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it was fascinating. You could become famous just for being, well, famous. It occurred to him that this was an extremely dangerous thing and he might probably have to have someone killed one day, although it would be with reluctance.[the meantime, there was a kind of secondary glory that came from being in the company .
‘Why are all the lamps being turned down?’ he said.
‘Ah, sir,’ said Dibbler, ‘that is so you can see the pictures better.’
‘Is it? One would imagine it would make the pictures harder to see,’ said the Patrician.
‘It’s not like that with the moving pictures, sir,’ said Dibbler.of the truly celebrated, and to his astonishment he was enjoying it.Besides he was also sitting next to Miss del Syn, and the envy of the rest of the audience was so palpable he could taste it, which was more than he could do with the bagful of fluffy white starchy things he’d been given to eat.On his other side, the horrible Dibbler man was explaining the mechanics of moving pictures in the utterly mistaken belief that the Patrician was listening to a word of it.There was a sudden roar of applause.The Patrician leaned sideways to Dibbler

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it needed was a title. Something with a ring to it. Something that people would remember. Something - he scratched his chin with the pen - that said that the affairs of ordinary people were so much chaff in the great storms of history. Storms, that was it. Good imagery, a storm. You got thunder. Lightning. Rain. Wind.
Wind. That He sat up, drenched in sweat.
After a few minutes he swung his legs out of bed and went to the window.
Above the lights of the town Holy Wood Hill brooded in the first dim light of dawn. It was going to be another fine day.

Holy Wood dreams surged through the streets, in great invisible golden waves. was it! He crawled up to the top of the sheet and, with great care, wrote: BLOWN AWAY. Victor tossed and turned in his narrow bed, trying to get to sleep. Images marched through his half-dozing mind. There were chariot races and pirate ships and things he couldn’t identify, and in the middle of it all this thing, climbing a tower. Something huge and terrible, grinning defiance at the world. And someone screaming . . .

Henri Rousseau The Merry Jesters

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is peering in at her.’
She waddled out of the tent. From the tent next door came a metallic chinking noise and the sound of Ginger’s voice raised in complaint.
Victor made a few experimental slashes with the sword.
Gaspode They’re even worse than yours.’
‘Mine? What’s wrong with mine?’
Detritus the troll stuck his head through the tent flaps. ‘Mr Dibbler says he wants you now,’ he said.
‘Eyes?’ said Victor. ‘Something about my eyes?’
‘Woof.’
‘Mr Dibbler says–’ Detritus began.
‘All right, all right! I’m coming!’
Victor stepped out of his tent at the same time as Ginger stepped out of hers. He shut watched him with his head on one side. ‘What’re you supposed to be?’ he said at last. ‘A leader of a pack of desert bandits, apparently,’ said Victor. ‘Romantic and dashing.’ ‘Dashing where?’ ‘Just dashing generally, I guess. Gaspode, what did you mean when you said it’s got Dibbler?’ The dog gnawed at a paw. ‘Look at his eyes,’ he said. ‘

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sound like common demons,’ he said cautiously.
Gaffer gave him an approving look, such as might be given to a stupid dog who had just done a rather clever trick.
‘Yeah, that’s people who could identify the thought at the other end of the process, in this case I am now very rich, draw a line between the two, and then think his way along it, slowly and patiently, until he got to the other end.
Not that it worked. There was always, he found, some small right,’ he conceded. ‘But how do you stop them escaping?’ said Victor. Gaffer leered. ‘Amazin’ stuff, string,’ he said. Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler was one of those rare people with the ability to think in straight lines. Most people think in curves and zig-zags. For example, they start from a thought like: I wonder how I can become very rich, and then proceed along an uncertain course which includes thoughts like: I wonder what’s for supper, and: I wonder who I know who can lend me five dollars? Whereas Throat was one of those

