Silence poured from the heavy woodwork. But, unlike the silence that had the rest of the city under its thrall, this was a watchful, alert silence; it was the silence of a sleeping cat that had just opened one eye.
When he could bear it no longer Spelter dropped to his hands and knees and tried to peer under the doors.
Finally he, put his mouth as close as he could to the draughty, dusty gap under the bottommost hinge and whispered: ‘I say! Um. Can you hear me?’
He felt sure that something moved, far back in the darkness.
He tried again, his mood swinging between terror and hope with every erratic thump of his heart.
‘I say? It’s me, um, Spelter. You know? Could you speak to me, please?’
Perhaps large leathery feet were creeping gently across the floor in there, or maybe it was only the creaking of Spelter’s nerves. He tried to swallow away the dryness in his throat, and had another go. >‘I said, don’t you think it was made for me?’ said Carding.
Spelter turned back, his face blank.
‘Um?’
‘The hat, man.’
‘Oh. Um. Very - suitable.’
With a sigh Carding removed the baroque headpiece and carefully replaced it in its box. ‘We’d better take it to him,’ he said. ‘He’s starting to ask about it.’
‘I’m still bothered about where the real hat is,’ said Spelter.
‘It’s in here,’ said Carding firmly, tapping the lid.
‘I mean the, um, real one.’
‘This is the real one.’
‘I meant-’
‘This is the Archchancellor’s Hat,’ said Carding carefully. ‘You should know, you made it.’
‘Yes, but-’began the bursar wretchedly.
‘After all, you wouldn’t make a forgery, would you?’
‘Not as, um, such-’
‘It’s just a hat. It’s whatever people think it is. People see the Archchancellor wearing it, they think it’s the original hat. In a certain sense, it is. Things are defined by what they do. And people, of course. Fundamental basis of wizardry, is that.’ Carding paused dramatically, and plonked the hatbox into Spelter’s arms. ‘Cogitum ergot hatto, you might say.’
Spelter had made a special study of old languages, and did his best.
‘ “I think, therefore I am a hat?”‘ he hazarded.
`What?’ said Carding, as they set off down the stairs to the new incarnation of the Great Hall.
‘ “I considered I’m a mad hat?”‘ Spelter suggested.
‘Just shut up, all right?’
The haze still hung over the city, its curtains of silver and gold turned to blood by the light of the setting sun which streamed in through the windows of the hall.
Coin was sitting on a stool with his staff across his knees. It occurred to Spelter that he had never seen the boy without it, which was odd. Most wizards kept their staves under the bed, or hooked up over the fireplace.
He didn’t like this staff. It was black, but not because that was its colour, more because it seemed to be a moveable hole into some other, more unpleasant set of dimensions. It didn’t have eyes but, nevertheless, it seemed to stare at Spelter as if it knew his innermost thoughts, which at the moment was more than he did.