‘It did,’ said Rincewind.
‘Ah. That would be it, then.’ Creosote focused on Conina, after several attempts, and rocked backwards. ‘My word,’ he said, ‘the young lady again. Very impressive.’
‘I say-’ Nijel began.
‘Your hair,’ said the Seriph, rocking slowly forward again, ‘is like, is like a flock of goats that graze upon the side of Mount Gebra.’
‘Look here
‘Your breasts are like, like,’ the Seriph swayed sideways a little, and gave a brief, sorrowful glance at the empty bottle, ‘are like the jewelled melons in the fabled gardens of dawn.’
Conina’s eyes widened. ‘They are?’ she said.
‘No,’ said the Seriph, ‘doubt about it. I know jewelled melons when I see them. As the white does in the meadows of the water margin are your thighs, which-’
‘Erm, excuse me-’said Nijel, clearing his throat with malice aforethought.
Creosote swayed in his direction.
‘Hmm?’ he said.
‘Where I come from,’ said Nijel stonily, ‘we don’t talk to ladies like that.’
Conina sighed as Nijel shuffled protectively in front of her. It was, she reflected, absolutely true.
‘In fact,’ he went on, sticking out his jaw as far as possible, which still made it appear like a dimple, ‘I’ve a jolly good mind-’
‘Open to debate,’ said Rincewind, stepping forward. ‘Er, sir, sire, we need to get out. I suppose you wouldn’t know the way?’
‘Thousands of rooms,’ said the Seriph,’ in here, you know. Not been out in years.’ He hiccuped. ‘Decades. Ians. Never been out, in fact.’ His face glazed over in the act of composition. ‘The bird of Time has but, um, a little way to walk and lo! the bird is on its- feet.’ >‘He had you thrown in a snake pit!’
‘Perhaps I should have taken the hint.’
The vizier started to mutter. Even Rincewind, whose few talents included a gift for languages, didn’t recognise it, but it sounded the kind of language designed specifically for muttering, the words curling out like scythes at ankle height, dark and red and merciless. They made complicated swirls in the air, and then drifted gently towards the doors of the tower.
Where they touched the white marble it turned black and crumbled.
As the remains drifted to the ground a wizard stepped through and looked Abrim up and down.
Rincewind was used to the dressy ways of wizards, but this one was really impressive, his robe so padded and crenellated and buttressed in fantastic folds and creases that it had probably been designed by an architect. The matching hat looked like a wedding cake that had collided intimately with a Christmas tree.
The actual face, peering through the small gap between the baroque collar and the filigreed fringe of the brim, was a bit of a disappointment. At some time in the past it had thought its appearance would be improved by a thin, scruffy moustache. It had been wrong.
‘That was our bloody door!’ it said. ‘You’re really going to regret this!’
Abrim folded his arms.
This seemed to infuriate the other wizard. He flung up his arms, untangled his hands from the lace on his sleeves, and sent a flare screaming across the gap.
It struck Abrim in the chest and rebounded in a gout of incandescence, but when the blue after-images allowed Rincewind to see he saw Abrim, unharmed.
His opponent frantically patted out the last of the little fires in his own clothing and looked up with murder in his eyes.
‘You don’t seem to understand,’ he rasped. ‘It’s sourcery you’re dealing with now. You can’t fight sourcery.’
‘I can use sourcery,’ said Abrim.
The wizard snarled and lofted a fireball, which burst harmlessly inches from Abrim’s dreadful grin.