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'Right. Good. So noon would be age 35, am I right? Now considering that most children can toddle at a year or so, the four legs reference is really unsuitable, wouldn't you agree? I mean, most of the morning is spent on two legs. According to your analogy' he paused and did a few calculations with a convenient thighbone- 'only about twenty minutes immediately after 00.00 hours, half an hour tops, is spent on four legs. Am I right? Be fair.' 'Just make it a bit more realistic.'
'Hmm.' The Sphinx scratched its mane with a claw.
'Okay,' it said doubtfully. 'I suppose I could ask: What is it that walks on four legs'
'Metaphorically speaking,' said Teppic.
'Four legs, metaphorically speaking,' the Sphinx agreed, 'for about-' 'Well-' said the Sphinx. 'By the same token you wouldn't be using a stick by six p.m. because you'd be only, er, 52,' said Teppic, scribbling furiously. 'In fact you wouldn't really be looking at any kind of walking aid until at least half past nine, I think. That's on the assumption that the entire lifespan takes place over one day which is, I believe I have already pointed out, ridiculous. I'm sorry, it's basically okay, but it doesn't work.' 'Well,' said the Sphinx, but irritably this time, 'I don't see what I can do about it. I haven't got any more. It's the only one I've ever needed.' 'You just need to alter it a bit, that's all.' 'How do you mean?'

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obscurely proud of that. No-one had unsealed the doors and wandered around inside to see if the dead had any old treasures they , but somewhere where they hadn't liked being, probably, and for thoroughly good reasons; it was at times like this he wished he knew more history - and had prayed in the desert and the gods of the place had shown him the Old Kingdom. And he had entered, yea, and taken possession thereof, that it should ever be the dwelling place of his seed. Something like that, anyway. There were probably more yeas and a few verilys, with added milk and honey. But the sight of that great patriarchaweren't using any more. And every day, without fail, food was left in the little antechambers; the commissaries of the dead occupied a large part of the palace. Sometimes the food went, sometimes it didn't. The priests, however, were very clear on this point. Regardless of whether the food was consumed or not, it had been eaten by the dead. Presumably they enjoyed it; they never complained, or came back for seconds. Look after the dead, said the priests, and the dead would look after you. After all, they were in the majority. Teppic pushed aside the reeds. He straightened his clothing, brushed some mud off his sleeve and set off for the palace. Ahead of him, dark against the flarelight, stood the great statue of Khuft. Seven thousand years ago Khuft had led his people out of - Teppic couldn't rememberl face, that outstretched arm, that chin you could crack

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There was the sound of someone being extremely hesitant.
'
'Sorry about all that, sire. Tactless of me.'
'Don't mention it.'
'If you need any help getting her alight—'
'Please go back to the castle, sergeant.'
'Yes, sire. If you're sure, sire. Thank you, sire.'
'Sergeant?'
'Yes, sire?''Don't like the sound of that, sire,' said the invisible sergeant. 'Could be dangerous. If you want my advice, sire, I'd set fire to the thatch.''Set fire?''Yessire. We always do that if they don't answer the door. Brings them out a treat.''I don't think that would be appropriate, sergeant. I think I'll try the latch, if it's all the same to you.''Breaks my heart to see you do it, sire.''Well, I'm sorry.''You could at least let me buff it up for you.''No!''Well, couldn't I just set fire to the privy—?''Absolutely not!''That chicken house over there looks as if it would go up like-''Sergeant!''Sire!''Go back to the castle!''What, and leave you all alone, sire?''This is a matter of extreme delicacy, sergeant. I am sure you are a man of sterling qualities, but there are times when even a king needs to be alone. It concerns a young woman, you understand.''Ah. Point taken, sire,''Thank you. Help me dismount, please.

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could feel the Fool's eye boring into the back of his short neck.
'Yes, but dressing up as women, it's a bit—' said Thundergust doubtfully.
Tomjon slipped off his shoes and knelt down on them, bringing his face level with the dwarfs. He gave him a calculating stare for a few seconds, and then adjusted his features.
And there through Hwel's head and out the other side.
He could remember the drinking, he was certain. And the dwarfs bought lots more rounds when Tomjon did his impersonations. Then they had all gone to another bar Thundergust knew, and then they'd gone to a Klatchian takeaway, and after that it was just a blur . . .
He wasn't very good at quaffing. Too much of the drink actually landed in his mouth.
Judging by the taste in it, some incontinent creature of the night had also scored were two Thundergusts. True, one of them was kneeling and had apparently been shaved.'What ho, what ho,' said Tomjon in the dwarf's voice.This was by way of being a hilarious gag to the rest of the dwarfs, who had an uncomplicated sense of humour. As they gathered round the pair Hwel felt a gentle touch on the shoulder.'You two are with a theatre?' said the Fool, now almost sober.'S'right.''Then I've come five hundred miles to find you.' It was, as Hwel would have noted in his stage directions, Later the Same Day. The sounds of hammering as the Dysk theatre rose from its cradle of scaffolding thumped

