowly being clenched.
Half a dozen wizards in their nightshirts were taking turns to peer in through
the little grille in the door. No wizard could sleep with this sort of thing
going on – the build-up of raw magic was rising through the university like a
tide.
'Right,' said a voice. What's going on? And why wasn't I summoned?'
Galder Weatherwax, Supreme Grand Conjuror of the Order of the Silver Star,
Lord
Imperial of the Sacred Staff, Eighth Level Ipsissimus and 304th Chancellor of
Unseen University, wasn't simply an impressive sight even in his red
nightshirt
with the hand-embroidered mystic runes, even in his long cap with the bobble
on,
even with the Wee Willie Winkie candlestick in his hand. He even managed to
very
nearly pull it off in fluffy pompom slippers as well.
Six frightened faces turned towards him.
'Um, you were summoned, lord,' said one of the under-wizards.
'That's why you're here,' he added helpfully.
'I mean why wasn't I summoned before?' snapped Galder, pushing his way to the
grille.
'Um, before who, lord?' said the wizard.
Galder glared at him, and ventured a quick glance through the grille.
The air in the room was now sparkling with tiny flashes as dust motes
incinerated in the flow of raw magic. The Seal of Stasis was beginning to
blister and curl up at the edges.
The book in question was called the Octavo and, quite obviously, it was no
ordinary book.
There are of course many famous books of magic. Some may talk of the
Necrotelicomnicon, with its pages made of ancient lizard skin; some may point
to
the Book of Going Forth Around Elevenish, written by a mysterious and rather
lazy Llamaic sect; some may recall that the Bumper Fun Grimoire reputedly
contains the one original joke left in the universe. But they are all mere
pamphlets when compared with the Octavo, which the Creator of the Universe
reputedly left behind – with characteristic absent-mindedness – shortly after
completing his major work.
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 arid
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. [1]
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 smouldering patches in his beard.
He
pointed dramatically.
To the upper cellars!' he cried, and bounded up the stone stairs. Slippers
flapping and nightshirts billowing he 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 orang outang sitting in the middle
of
it all looked very much like the head librarian.
Galder stared upwards. '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
dishevelled 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-flavoured, the fitter wizards got to the top by the time the
fireball
had reached the middle of the huge draughty chamber that was the University's
main hall. It hung motionless, except for the occasional small prominence that
arched and spluttered across its surface.
Wizards smoke, as everyone knows. That probably explained the chorus of coffin
coughs and sawtooth wheezes that erupted behind Galder as he stood appraising
the situation and wondering if he dare look for somewhere to hide. He grabbed
a
frightened student.
'Get me seers, farseers, scryers and withinlookmen!' he barked. 'I want this
studied!'
Something was taking shape inside the fireball. Galder shielded his eyes and
peered at the shape forming in front of him. There was no mistaking it. It was
the universe.
He was quite sure of this, because he had a model of it in his study and it
was
generally agreed to be far more impressive than the real thing. Faced with the
possibilities offered by seed pearls and silver filigree, the Creator had been
at a complete loss.
But the tiny universe inside the fireball was uncannily – well, real. The only
thing missing was colour. It was all in translucent misty white.
There was Great A'Tuin, and the four elephants, and the Disc itself. From this
angle Galder couldn't see the surface very well, but he knew with cold
certainty
that it would be absolutely accurately modelled. He could, though, just make
out
a miniature replica of Cori Celesti, upon whose utter peak the world's
quarrelsome and somewhat bourgeois gods lived in a palace of marble, alabaster
and uncut moquette three-piece suites they had chosen to call Dunmanifestin.
It
was always a considerable annoyance to any Disc citizen with pretensions to
culture that they were ruled by gods whose idea of an uplifting artistic
experience was a musical doorbell.
The little embryo universe began to move slowly, tilting . . .
Galder tried to shout, but his voice refused to come out.
Gently, but with the unstoppable force of an explosion, the shape expanded.
He watched in horror, and then in astonishment, as it passed through him as
lightly as a thought. He held out a hand and watched the pale ghosts of rock
strata stream through his fingers in busy silence.
Great A'Tuin had already sunk peacefully below floor level, larger than a
house.
The wizards behind Galder were waist deep in seas. A boat smaller than a
thimble
caught Galder's eye for a oment before the rush carried it through the walls
and
away.
To the roof!' he managed, pointing a shaking finger skywards.
