The Last Continent

special to be sure-footed. He said it won’t fall off anything .”
    Rincewind nodded. His type of horse, all right. The quiet, dependable type.
    “Which way’s Bugarup?”
    The men pointed.
    “Right. Thank you. Giddyup…What’s this horse called?”
    Daggy seemed to think for a moment and then said, “Snowy.”
    “Why Snowy? That’s an odd name for a horse.”
    “I…used to have a dog called Snowy.”
    “Oh, right. That makes sense. Sense for here, anyway. I suppose. Well…g’day, then.”
    The shearers watched him go, which, at Snowy’s pace, took some time.
    “Had to get rid of him,” said Daggy. “He could put us on the dole in a day.”
    One of the men said, “Why din’t you tell him about the drop-bears over that way?”
    “He’s a wizard, ain’t he? He’ll find out.”
    “Yeah, but only when they bloody drop on his head.”
    “Quickest way,” said Daggy.
    “Daggy?”
    “Yup?”
    “How long did you say you’d had that horse?”
    “Ages. Won it off a bloke.”
    “Right?”
    “Right.”
    “Right…”
    “What?”
    “Only…did yew always have it ages half an hour ago?”
    Daggy’s wide brow furrowed a little. He took off his hat and wiped his head with his arm. He looked at the disappearing horse, and then at the sheds, and then at the other men. Several times he started to speak, shut his mouth before he could get the first word out, and glared around him again.
    “Yew all know I’ve had it for bloody ages, right?” he demanded. “’s right.”
    “Ages.”
    “Won it off’f a bloke.”
    “Right. Yeah. Right. You must’ve done.”

    Mrs. Whitlow sat on a rock, combing her hair. A bush had sprouted several twigs with rows of blunt, closely set thorns just when she needed them.
    Large, pink and very clean, she relaxed by the water like an amplified siren. Birds sang in the trees. Sparkling beetles hummed to and fro across the water.
    If the Senior Wrangler had been present someone could have scraped him up and carried him away in a bucket.
    Mrs. Whitlow did not feel in any danger. The wizards were around, after all. She was mildly worried that the maids would be getting lazy since she wasn’t there, but she could look forward to making their lives a living hell when she got back. The possibility of not getting back never entered her head.
    A lot of things never entered Mrs. Whitlow’s head. She’d decided a long time ago that the world was a lot nicer that way.
    She had a very straightforward view of foreign parts, or at least those more distant than her sister’s house in Quirm where she spent a week’s holiday every year. They were inhabited by people who were more to be pitied than blamed because, really, they were like children. * And they acted like savages. †
    On the other hand, the scenery was nice and the weather was warm and nothing smelled very bad. She was definitely feeling the benefit, as she’d put it.
    Not to put too fine a point on it, Mrs. Whitlow had left her corsets off.

    The thing that the Senior Wrangler insisted on calling the “melon boat” was, even the Dean admitted, very impressive.
    There was a big space below deck, dark and veined and lined with curved black boards, very like giant sunflower seeds.
    “Boat seeds,” said the Archchancellor. “Probably make good ballast. Senior Wrangler, don’t eat the wall, please.”
    “I thought perhaps we could do with more cabin space,” said the Senior Wrangler.
    “Cabins possibly, staterooms no,” said Ridcully, heaving himself back on to the deck.
    “Avast shipmate!” shouted the Dean, throwing a bunch of bananas on to the boat and climbing up behind them.
    “Quite so. How do we sail this vegetable, Dean?”
    “Oh, Ponder Stibbons knows all about that sort of thing.”
    “And where is he?”
    “Didn’t he go off to fetch some bananas?”
    They looked down at the beach, where the Bursar was stock-piling seaweed.
    “He did seem a bit…upset,” said Ridcully.
    “Can’t imagine why.”
    Ridcully glanced up at the central mountain, glowing in the afternoon sun.
    “I suppose he wouldn’t have done anything stupid, would he?” he said.
    “Archchancellor, Ponder Stibbons is a fully trained wizard!” said the Dean.
    “Thank you for that very concise and definite answer, Dean,” said Ridcully. He leaned down into the cabin. “Senior Wrangler! We’re going to look for Stibbons. And we ought to go and fetch Mrs. Whitlow, too.”
    There was a shriek from below. “Mrs.