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so Granny Weatherwax swept down the steps and through the crowds, with the other two running behind her. Several of the grinning guards caught her eye and wished they hadn't, but here and there, among the watching crowd, was a barely suppressed snigger. She hurtled through the gateway, across the drawbridge and through the town. the back.
'Don't despair,' she said. 'You handled it very well, we thought.'
'I ain't despairing, I'm thinking,' said Granny. 'Go away.'
Nanny Ogg raised her eyebrows at Magrat in a warning fashion. They backed off to a suitable distance although, with Granny in her present mood, the next universe might not be far enough, and sat down on a moss-grown stone.Granny walking fast could beat most other people at a run.Behind them the duke, who had crested the latest maniac peak on the switchback of his madness and was coasting speedily towards the watersplash of despair, laughed.'Ha ha.'Granny didn't stop until she was outside the town and under the welcoming eaves of the forest. She turned off the road and flumped down on a log, her face in her hands.The other two approached her carefully. Magrat patted her on

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'They had a bun too, sir. All except young Roger, who isn't allowed fruit, sir, on account of his trouble.'
The duke sagged back on the window seat and put his hand over his eyes. I was born to rule down on the plains, he fifty years without finding a use for curiosity. It was not a trait much encouraged in aristocrats. He had found certainty was a much better bet. However, it occurred to him that for once curiosity might have its uses.
The sergeant was standing in the middle of the floor with the stolid air of one who thought, where it's all flat and there isn't all this weather and everything and there are people who don't appear to be made of dough. He's going to tell me what this Roger had.'He had a biscuit, sir.'The duke stared out at the trees. He was angry. He was extremely angry. But twenty years of marriage to Lady Felmet had taught him not simply to control his emotions but to control his instincts as well, and not so much as the twitching of a muscle indicated the workings of his mind. Besides, arising out of the black depths of his head was an emotion that, hitherto, he had little time for. Curiosity was flashing a fin.The duke had managed quite well for

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do you mean, no?' growled Albert. This is too important for any flighty —'
'I mean,have representatives dwelling within its sprawling acres. In Ankh-Morpork the cuisines of the world collide: on the menu are one thousand types of vegetable, fifteen hundred cheeses, two thousand spices, three hundred types of meat, two hundred fowl, five hundred different kinds ' said Ysabell, in razor tones, 'that I can do them and you can help.' The Ankh-Morpork Guild of Merchants has taken to hiring large gangs of men with ears like fists and fists like large bags of walnuts whose job it is to re-educate those misguided people who publicly fail to recognise the many attractive points of their fine city. For example the philosopher Catroaster was found floating face downward in the river within hours of uttering the famous line, 'When a man is tired of Ankh-Morpork, he is tired of ankle-deep slurry.'Therefore it is prudent to dwell on one – of the very many, of course – on one of the things that makes Ankh-Morpork renowned among the great cities of the multiverse.This is its food.The trade routes of half the Disc pass through the city or down its rather sluggish river. More than half the tribes and races of the Disc

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In fact there areas in more mundane arts, and this tendency to look like elderly aldermen was only temporary. Previous generations had gone in for looking pale and interesting, or druidical and grubby, or mysterious and saturnine. But Keli was used to wizards as a sort of fur-trimmed small mountain with a wheezy me but she's gone to see her sister who's had one of her turns. Are you sure? It's no trouble. I saw a spare cup here only yesterday.'
'I have a problem, Mr Cutwell,' said Keli.
'Hang on a moment.' He reached up to a hook over the fireplace and took down voice, and Igneous Cutwell didn't quite fit the mage image.He was young. Well, that couldn't be helped; presumably even wizards had to start off young. He didn't have a beard, and the only thing his rather grubby robe was trimmed with was frayed edges.'Would you like a drink or something?' he said, surreptitiously kicking a discarded vest under the table.Keli looked around for somewhere to sit that wasn't occupied with laundry or used crockery, and shook her head. Cutwell noticed her expression.'It's a bit alfresco, I'm afraid,' he added hurriedly, elbowing the remains of a garlic sausage on to the floor. 'Mrs Nugent usually comes in twice a week and does for

