Reaper Man

the Dungeon Dimensions and things, yes? Terrible hazards of your ungodly profession?” said the Chief Priest.
    “Yes.”
    “We have someone called Mrs. Cake.”
    Ridcully gave him an enquiring look.
    “Don’t ask,” said the priest, shuddering. “Just be grateful you’ll never have to find out.”
    Ridcully silently passed him the brandy.
    “Just between the two of us,” said the priest, “have you got any ideas about all this? The guards are trying to dig his lordship out. You know he’ll want answers. I’m not even certain I know the questions.”
    “Not magic and not gods,” said Ridcully. “Can I have the snare back? Thank you. Not magic and not gods. That doesn’t leave us much, does it?”
    “I suppose there’s not some kind of magic you don’t know about?”
    “If there is, we don’t know about it.”
    “Fair enough,” the priest conceded.
    “I suppose it’s not the gods up to a bit of ungodliness on the side?” said Ridcully, clutching at one last straw. “A couple of ’em had a bit of a tiff or something? Messing around with golden apples or something?”
    “It’s very quiet on the god front right now,” said the Chief Priest. His eyes glazed as he spoke, apparently reading from a script inside his head. “Hyperopia, goddess of shoes, thinks that Sandelfon, god of corridors, is the long-lost twin brother of Grune, god of unseasonal fruit. Who put the goat in the bed of Offler, the Crocodile God? Is Offler forging an alliance with Seven-handed Sek? Meanwhile, Hoki the Jokester is up to his old tricks—”
    “Yes, yes, all right,” said Ridcully. “I’ve never been able to get interested in all that stuff, myself.”
    Behind them, the Dean was trying to prevent the Lecturer in Recent Runes from attempting to turn the priest of Offler the Crocodile God into a set of matching suitcases, and the Bursar had a bad nose-bleed from a lucky blow with a thurible.
    “What we’ve got to present here,” said Ridcully, “is a united front. Right?”
    “Agreed,” said the Chief Priest.
    “Right. For now.”
    A small rug sinewaved past at eye level. The Chief Priest handed back the brandy bottle.
    “Incidentally, mother says you haven’t written lately,” he said.
    “Yeah…” The other wizards would have been surprised at their Archchancellor’s look of contrite embarrassment. “I’ve been busy. You know how it is.”
    “She said to be sure to remind you she’s expecting both of us over for lunch on Hogswatchday.”
    “I haven’t forgotten,” said Ridcully, glumly. “I’m looking forward to it.” He turned to the mêlée behind them.
    “Cut it out, you fellows,” he said.
    “Brethren! Desist!” bellowed the Chief Priest.
    The Senior Wrangler released his grip on the head of the high priest of the Cult of Hinki. A couple of cu-rates stopped kicking the Bursar. There was a general adjustment of clothing, a finding of hats and a bout of embarrassed coughing.
    “That’s better,” said Ridcully. “Now then, his Eminence the Chief Priest and myself have decided—”
    The Dean glowered at a very small bishop.
    “He kicked me! You kicked me!”
    “Ooo! I never did, my son.”
    “You bloody well did,” the Dean hissed. “Sideways, so they wouldn’t see!”
    “— have decided —” repeated Ridcully, glaring at the Dean, “to pursue a solution to the current disturbances in a spirit of brotherhood and goodwill and that includes you, Senior Wrangler .”
    “I couldn’t help it! He pushed me.”
    “Well! May you be forgiven!” said the Archdeacon of Thrume, stoutly.
    There was a crash from above. A chaise-longue cantered down the stairs and smashed through the hall door.
    “I think perhaps the guards are still trying to free the Patrician,” said the High Priest. “Apparently even his secret passages locked themselves.”
    “All of them? I thought the sly devil had ’em everywhere,” said Ridcully.
    “All locked,” said the High Priest. “All of them.”
    “Almost all of them,” said a voice behind him.
    Ridcully’s tones did not change as he turned around, except that a slight extra syrup was added.
    A figure had apparently stepped out of the wall. It was human, but only by default. Thin, pale, and clad all in dusty black, the Patrician always put Ridcully in mind of a predatory flamingo, if you could find a flamingo that was black and had the patience of a rock.
    “Ah, Lord Vetinari,” he said, “I am so glad you are unhurt.”
    “I