They risked it. Sconner stood up.
‘That monkey,’ he said, ‘has eaten its last banana. Fetch-’
‘Er. Ape, Sconner,’ said the smallest wizard, unable to stop himself. ‘It’s an ape, you see. Not a monkey…’
He wilted under the stare.
‘Who cares? Ape, monkey, what’s the difference?’ said Sconner. ‘What’s the difference, Mr Zoologist?’
‘I don’t know, Sconner,’ said the wizard meekly. ‘I think it’s a class thing.’
‘Shut up.’
‘Yes, Sconner.’
‘You ghastly little man,’ said Sconner.
He turned and added, in a voice as level as a sawblade: ‘I am perfectly controlled. My mind is as cool as a bald mammoth. My intellect is absolutely in charge. Which one of you sat on my head? No, I must not get angry. I am not angry. I am thinking positively. My faculties are fully engaged - do any of you wish to argue?’
‘No, Sconner,’ they chorused.
‘Then get me a dozen barrels of oil and all the kindling you can find! That ape’s gonna fry!’
From high in the Library roof, home of owls and bats and other things, there was a clink of chain and the sound of glass being broken as respectfully as possible.
‘They don’t look very worried,’ said Nijel, slightly affronted.
‘How can I put this?’ said Rincewind. ‘When they come to write the list of Great Battle Cries of the World, “Erm, excuse me” won’t be one of them.’
He stepped to one side. ‘I’m not with him,’ he said earnestly to a grinning guard. ‘I just met him, somewhere. In a pit.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘This sort of thing happens to me all the time,’ he said.
The guards stared through him.
‘Erm,’ he said.
‘Okay,’ he said.
He sidled back to Nijel.
‘Are you any good with that sword?’
Without taking his eyes off the guards, Nijel fumbled in his pack and handed Rincewind the book.
‘I’ve read the whole of chapter three,’ he said. ‘It’s got illustrations.’
Rincewind turned over the crumpled pages. The book had been used so hard you could have shuffled it, but what was probably once the front cover showed a rather poor woodcut of a muscular man. He had arms like two bags full of footballs, and he was standing kneedeep in languorous women and slaughtered victims with a smug expression on his face.
About him was the legend: Inne Juste 7 Dayes I wille make You a Barbearian Hero! Below it, in a slightly smaller type, was the name: Cohen the Barbarean. Rincewind rather doubted it. He had met Cohen and, while he could read after a fashion, the old boy had never really mastered the pen and still signed his name with an ‘X’, which he usually spelled wrong. On the other hand, he gravitated rapidly to anything with money in it.
Rincewind looked again at the illustration, and then at Nijel.
‘Seven days?’
‘Well, I’m a slow reader.’
‘Ah,’ said Rincewind.
‘And I didn’t bother with chapter six, because I promised my mother I’d stick with just the looting and pillaging, until I find the right girl.’