Mort

and the wizard noticed a pleading edge to his voice that hadn’t been there before.
    Death ignored him. He snapped his fingers like a castanet and the apron around his waist exploded into brief flames. The kitten, however, he put down very carefully and gently pushed away with his foot.
    D ID I NOT GIVE HIM THE GREATEST OPPORTUNITY ?
    “Exactly, master, and now if you could see your way clear—”
    S KILLS ? A CAREER STRUCTURE ? P ROSPECTS ? A JOB FOR LIFE ?
    “Indeed, and if you would but let go—”
    The change in Albert’s voice was complete. The trumpets of command had become the piccolos of supplication. He sounded terrified, in fact, but he managed to catch Rincewind’s eye and hiss:
    “My staff! Throw me my staff! While he is in the circle he is not invincible! Let me have my staff and I can break free!”
    Rincewind said: “Pardon?”
    O H, MINE IS THE FAULT FOR GIVING IN TO THESE WEAKNESSES OF WHAT FOR WANT OF A BETTER WORD I SHALL CALL THE FLESH !
    “My staff, you idiot, my staff!” gibbered Albert.
    “Sorry?”
    W ELL DONE, MY SERVANT, FOR CALLING ME TO MY SENSES , said Death. L ET US LOSE NO TIME .
    “My sta—!”
    There was an implosion and an inrush of air. The candle flames stretched out like lines of fire for a moment, and then went out.
    Some time passed.
    Then the bursar’s voice from somewhere near the floor said, “That was very unkind, Rincewind, losing his staff like that. Remind me to discipline you severely one of these days. Anyone got a light?”
    “I don’t know what happened to it! I just leaned it against the pillar here and now it’s—”
    “Oook.”
    “Oh,” said Rincewind.
    “Extra banana ration, that ape,” said the bursar levelly. A match flared and someone managed to get a candle alight. Wizards started to pick themselves off the floor.
    “Well, that was a lesson to all of us,” the bursar continued, brushing dust and candlewax off his robe. He looked up, expecting to see the statue of Alberto Malich back on its pedestal.
    “Clearly even statues have feelings,” he said. “I myself recall, when I was but a first-year student, writing my name on his well, never mind. The point is, I propose here and now we replace the statue.”
    Dead silence greeted this suggestion.
    “With, say, an exact likeness cast in gold. Suitably embellished with jewels, as befits our great founder,” he went on brightly.
    “And to make sure no students deface it in any way I suggest we then erect it in the deepest cellar,” he continued.
    “And then lock the door,” he added. Several wizards began to cheer up.
    “And throw away the key?” said Rincewind.
    “And weld the door,” the bursar said. He had just remembered about The Mended Drum. He thought for a while and remembered about the physical fitness regime as well.
    “And then brick up the doorway,” he said. There was a round of applause.
    “And throw away the bricklayer!” chortled Rincewind, who felt he was getting the hang of this.
    The bursar scowled at him. “No need to get carried away,” he said.

In the silence a larger than usual sand dune humped up awkwardly and then fell away to reveal Binky, blowing the sand out of his nostrils and shaking his mane.
    Mort opened his eyes.
    There should be a word for that brief period just after waking when the mind is full of warm pink nothing. You lie there entirely empty of thought, except for a growing suspicion that heading towards you, like a sockful of damp sand in a nocturnal alleyway, are all the recollections you’d really rather do without, and which amount to the fact that the only mitigating factor in your horrible future is the certainty that it will be quite short.
    Mort sat up and put his hands on top of his head to stop it unscrewing.
    The sand beside him heaved and Ysabell pushed herself into a sitting position. Her hair was full of sand and her face was grimy with pyramid dust. Some of her hair had frizzled at the tips. She stared listlessly at him.
    “Did you hit me?” he said, gently testing his jaw.
    “Yes.”
    “Oh.”
    He looked at the sky, as though it could remind him about things. He had to be somewhere, soon, he recalled. Then he remembered something else.
    “Thank you,” he said.
    “Any time, I assure you.” Ysabell made it to her feet and tried to brush the dirt and cobwebs off her dress.
    “Are we going to rescue this princess of yours?” she said diffidently.
    Mort’s own personal, internal reality caught up with him. He