Those wizards with enough marbles left to think with and enough breath to run
followed him, running through continents that sleeted smoothly through the
solid
stone.
It was a still night, tinted with the promise of dawn. A crescent moon was
just
setting. Ankh-Morpork, largest city in the lands around the Circle Sea, slept.
That statement is not really true.
On the one hand, those parts of the city which normally concerned themselves
with, for example, selling vegetables, shoeing horses, carving exquisite small
jade ornaments, changing money and making tables, on the whole, slept. Unless
they had insomnia. Or had got up in the night. as it might be, to go to the
lavatory. On the other hand, many of the less law-abiding citizens were wide
awake and, for instance, climbing through windows that didn't, t belong to
them,
slitting throats, mugging one another, listening to loud music in smoky
cellars
and gener,erally having a lot more fun. But most of the animals were asleep,
except for the rats. And the bats, too, of course. As far as the insects were
concerned . . .
The point is that descriptive writing is very rarely entireliy accurate and
during the reign of Olaf Quimby II is Patrician of Ankh some legislation was
passed in a determined attempt to put a stop to this sort of thing and
introduce
some honesty into reporting. Thus, if a legend said of a notable hero that
'all
men spoke of his prowess' any bard who valued his life would add hastily
'except
for a couple of people in his home village who thought he was a liar, and
quite
a lot of other people who had never really heard of him.' Poetic simile was
strictly limited to statements like 'his mighty steed was as fleet as the wind
n
a fairly calm day, say about Force Three,' and any loose talk about a beloved
having a face that launched a thousand ships would have to be backed by
evidence
that the object of desire did indeed look like a bottle of champagne.
Quimby was eventually killed by a disgruntled poet during an experiment
conducted in the palace grounds to prove the disputed accuracy of the proverb
The pen is mightier than the sword,' and in his memory it was amended to
include
the phrase 'only if the sword is very small and the pen is very sharp.'
So. Approximately sixty-seven, maybe sixty-eight per cent, of the city slept.
Not that the other citizens creeping about on their generally unlawful
occasions
noticed the pale tide streaming through the streets. Only the wizards, used to
seeing the invisible, watched it foam across the distant fields.
The Disc, being flat, has no real horizon. Any adventurous sailors who got
funny
ideas from staring at eggs and oranges for too long and set out for the
antipodes soon learned that the reason why distant ships sometimes looked as
though they were disappearing over the edge of the world was that they were
disappearing over the edge of the world.
But there was still a limit even to Galder's vision in the mist-swirled,
dust-filled air. He looked up. Looming high over the University was the grim
and
ancient Tower of Art, said to be the oldest building on the Disc, with its
famous spiral staircase of eight thousand, eight hundred and eighty-eight
steps.
From its crenelated roof, the haunt of ravens and disconcertingly alert
gargoyles, a wizard might see to the very edge of the Disc. After spending ten
minutes or so coughing horribly, of course.
'Sod that,' he muttered. 'What's the good of being a wizard, after all?
Avyento,
thessalousl I would fly! To me, spirits of air and darkness!'
He spread a gnarled hand and pointed to a piece of crumbling parapet. Octarine
fire sprouted from under his nicotine-stained nails and burst against the
otting
stone far above.
It fell. By a finely calculated exchange of velocities Ga.cer rose, nightshirt
flapping around his bony legs. Higher and higher he soared, hurtling through
the
pale night like a, like a – all right, like an elderly but powerful wizard
being
propelled upwards by an expertly judged thumb on the scales of the universe.
He landed in a litter of old nests, caught his balance, and stared down at the
vertiginous view of a Disc dawn.
At this time of the long year the Circle Sea was almost on the sunset side of
Cori Celesti, and as the daylight sloshed down into the lands around
Ankh-Morpork the shadow of the mountain scythed across the landscape like the
gnomon of God's sundial. But nightwards, racing the slow light towards the
edge
of the world, a line of white mist surged on. There was a crackling of dry
twigs
behind him. He turned to see Ymper Trymon, second in command of the Order, who
had been the only other wizard able to keep up.
Galder ignored him for the moment, taking care only to keep a firm grip on the
stonework and strengthen his personal spells of protection. Promotion was slow
in a profession that traditionally bestowed long life, and it was accepted
that
younger wizards would frequently seek advancement via dead men's curly shoes,
having previosly emptied them of their occupants. Besides, there was something
disquieting about young Trymon. He didn't smoke, only drank boiled water, and
Galder had the nasty suspicion that he was clever. He didn't smile often
enough,
and he liked figures and the sort of organisation charts that show lots of
squares with arrows pointing :o other squares. In short, he was the sort of
man
who could use the word 'personnel' and mean it.
