‘How many have you got?’ said Nijel. ‘I always thought genies had just the one.’
The genie explained wearily that in fact he had several lamps. There was a small but well-appointed lamp where he lived during the week, another rather unique lamp in the country, a carefully restored peasant rushlight in an unspoilt winegrowing district near Quirm, and just recently a set of derelict lamps in the docks area of Ankh-Morpork that had great potential, once the smart crowd got there, to become the occult equivalent of a suite of offices and a wine bar.
They listened in awe, like fish who had inadvertently swum into a lecture on how to fly.
‘Who are your people the other people have got to call?’ said Nijel, who was impressed, although he didn’t know why or by what.
‘Actually, I don’t have any people yet,’ said the genie, and gave a grimace that was definitely upwardly-mobile at the corners. ‘But I will.’
‘Everyone shut up,’ said Conina firmly, ‘and you, take us to Ankh-Morpork.’
‘I should, if I were you,’ said Creosote. ‘When the young lady’s mouth looks like a letter box, it’s best to do what she says.’
The genie hesitated.
‘I’m not very deep on transport,’ he said.
‘Learn,’ said Conina. She was tossing the lamp from hand to hand.
‘Teleportation is a major headache,’ said the genie, looking desperate. ‘Why don’t we do lun-’
‘Right, that’s it,’ said Conina. ‘Now I just need a couple of big flat rocks-’
‘Okay, okay. Just hold hands, will you? I’ll give it my best shot, but this could be one big mistake-’
The astro-philosophers of Krull once succeeded in proving conclusively that all places are one place and that the distance between them is an illusion, and this news was an embarrassment to all thinking philosophers because it did not explain, among other things, signposts. After years of wrangling the whole thing was then turned over to Ly Tin Wheedle, arguably the Disc’s greatest philosopher[22], who after some thought proclaimed that although it was indeed true that all places were one place, that place was very large.
And so psychic order was restored. Distance is, however, an entirely subjective phenomenon and creatures of magic can adjust it to suit themselves.
They are not necessarily very good at it.
Rincewind sat dejectedly in the blackened ruins of the Library, trying to put his finger on what was wrong with them.
Well, everything, for a start. It was unthinkable that the Library should be burned. It was the largest accumulation of magic on the Disc. It underpinned wizardry. Every spell ever used was written down in it somewhere. Burning them was, was, was …
There weren’t any ashes. Plenty of wood ashes, lots of chains, lots of blackened stone, lots of mess. But thousands of books don’t burn easily. They would leave bits of cover and piles of feathery ash. And there wasn’t any.
Rincewind stirred the rubble with his toe.
There was only the one door into the Library. Then there were the cellars - he could see the stairs down to them, choked with garbage - but you couldn’t hide all the books down there. You couldn’t teleport them out either, they would be resistant to such magic; anyone who tried something like that would end up wearing his brains outside his hat.
There was an explosion overhead. A ring of orange fire formed about halfway up the tower of sourcery, ascended quickly and soared off towards Quirm.
Rincewind slid around on his makeshift seat and stared up at the Tower of Art. He got the distinct impression that it was looking back at him. It was totally without windows, but for a moment he thought he saw a movement up among the crumbling turrets.
He wondered how old the tower really was. Older than the University, certainly. Older than the city, which had formed about it like scree around a mountain. Maybe older than geography. There had been a time when the continents were different, Rincewind understood, and then they’d sort of shuffled more comfortably together like puppies in a basket. Perhaps the tower had been washed up on the waves of rock, from somewhere else. Maybe it had been there before’ the Disc itself, but Rincewind didn’t like to consider that, because it raised uncomfortable questions about who built it and what for.
He examined his conscience.
It said: I’m out of options. Please yourself.
Rincewind stood up and brushed the dust and ash off his robe, removing quite a lot of the moulting red plush as well. He removed his hat, made a preoccupied attempt at straightening the point, and replaced it on his head.
Then he walked unsteadily towards the Tower of Art.
There was a very old and quite small door at the base. He wasn’t at all surprised when it opened as he approached.
‘Strange place,’ said Nijel. ‘Funny curve to the walls.’