‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘which way to the harem?’
‘Turn left three doors down,’ said the man, without looking around.
‘Right.’
He wandered back again and told Rincewind.
‘Yes, but did you torture him?’
‘No.’
‘That wasn’t very barbaric of you, was it?’
‘Well, I’m working up to it,’ said Nijel. ‘I mean, I didn’t say “thank you”.’
Thirty seconds later they pushed aside a heavy bead curtain and entered the seraglio of the Seriph of Al Khali.
There were gorgeous songbirds in cages of gold filigree. There were tinkling fountains. There were pots of rare orchids through which humming-birds skimmed like tiny, brilliant jewels. There were about twenty young women wearing enough clothes for, say, about half a dozen, huddled together in a silent crowd.
Rincewind had eyes for none of this. That is not to say that the sight of several dozen square yards of hip and thigh in every shade from pink to midnight black didn’t start certain tides flowing deep in the crevasses of his libido, but they were swamped by the considerably bigger flood of panic at the sight of four guards turning towards him with scimitars in their hands and the light of murder in their eyes.
Without hesitation, Rincewind took a step backwards.
‘Over to you, friend,’ he said.
‘Right!’
Nijel drew his sword and held it out in front of him, his arms trembling at the effort.
There were a few seconds of total silence as everyone waited to see what would happen next. And then Nijel uttered the battle cry that Rincewind would never quite forget to the end of his life.
‘Erm,’ he said, ‘excuse me…’
‘It seems a shame,’ said a small wizard.
The others didn’t speak. It was a shame, and there wasn’t a man among them who couldn’t hear the hot whine of guilt all down their backbones. But, as so often happens by that strange alchemy of the soul, the guilt made them arrogant and reckless.
‘Just shut up, will you?’ said the temporary leader. He was called Benado Sconner, but there is something in the air tonight that suggests that it is not worth committing his name to memory. The air is dark and heavy and full of ghosts.
The Unseen University isn’t empty, there just aren’t any people there.
But of course the six wizards sent to burn down the Library aren’t afraid of ghosts, because they’re so charged with magic that they practically buzz as they walk, they’re wearing robes more splendid than any Archchancellor has worn, their pointy hats are more pointed than any hats have hitherto been, and the reason they’re standing so close together is entirely coincidental.
‘It’s awfully dark in here,’ said the smallest of the wizards.
‘It’s midnight,’ said Sconner sharply, ‘and the only dangerous things in here are us. Isn’t that right, boys?’
There was a chorus of vague murmurs. They were all in awe of Sconner, who was rumoured to do positive-thinking exercises.
‘And we’re not scared of a few old books, are we, lads?’ He glowered at the smallest wizard. ‘You’re not, are you?’ he added sharply.
‘Me? Oh. No. Of course not. They’re just paper, like he said,’ said the wizard quickly.
‘Well, then.’
‘There’s ninety thousand of them, mind,’ said another wizard.
‘I always heard there was no end to ‘em,’ said another. ‘It’s all down to dimensions, I heard, like what we see is only the tip of the whatever, you know, the thing that is mostly underwater-’