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In a landscape that owed nothing to time and space, which appeared on no map, which existed only in those far reaches of the multiplexed cosmos known to the few astrophysicists who have taken really bad acid, Mort spent the get up close. I went and had a look once.'
Mort squinted hard at the trees nearest him. They seemed commendably solid.
'What'd he do it all for?' he said.
Albert grunted. 'Do you know what happens to lads who ask too many questionsafternoon helping Albert plant out broccoli. It was black, tinted with purple.'He tries, see,' said Albert, flourishing the dibber. 'It's just that when it comes to colour, he hasn't got much imagination.''I'm not sure I understand all this,' said Mort. 'Did you say he made all ground dropped towards a deep valley and then rose into dark moorland that marched all the way to distant mountains, jagged as cats' teeth.'Yeah,' said Albert. 'Mind what you're doing with that watering can.''What was here before?''I dunno,' said Albert, starting a fresh row. 'Firmament, I suppose. That's the fancy name for raw nothing. It's not a very good job of work, to tell the truth. I mean, the okay, but the mountains are downright shoddy. They're all fuzzy when you

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never liked the ocean," said Cutangle. "It ought to be paved over. There's dreadful things in it, down in the deep bits. Ghastly sea monsters. Or so they say."
"Keep baling, my lad, or you'll be able to see if they're right."
The storm Hub is, by any chance?" he ventured. "Just making conversation."
"Look for the mossy side of trees," said Granny without turning her head.
"Ali, " said Cutangle, and nodded.
He peered down gloomily at the oily waters, and wondered which particular oily waters they were. Judging by the salty smell they were out in the bay now.rolled backwards and forwards overhead. It was lost here on the flat river plains; it belonged in the high Ramtops, where they knew how to appreciate a good storm. It grumbled around, looking for even a moderately high hill to throw lightning at. The rain settled down to the gentle patter of rain that is quite capable of keeping it up for days. A sea fog also rolled in to assist it. "If we had some oars we could row, if we knew where we were going," said Cutangle. Granny didn't answer. He heaved a few more bootfuls of water over the side, and it occurred to him that the gold braiding on his robe would probably never be the same again. It would be nice to think it might matter, one day. "I don't suppose you do know which way the

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would have thought one could carry out a perfectly respectable business, Hilta, without resorting to parlour tricks," said Granny, sitting down and beginning the long and trickyremoving her hatpins.
"It's different in towns," said Hilta. "One has to move with the times."
"I'm "Damn thing's all sparkly," she said, huffing on it and wiping it with her sleeve. Hilta peered over her shoulder.
"That's not sparkle, that means something," she said slowly.
"What?"sure I don't know why. Is the kettle on?" Granny reached across the table and took the velvet cover off Hilta's crystal ball, a sphere of quartz as big as her head. "Never could get the hang of this damn silicon stuff," she said. "A bowl of water with a drop of ink in it was good enough when I was a girl. Let's see, now . . . ." She peered into the dancing heart of the ball, trying to use it to focus her mind on the whereabouts of Esk. A crystal was a tricky thing to use at the best of times, and usually staring into it meant that the one thing the future could be guaranteed to hold was a severe migraine. Granny distrusted them, considering them to smack of wizardry; for two pins, it always seemed to her, the wretched thing would suck your mind out like a whelk from a shell.

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Granny stiffened, and looked at the fireback. It was a rather nice one Smith had cast for her, years ago, with an owl-and-bat motif. Currently, though, she wasn't interested in the design.
"Oh yes?" she said, her voice dead-level. "You know of a better way, do you?"
"You could magic it alight."
Granny paid great attention to arranging bits of twig on the reluctant flames.
"How no mind, it wasn't alive, and they were two of the three reasons.
"You could light it much better."
"If a thing's worth doing, it's worth doing badly," said Granny, fleeing into aphorismswould I do that, pray?" she said, apparently addressing her remarks to the fireback. "Er," said Esk, "I . . . I can't remember. But you must know anyway, don't you? Everyone knows you can do magic." "There's magic," said Granny, "and then again, there's magic. The important thing, my girl, is to know what magic is for and what it isn't for. And you can take it from me, it was never intended for lighting fires, you can be absolutely certain of that. If the Creator had meant us to use magic for lighting fires, then he wouldn't have given us - er, matches." "But could you light a fire with magic?" said Esk, as Granny slung an ancient black kettle on its hook. "I mean, if you wanted to. If it was allowed." "Maybe," said Granny, who couldn't: fire had

