Sourcery

the city in its grip.
    Silence reigned too in the dark bulk of Unseen University. Except—
    Spelter crept along the shadowy corridors like a two-legged spider, darting—or at least limping quickly—from pillar to archway, until he reached the forbidding doors of the Library. He peered nervously at the darkness around him and, after some hesitation, tapped very, very lightly.
    Silence poured from the heavy woodwork. But, unlike the silence that had the rest of the city under its thrall, this was a watchful, alert silence; it was the silence of a sleeping cat that had just opened one eye.
    When he could bear it no longer Spelter dropped to his hands and knees and tried to peer under the doors. Finally he put his mouth as close as he could to the drafty, dusty gap under the bottommost hinge and whispered: “I say! Um. Can you hear me?”
    He felt sure that something moved, far back in the darkness.
    He tried again, his mood swinging between terror and hope with every erratic thump of his heart.
    “I say? It’s me, um, Spelter. You know? Could you speak to me, please?”
    Perhaps large leathery feet were creeping gently across the floor in there, or maybe it was only the creaking of Spelter’s nerves. He tried to swallow away the dryness in his throat, and had another go.
    “Look, all right, but, look, they’re talking about shutting the Library!”
    The silence grew louder. The sleeping cat had cocked an ear.
    “What is happening is all wrong!” the bursar confided, and clapped his hand over his mouth at the enormity of what he had said.
    “Oook?”
    It was the faintest of noises, like the eructation of cockroaches.
    Suddenly emboldened, Spelter pressed his lips closer to the crack.
    “Have you got the, um, Patrician in there?”
    “Oook.”
    “What about the little doggie?”
    “Oook.”
    “Oh. Good.”
    Spelter lay full length in the comfort of the night, and drummed his fingers on the chilly floor.
    “You wouldn’t care to, um, let me in too?” he ventured.
    “Oook!”
    Spelter made a face in the gloom.
    “Well, would you, um, let me come in for a few minutes? We need to discuss something urgently, man to man.”
    “Eeek.”
    “I meant ape.”
    “Oook.”
    “Look, won’t you come out, then?”
    “Oook.”
    Spelter sighed. “This show of loyalty is all very well, but you’ll starve in there.”
    “Oook oook.”
    “ What other way in?”
    “Oook.”
    “Oh, have it your way,” Spelter sighed. But, somehow, he felt better for the conversation. Everyone else in the University seemed to be living in a dream, whereas the Librarian wanted nothing more in the whole world than soft fruit, a regular supply of index cards and the opportunity, every month or so, to hop over the wall of the Patrician’s private menagerie. * It was strangely reassuring.
    “So you’re all right for bananas and so forth?” he inquired, after another pause.
    “Oook.”
    “Don’t let anyone in, will you? Um. I think that’s frightfully important.”
    “Oook.”
    “Good.” Spelter stood up and dusted off his knees. Then he put his mouth to the keyhole and added, “Don’t trust anyone.”
    “Oook.”
    It was not completely dark in the Library, because the serried rows of magical books gave off a faint octarine glow, caused by thaumaturgical leakage into a strong occult field. It was just bright enough to illuminate the pile of shelves wedged against the door.
    The former Patrician had been carefully decanted into a jar on the Librarian’s desk. The Librarian himself sat under it, wrapped in his blanket and holding Wuffles on his lap.
    Occasionally he would eat a banana.
    Spelter, meanwhile, limped back along the echoing passages of the University, heading for the security of his bedroom. It was because his ears were nervously straining the tiniest of sounds out of the air that he heard, right on the cusp of audibility, the sobbing.
    It wasn’t a normal noise up here. In the carpeted corridors of the senior wizards’ quarters there were a number of sounds you might hear late at night, such as snoring, the gentle clinking of glasses, tuneless singing and, once in a while, the zip and sizzle of a spell gone wrong. But the sound of someone quietly crying was such a novelty that Spelter found himself edging down the passage that led to the Archchancellor’s suite.
    The door was ajar. Telling himself that he really shouldn’t, tensing himself for a hurried dash, Spelter peered inside.

    Rincewind