Eric

remember? We used Humptemper’s Names of the Ants and rang Old Tom.” *
    “Did we, indeed. Worked, did it?”
    “ No , Archchancellor.”
    “Eh?”
    “Anyway, we’ve never had any trouble with ghosts before,” said the Senior Tutor. “Wizards just don’t haunt places.”
    The Archchancellor groped for a crumb of comfort.
    “Perhaps it’s just something natural,” he said. “Possibly the rumblings of an underground spring. Earth movements, perhaps. Something in the drains. They can make very funny noises, you know, when the wind is in the right direction.”
    He sat back and beamed.
    The rest of the council exchanged glances.
    “The drains don’t sound like hurrying feet, Archchancellor,” said the Bursar wearily.
    “Unless someone left a tap running,” said the Senior Tutor.
    The Bursar scowled at him. He’d been in the tub when the invisible screaming thing had hurtled through his room. It was not an experience he wanted to repeat.
    The Archchancellor nodded at him.
    “That’s settled, then,” he said, and fell asleep.
    The Bursar watched him in silence. Then he pulled the old man’s hat off and tucked it gently under his head.
    “Well?” he said wearily. “Has anyone got any suggestions?”
    The Librarian put his hand up.
    “Oook,” he said.
    “Yes, well done, good boy,” said the Bursar, breezily. “Anyone else?”
    The orang-utan glared at him as the other wizards shook their heads.
    “It’s a tremor in the texture of reality,” said the Senior Tutor. “That’s what it is.”
    “What should we do about it, then?”
    “Search me. Unless we tried the old—”
    “Oh, no,” said the Bursar. “Don’t say it. Please. It’s far too dangerous—”
    His words were chopped off by a scream that began at the far end of the room and dopplered along the table, accompanied by the sound of many running feet. The wizards ducked in a scatter of overturned chairs.
    The candle flames were drawn into long thin tongues of octarine light before being snuffed out.
    Then there was silence, the special kind that you get after a really unpleasant noise.
    And the Bursar said, “All right. I give in. We will try the Rite of AshkEnte.”

    It is the most serious ritual eight wizards can undertake. It summons Death, who naturally knows everything that is going on everywhere.
    And of course it’s done with reluctance, because senior wizards are generally very old and would prefer not to do anything to draw Death’s attention in their direction.
    It took place in the midnight in the University’s Great Hall, in a welter of incense, candlesticks, runic inscriptions and magic circles, none of which was strictly necessary but which made the wizards feel better. Magic flared, the chants were chanted, the invocations were truly invoked.
    The wizards stared into the magic octogram, which remained empty. After a while the circle of robed figures began to mutter among themselves.
    “We must have done something wrong.”
    “Oook.”
    “Maybe He is out.”
    “Or busy…”
    “Do you think we could give up and go back to bed?”
    WHO ARE WE WAITING FOR, EXACTLY?
    The Bursar turned slowly to the figure beside him. You could always tell a wizard’s robe; it was bedecked with sequins, sigils, fur and lace, and there was usually a considerable amount of wizard inside it. This robe, however, was very black. The material looked as though it had been chosen for its hard-wearing qualities. So did its owner. He looked as though if he wrote a diet book, it would be a bestseller.
    Death was watching the octogram with an expression of polite interest.
    “Er,” said the Bursar. “The fact is, in fact, that, er, you should be on the inside .”
    I’M SO SORRY.
    Death stalked in a dignified way into the center of the room and watched the Bursar expectantly.
    I HOPE WE ARE NOT GOING TO HAVE ANY OF THIS “FOUL FIEND” BUSINESS AGAIN, he said.
    “I trust we are not interrupting any important enterprise?” said the Bursar politely.
    ALL MY WORK IS IMPORTANT, said Death.
    “Naturally,” said the Bursar.
    TO SOMEBODY.
    “Er. Er. The reason, o fou—sir, that we have called you here, is for the reason—”
    IT IS RINCEWIND.
    “What?”
    THE REASON YOU SUMMONED ME. THE ANSWER IS: IT IS RINCEWIND.
    “But we haven’t asked you the question yet!”
    NEVERTHELESS. THE ANSWER IS: IT IS RINCEWIND.
    “Look, what we want to know is , what’s causing this outbreak of…oh.”
    Death pointedly picked invisible