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expect everything will turn out all right in the end,' said Twoflower.
Rincewind looked at him. Remarks like that always threw him.
'Do you really believe that?' he said. 'I mean, really?'
'Well, things generally do work out satisfactorily, when you come to think about it.'
'If you think the total last year is satisfactory then you might be right. I've lost count of the times I've nearly been killed —'
'Twenty-seven,' said Twoflower.
'What?'
'Twenty-seven times,' said Twoflower helpfully. 'I worked it out. But you never actually have.'
'What? The only thing he could be certain of was that he was getting a headache. He hoped that the Spell was somewhere in the area of the headache and really suffering.
When they rode out of the hollow both Rincewind and Twoflower were sharing a horse Worked it out?' said Rincewind, who was beginning to have the familiar feeling that the conversation had been mugged.'No. Been killed. Doesn't that seem a bit suspicious?''I've never objected to it, if that's what you mean,' said Rincewind. He glared at his feet. Twoflower was right, of course. The Spell was keeping him alive, it was obvious. No doubt if he jumped over a cliff a passing cloud would cushion his fall.The trouble with that theory, he decided, was that it only worked if he didn't believe it was true. The moment he thought he was invulnerable he'd be dead.So, on the whole it was wisest not to think about it at all.Anyway, he might be wrong.

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want to leave here!' he said urgently. 'Right now!'
'But there's going to be an ancient and traditional ceremony I'
'I don't care how ancient! I want the feel of honest cobbles under my feet, I want the old familiar smell of cesspits, I want to go where there's lots of people and fires and roofs and walls and friendly things like that! I
He found like drowned whales. They called to Rincewind across the miles, promising to introduce him to the pickled eggs in the next jar.
He thought of the cosy livery stable lofts and warm gratings where he spent his nights. Foolishly, he had sometimes jibed at this seemed incredible gherkins, I hear you calling . . .
He pushed Twoflower aside, gathered his tattered robe around him with great dignitythat he had this sudden desperate longing for the fuming, smoky streets of Ankh-Morpork, which was always at its best in the spring, when the gummy sheen on the turbid waters of the Ankh River had a special iridescence and the eaves were full of birdsong, or at least birds coughing rhythmically.A tear sprang to his eye as he recalled the subtle play of light on the Temple of Small Gods, a noted local landmark, and a lump came to his throat when he remembered the fried fish stall on the junction of Midden Street and The Street of Cunning Artificers. He thought of the gherkins they sold there, great green things lurking at the bottom of their jar

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Krull turned out to be a large island, quite mountainous and heavily wooded, with pleasant white buildings visible hereto the larger buildings. And so the city rose tier on tier between the blue-green ocean of the Disc and the soft cloud sea of the Edge, the eight colours of the Rimbow reflected in every window and in the many telescope lenses of the city's multitude of astronomers.
"It's absolutely awful," said Rincewind gloomily.
The lens was approaching now along the very lip of the rimfall. The island and there among the trees. The land sloped gradually up towards the rim, so that the highest point in Krull in fact slightly overhung the Edge. Here the Krullians had built their major city, also called Krull, and since so much of their building material had been salvaged from the Circumfence the houses of Krull had a decidedly nautical persuasion.To put it bluntly, entire ships had been mortic artfully together and converted into buildings. Triremes, chows and caravels protruded at strange angles from the general wooden chaos. Painted figureheads and hublandish dragonprows reminded the citizens of Krull that their good fortune stemmed from the sea; barquentines and carracks lent a distinctive shape

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accepted method of succession in our family, but," the corpse sighed, or at least a sigh came from the air a few feet above it, "it soon became obvious that none of my three children is sufficiently powerful to wrest the lordship of the see through the one that brought us here," said Twoflower. "I thought that was a bit odd."
"Of course," said Greicha. "The Power only works near the Wyrmberg. It's the inverse square law you know. At least, I think it is. As the dragons fly further away they begin to dwindle. Otherwise my little Liessa would be ruling the Wyrmberg from the other two. A most unsatisfactory arrangement. A kingdom like ours has to have one ruler. So I resolved to remain alive in an unofficial capacity, which of course annoys them all immensely. I won't give my children the satisfaction of burying me until there is only one of them left to perform the ceremony." There was a nasty wheezing noise. Twoflower decided that it was meant to be a chuckle."So it was one of them that kidnapped us?" said Twoflower."Liessa," said the dead wizard's voice. "My daughter. Her power is strongest, you know. My sons' dragons are incapable of flying more than a few miles before they fade.""Fade? I did notice that we could