The Last Continent

eh?”
    “He sez, it ought to be the best one yet, Charley.”
    “No worries?”
    “He sez, the great Nunco invented the Strawberry Sackville for Dame Wendy Sackville, and the famous chef Imposo created the Apple Glazier for Dame Margyreen Glazier, and your own father, Charley, honored Dame Janeen Ormulu with the Orange Ormulu and tonight, Charley, it’s your big chance.” The cook shook his head as he reached a table where a small man in a white uniform was sobbing uncontrollably into his hands. There was a stack of empty beer cans in front of him. “Poor bastard’s been on the beer ever since, and we thought we’d better get someone in. I’m a steak and prawns man, myself.”
    “So, you want me to make a pudding? Named after an opera singer?” said Rincewind. “That’s the tradition, is it?”
    “Yeah, and you’d better not let Charley down, mate. It’s not his fault.”
    “Oh, well…” Rincewind thought about puddings. Basically it was just fruit and cream and custard, wasn’t it? And cakes and stuff. He couldn’t see where the problem lay.
    “No worries,” he said. “I think I can knock up something right away.”
    The kitchen became silent as the scurrying cooks stopped to watch him.
    “First,” said Rincewind, “what fruit have we got?”
    “Peaches was all we could find at this time of night.”
    “No worries. And we’ve got some cream?”
    “Yep. Of course.”
    “Fine, fine. Then all I need to know is the name of the lady in question…”
    He felt the silence open up.
    “She’s a beaut singer, mind you,” said a cook, in a defensive tone of voice.
    “Good. And her name?” said Rincewind.
    “Er…that’s the trouble, see,” said another cook.
    “Why?”

    Ponder opened his eyes. The water was calm, or at least calmer than it had been. There were even patches of blue sky above, although cloud banks were crisscrossing the air as if each were in possession of its own bag of wind.
    His mouth tasted as though he’d been sucking a tin spoon.
    Around him, some of the wizards managed to push themselves to their knees. The Dean frowned, removed his hat, and pulled out a small crab.
    “’s a good boat,” he murmured.
    The green mast stem still stood, although the leaf sail looked ragged. Nevertheless, the boat was tacking nicely against the wind off—
    —the continent. It was a red wall, glowing under the thunder light.
    Ridcully got uncertainly to his feet and pointed to it. “Not far now!” he said.
    The Dean actually growled. “I’ve just about had enough of that insufferable cheerfulness,” he said. “So just shut up, will you?”
    “Enough of that. I am your Archchancellor, Dean,” said Ridcully.
    “Well, let’s just talk about that, shall we?” said the Dean, and Ponder saw the nasty gleam in his eye.
    “This is hardly the time, Dean!”
    “Exactly on what basis are you giving orders, Ridcully? You’re the Archchancellor of what, precisely? Unseen University doesn’t even exist ! Tell him, Senior Wrangler!”
    “I don’t have to if I don’t want to,” sniffed the Senior Wrangler.
    “What? What?” snapped the Dean.
    “I don’t believe I have to take orders from you, Dean!”
    When the Bursar climbed up on deck a minute later the boat was already rocking. It was hard to say how many factions there were, since a wizard is capable of being a faction all by himself, but there were broadly two sides, both liaisons being as stable as an egg on a seesaw.
    What amazed Ponder Stibbons, when he thought about it later, was that no one had yet resorted to using magic. The wizards had spent a lot of time in an atmosphere where a cutting remark did more damage than a magic sword and, for sheer malign pleasure, a well structured memo could do more real damage than a fireball every time. Besides, no one had their staff, and no one had any spells handy, and in those circumstances it’s easier to hit someone, although in the case of wizards non-magical fighting usually means flailing ineffectually at the opponent while trying to keep out of his way.
    The Bursar’s fixed smile faded a little.
    “I got three percent more than you in my finals!”
    “Oh, and how do you know that, Dean?”
    “I looked up the paper when you were appointed Archchancellor!”
    “What? After forty years?”
    “An examination is an examination!”
    “Er…” the Bursar began.
    “Ye gods, that’s petty! That’s just the sort of thing I’d expect from a student who even had a