Eric

guards and everything at the other end!”
    “No, sir. They use it to store the cleaning things, sir.”
    There was a clang in the darkness ahead of them. Lavaeolus had tripped over a mop.
    “Sergeant?”
    “Sir?”
    “Just open the door, will you?”
    Eric was tugging at Rincewind’s robe.
    “What?” said Rincewind testily.
    “You know who Lavaeolus is , don’t you?” whispered Eric.
    “Well—”
    “He’s Lavaeolus !”
    “Get away?”
    “Don’t you know the Classics?”
    “That isn’t one of these horse races we’re supposed to remember, is it?”
    Eric rolled his eyes. “Lavaeolus was responsible for the fall of Tsort, on account of being so cunning,” he said. “And then afterward it took him ten years to get home and he had all sorts of adventures with temptresses and sirens and sensual witches.”
    “Well, I can see why you’ve been studying him. Ten years, eh? Where did he live?”
    “About two hundred miles away,” said Eric earnestly.
    “Kept getting lost, did he?”
    “And when he got home he fought his wife’s suitors and everything, and his dear old dog recognized him and died.”
    “Oh, dear.”
    “It was the carrying his slippers in its mouth for fifteen years that killed it off.”
    “Shame.”
    “And you know what, demon? All this hasn’t happened yet . We could save him all that trouble!”
    Rincewind thought about this. “We could tell him to get a better navigator, for a start,” he said.
    There was a creak. The soldiers had got the door open.
    “Everyone fall in, or whatever the bloody stupid command is,” said Lavaeolus. “The magic box to the front, please. No killing anyone unless it’s really necessary. Try not to damage things. Right. Forward.”
    The door led into a column-lined corridor. There was the distant murmur of voices.
    The troop crept toward the sound until it reached a heavy curtain. Lavaeolus took a deep breath, pushed it aside and stepped forward and launched into a prepared speech.
    “Now, I want to make myself absolutely clear,” he said. “I don’t want there to be any unpleasantness of any kind, or any shouting for guards and so forth. Or indeed any shouting at all. We will just take the young lady and go home, which is where anyone of any sense ought to be. Otherwise I shall really have to put everyone to the sword, and I hate having to do things like that.”
    The audience to this statement did not appear to be impressed. This was because it was a small child on a potty.
    Lavaeolus changed mental gear and went on smoothly: “On the other hand, if you don’t tell me where everyone is, I shall ask the sergeant here to give you a really hard smack.”
    The child took its thumb out of its mouth. “Mummy is seeing to Cassie,” it said. “Are you Mr. Beekle?”
    “I don’t think so,” said Lavaeolus.
    “Mr. Beekle is a silly.” The child withdrew its thumb and, with the air of one concluding some exhaustive research, added: “Mr. Beekle is a poo.”
    “Sergeant?”
    “Sir?”
    “Guard this child.”
    “Yessir. Corporal?”
    “Sarge?”
    “Take care of the kid.”
    “Yes, sarge. Private Archeios?”
    “Yes, corp,” said the soldier, his voice gloomy with prescience.
    “See to the sprog.”
    Private Archeios looked around. There were only Rincewind and Eric left and, while it was true that a civilian was in every respect the lowest possible rank there was, coming somewhere after the regimental donkey, the expressions on their faces suggested that they weren’t about to take any orders.
    Lavaeolus wandered across the room and listened at another curtain.
    “We could tell him all kinds of stuff about his future,” hissed Eric. “He had—I mean, he will have—all kinds of things happen to him. Shipwrecks and magic and all his crew turned into animals and stuff like that.”
    “Yes. We could say ‘Walk home,’” said Rincewind.
    The curtain swished aside.
    There was a woman there—plump, good-looking in a slightly faded way, wearing a black dress and the beginnings of a mustache. A number of children of varying sizes were trying to hide behind her. Rincewind counted at least seven of them.
    “Who’s that?” said Eric.
    “Ahem,” said Rincewind. “I rather think it’s Elenor of Tsort.”
    “Don’t be silly,” whispered Eric. “She looks like my mum. Elenor was much younger and was all—” His voice gave out and he made several wavy motions with his hand, indicative of the shape of a woman who