The Last Continent

waved a hand. Sparks flew up. “Nothing there,” he said. “I said we—”
    For a moment some pointed shapes hung in the air, and then vanished.
    “That’s not magic ,” said one of the wizards. “That’s ghosts.”
    “Everyone knows this place is haunted. Evil spirits, they say.”
    “Should’ve stuck to beer,” said Archchancellor Rincewind.
    Neilette pointed to the trapdoor. “But it doesn’t go anywhere,” she said. “There’s a hatch to the outside and some storerooms and that’s about it.”
    The wizards looked down.
    Below was utter darkness. Something small skittered away on what sounded very much like more than four legs. There was the smell of very old, very stale beer.
    “No worries,” said Rincewind, waving a tin expansively. “I’ll go down first, shall I?”
    This was fun .
    There was a rusted ladder bolted to the wall below him. It creaked under his weight, and gave way when he was a few feet from the cellar floor, dropping him on to the stones. The wizards heard him laugh.
    Then he called up: “Do any of you know someone called Dibbler?”
    “What—old Fair Go?” said Bill.
    “’s right. He’ll be outside selling stuff to the crowd, right?”
    “Very likely.”
    “Can someone go and get me one of his floating meat pies with extra tomato sauce? I could really do with one.”
    The Dean looked at Archchancellor Rincewind. “How much beer did he drink?”
    “Three or four tinnies. He must be allergic, poor bastard.”
    “I reckon I could even eat two.” Rincewind called up.
    “ Two ?”
    “No worries. Anyone got a torch? It’s dark down here.”
    “Do you want the gourmet pies or the ordinary?” said the Dean.
    “Oh, the ordinary will do me. No swank, eh?”
    “Poor bastard,” said Bill, and sorted through his small change.
    It was indeed dark in the cellars, but enough dim light filtered through the trapdoor for Rincewind to make out huge pipes in the gloom.
    It was obvious that some time after the brewery had been closed, but before people had got around to securely locking every entrance, the cellars had been employed by young people as such places are when you live with your parents, the house is too small, and no one has got around to inventing the motorcar.
    In short, they’d written on the walls. Rincewind could make out careful inscriptions telling posterity that, for example, B. Smoth Is A Pozza. While he didn’t know what a pozza was, he was quite, quite sure that B. Smoth didn’t want to be called one. It was amazing how slang seemed to radiate its meaning even in another language.
    There was a thump behind him as the Luggage landed on the stone floor.
    “Me old mate Trunkie,” said Rincewind. “No worries!”
    Another ladder was eased down and the wizards, with some care, joined him. Archchancellor Rincewind was holding a staff with a glowing end.
    “Found anything?” he said.
    “Well, yes. I wouldn’t shake hands with anyone called B. Smoth,” said Rincewind.
    “Oh, the Dean’s not a bad bloke when you get to know him—What’s up?”
    Rincewind pointed to the far end of the room.
    There, on a door, someone had drawn some pointy hats, in red. They glistened in the light.
    “My word. Blood,” said Rincewind.
    His cousin ran a finger over it. “It’s ochre,” he said. “Clay…”
    The door led to another cellar. There were a few empty barrels, some broken crates, and nothing else except musty darkness.
    Dust whirled up on the floor from the draught of their movement, in a series of tiny, inverted whirlwinds. Pointy hats again.
    “Hmm, solid walls all round,” said Bill. “Better pick a direction, mate.”
    Rincewind had a drink, shut his eyes and pointed a finger at random.
    “That way!”
    The Luggage plunged forward and struck the brickwork, which fell away to reveal a dark space beyond.
    Rincewind stuck his head through. All the builders had done was wall up and square off a part of a cave. From the feel of the air, it was quite a large one.
    Neilette and the wizards climbed through behind him.
    “I’m sure this place wasn’t here when the brewery was built!” said Neilette.
    “It’s big,” said the Dean. “How’d it get made?”
    “Water,” said Rincewind.
    “You what? Water makes great big holes in rock?”
    “Yes. Don’t ask me why—What was that?”
    “What?”
    “Did you hear something?”
    “You said, ‘What was that?’”
    Rincewind sighed. The cold air was sobering him up.
    “You really are