The whole of the visible Disc was now covered with a shmmering white skin that
fitted it perfectly.
Galder looked down at his own hands and saw them covered with a pale network
of
shining threads that ollowed every movement.
He recognised this kind of spell. He'd used them himself. But his had been
smaller – much smaller.
'It's a Change spell,' said Trymon. The whole world is being changed.'
Some people, thought Galder grimly, would have had the decency to put an
exclamation mark on the end of a statement like that.
There was the faintest of pure sounds, high and sharp, like the breaking of a
mouse's heart.
'What was that?' he said.
Trymon cocked his head.
'C sharp, I think,' he said.
Galder said nothing. The white shimmer had vanished, and the.first sounds of
the
waking city began to filter up to the two wizards. Everything seemed exactly
the
same as it had before. All that, just to make things stay the same?
He patted his nightshirt pockets distractedly and finally found what he was
looking for lodged behind his ear. He put the soggy dogend in his mouth,
called
up mystical fire from between his fingers, and dragged hard on the wretched
rollup until little blue lights flashed in front of his eyes. He coughed once
or
twice.
He was thinking very hard indeed.
He was trying to remember if any gods owed him any favours.
In fact the Gods were as puzzled by all this as the wizards were, but they
were
powerless to do anything and in any case were engaged in an eons-old battle
with
the Ice Giants, who had refused to return the lawnmower.
But some clue as to what actually had happened might be found in the fact that
Rincewind, whose past life had just got up to a quite interesting bit when he
was fifteen, suddenly found himself not dying after all but hanging upside
down
in a pine tree.
He got down easily by dropping uncontrollably from branch to branch until he
landed on his head in a pile of pine needles, where he lay gasping for breath
and wishing he d been a better person.
Somewhere, he knew, there had to be a perfectly logical connection. One minute
one happens to be dying, having dropped off the rim of the world, and the next
one is upside down in a tree.
As always happened at times like this, the Spell rose up in his mind.
Rincewind had been generally reckoned by his tutors to be a natural wizard in
the same way that fish are natural mountaineers. He probably would have been
thrown out of Unseen University anyway – he couldn't remember spells and
smoking
made him feel ill – but what had really caused trouble was all that stupid
business about sneaking into the room where the Octavo was chained and opening
it.
And what made the trouble even worse was that no-one could figure out why all
the locks had temporarily become unlocked.
The spell wasn|t;sa demanding lodger. It just sat there like an old toad at
the
bottom of a pond. But whenever Rincewind was feeling really tired or very
afraid
it tried to get itself said. No-one:knew what would happen if one of the Eight
Great Spells was said by itself, but the general Agreement was that the best
place from which to watch the effects would be the next universe.
It was a weird thought to have, lying on a heap of pine needles after just
falling off the edge of the world, but Rincewind had a feeling that the spell
wanted to keep him alive.
'Suits me,' he thought.
He sat up and looked at the trees. Rincewind was a city wizard and, although
he
was aware that there were various differences among types of tree by which
their
nearest and dearest could tell them apart, the only thing he knew for certain
was that the end without the leaves on fitted nto the ground. There were far
too
many of them, arranged with absolutely no sense of order. The place hadn't
been
swept for ages.
He remembered something about being able to tell where you were by looking at
which side of a tree the moss grew on. These trees had moss everywhere, and
wooden warts, and scrabbly old branches; if trees were people, these trees
would
be sitting in rocking chairs.
Rincewind gave the nearest one a kick. With unerring aim it dropped an acorn
on
him. He said 'Ow.' The tree, in a voice like a very old door swinging open,
said, 'Serves you right.'
There was a long silence.
Then Rincewind said, 'Did you say that?'
'Yes.'
'And that too?'
'Yes.'
'Oh.' He thought for a bit. Then he tried, 'I suppose you wouldn't happen to
know the way out of the forest, possibly, by any chance?'
'No. I don't get about much,' said the tree.
'Fairly boring life, I imagine,' said Rincewind.
'I wouldn't know. I've never been anything else,' said the tree.
Rincewind looked at it closely. It seemed pretty much like every other tree
he'd
seen.
'Are you magical?' he said.
'No-one's ever said,' said the tree, 'I suppose so.'
