“So what are you going to do?” said Ludmilla.
“Well, we’ll just go and fetch him out,” said Ridcully. What was it about the girl? He felt a strange urge to pat her on the head. “We’ll get some magic and get him out. Yes. Dean!”
“Yo!”
“We’re just going to go in there to get Windle out.”
“Yo!”
“What?” said the Senior Wrangler. “You must be out of your mind!”
Ridcully tried to look as dignified as possible, given his situation.
“Remember that I am your Archchancellor,” he snapped.
“Then you must be out of your mind, Archchancellor!” said the Senior Wrangler. He lowered his voice. “Anyway, he’s an undead. I don’t see how you can save undeads. It’s a sort of contradiction in terms.”
“A dichotomy,” said the Bursar helpfully.
“Oh, I don’t think surgery is involved.”
“Anyway, didn’t we bury him?” said the Lecturer of Recent Runes.
“And now we dig him up again,” said the Archchancellor. “It’s probably a miracle of existence.”
“Like pickles,” said the Bursar, happily.
Even the Fresh Starters went blank.
“They do that in parts of Howondaland,” said the Bursar. “They make these big, big jars of special pickles and then they bury them in the ground for months to ferment and they get this lovely piquant—”
“Tell me,” Ludmilla whispered to Ridcully, “is this how wizards usually behave?”
“The Senior Wrangler is an amazingly fine example,” said Ridcully. “Got the same urgent grasp of reality as a cardboard cutout. Proud to have him on the team.” He rubbed his hands together. “Okay, lads. Volunteers?”
“Yo! Hut!” said the Dean, who was in an entirely different world now.
“I would be remiss in my duty if I failed to help a brother,” said Reg Shoe.
“Oook.”
“You? We can’t take you,” said the Dean, glaring at the Librarian. “You don’t know a thing about guerrilla warfare.”
“Oook!” said the Librarian, and made a surprisingly comprehensive gesture to indicate that, on the other hand, what he didn’t know about orangutan warfare could be written on the very small pounded up remains of, for example, the Dean.
“Four of us should be enough,” said the Archchancellor.
“I’ve never even heard him say ‘Yo’,” muttered the Dean.
He removed his hat, something a wizard doesn’t ordinarily do unless he’s about to pull something out of it, and handed it to the Bursar. Then he tore a thin strip off the bottom of his robe, held it dramatically in
both hands, and tied it around his forehead.
“It’s part of the ethos,” he said, in answer to their penetratingly unspoken question. “That’s what the warriors on the Counterweight Continent do before they go into battle. And you have to shout—” He tried to remember some far-off reading—“er, bonsai. Yes. Bonsai!”
“I thought that meant chopping bits off trees to make them small,” said the Senior Wrangler.
The Dean hesitated. He wasn’t too sure himself, if it came to it. But a good wizard never let uncertainty stand in his way.