Rincewind thought: I can't be talking to a tree. If I was talking to a tree
I'd
be mad, and I'm not mad, so trees can't talk.
'Goodbye,' he said firmly.
'Hey, don't go,' the tree began, and then realised the hopelessness of it all.
It watched him stagger off through the bushes, and settled down to feeling the
sun on its leaves, the slurp and gurgle of the water in its roots, and the
very
ebb and flow of its sap in response to the natural tug of the sun and moon.
Boring, it thought. What a trange thing to say. Trees can be bored, of course,
beetles do it all the time, but I don't think that was what he was trying to
mean. And: can you actually be anything else? In fact Rincewind never spoke to
this particular tree again, but from that brief conversation it spun the basis
of the first tree religion which, in time, swept the forests of the world. Its
tenet of faith was this: a tree that was a good tree, and led a clean, decent
and upstanding life, could be assured of a future life after death. If it was
very good indeed it would eventually be reincarnated as five thousand rolls of
lavatory paper.
A few miles away Twoflower was also getting over his surprise at finding
himself
back on the Disc. He was sitting on the hull of the Potent Voyager as it
gurgled
gradually under the dark waters of a large lake, surrounded by trees.
Strangely enough, he was not particularly worried. Twoflower was a tourist,
the
first of the species to evolve on the Disc, and fundamental to his very
existence was the rock-hard belief that nothing bad could really happen to him
because he was not involved; he also believed that anyone could understand
anything he said provided he spoke loudly and slowly, that people were
basically
trustworthy, and that anything could be sorted out among men of goodwill if
they
just acted sensibly.
On the face of it this gave him a survival value marginally less than, say, a
soap herring, but to Rincewind's amazement it all seemed to work and the
little
man's total obliviousness to all forms of danger somehow made danger so
discouraged that it gave up and went away.
Merely being faced with drowning stood no chance. Twoflower was quite certain
that in a well-organised society people would not be allowed to go around
getting drowned.
He was a little bothered, though, about where his Luggage had got to. But he
comforted himself with the nowledge that it was made of sapient pearwood, and
ought to be intelligent enough to look after itself . . .
In yet another part of the forest a young shaman was undergoing a very
essential
part of his training. He had eaten of the sacred toadstool, he had smoked the
holy rhizome, he had carefully powdered up and inserted into various orifices
the mystic mushroom and now, sitting crosslegged under a pine tree, he was
concentrating firstly on making contact with the strange and wonderful secrets
at the heart of Being but mainly on stopping the top of his head from
unscrewing
and floating away.
Blue four-side triangles pinwheeled across his vision. Occasionally he smiled
knowingly at nothing very much and said things like 'Wow' and 'Urgh.'
There was a movement in the air and what he later described as 'like, a sort
of
explosion only backwards, you know?', and suddenly where there had only been
nothing there was a large, battered, wooden chest.
It landed heavily on the leafmould, extended dozens of little legs, and turned
around ponderously to look at the shaman. That is to say, it had no face, but
even through the mycological haze he was horribly aware that it was looking at
him. And not a nice look, either. It was amazing how baleful a keyhole and a
couple of knotholes could be.
To his intense relief it gave a sort of wooden shrug, and set off through the
trees at a canter.
With superhuman effort the shaman recalled the correct sequence of movements
for
standing up and even managed a couple of steps before he looked down and gave
up, having run out of legs.
Rincewind, meanwhile, had found a path. It wound about a good deal, and he
would
have been happier if it had been cobbled, but following it gave him something
to
do.
Several trees tried to strike up a conversation, but Rincewind was nearly
certain that this was not normal behaviour for trees and ignored them.
The day lengthened. There was no sound but the murmur of nasty little stinging
insects, the occasional crack of a falling branch, and the whispering of the
trees discussing religion and the trouble with squirrels. Rincewind began to
feel very lonely. He imagined himself living in the woods forever, sleeping on
leaves and eating . . . and eating . . . whatever there was to eat in woods.
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TerryPratchett-TheLightFantasticThesunroseslowly,asifitwasn'tsureitwasworthalltheeffort.AnotherDiscdaydawned,butverygradually,andthisiswhy.Whenlightencountersastrongmagicalfielditlosesailsenseofurgency.Itslowsrightdown.AndontheDiscworldthemagicwasembarrassinglystrong,whichmeantthatthesoftyellowlight...

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：133 页 大小：302.43KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-14

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