The Light Fantastic

million, three thousand and ten limestone blocks. He read that ten thousand slaves had been worked to death in its building. He learned that it was a maze of secret passages, their walls reputedly decorated with the distilled wisdom of ancient Tsort. He read that its height plus its length divided by half its width equaled exactly 1.67563, or precisely 1,237.98712567 times the difference between the distance to the sun and the weight of a small orange. He learned that sixty years had been devoted entirely to its construction.
    It all seemed, he thought, to be rather a lot of trouble to go to just to sharpen a razor blade.
    And in the Forest of Skund Twoflower and Rincewind settled down to a meal of gingerbread mantelpiece and thought longingly of pickled onions.
    And far away, but set as it were on a collision course, the greatest hero the Disc ever produced rolled himself a cigarette, entirely unaware of the role that lay in store for him.
    It was quite an interesting tailormade that he twirled expertly between his fingers because, like many of the wandering wizards from whom he had picked up the art, he was in the habit of saving dogends in a leather bag and rolling them into fresh smokes. The implacable law of averages therefore dictated that some of that tobacco had been smoked almost continuously for many years now. The thing he was trying unsuccessfully to light was, well, you could have coated roads with it.
    So great was the reputation of this person that a group of nomadic barbarian horsemen had respectfully invited him to join them as they sat around a horseturd fire. The nomads of the Hub regions usually migrated rimward for the winter, and these were part of a tribe who had pitched their felt tents in the sweltering heat wave of a mere -3 degrees and were going around with peeling noses and complaining about heatstroke.
    The barbarian chieftain said: “What then are the greatest things that a man may find in life?” This is the sort of thing you’re supposed to say to maintain steppecred in barbarian circles.
    The man on his right thoughtfully drank his cocktail of mare’s milk and snowcat blood, and spoke thus: “The crisp horizon of the steppe, the wind in your hair, a fresh horse under you.”
    The man on his left said: “The cry of the white eagle in the heights, the fall of snow in the forest, a true arrow in your bow.”
    The chieftain nodded, and said: “Surely it is the sight of your enemy slain, the humiliation of his tribe and the lamentation of his women.”
    There was a general murmur of whiskery approval at this outrageous display.
    Then the chieftain turned respectfully to his guest, a small figure carefully warming his chilblains by the fire, and said: “But our guest, whose name is legend, must tell us truly: What is it that a man may call the greatest things in life?”
    The guest paused in the middle of another unsuccessful attempt to light up.
    “What shay?” he said, toothlessly.
    “I said: What is it that a man may call the greatest things in life?”
    The warriors leaned closer. This should be worth hearing.
    The guest thought long and hard and then said, with deliberation: “Hot water, good dentishtry and shoft lavatory paper.”

    Brilliant octarine light flared in the forge. Galder Weatherwax, stripped to the waist, his face hidden by a mask of smoked glass, squinted into the glow and brought a hammer down with surgical precision. The magic squealed and writhed in the tongs but still he worked it, drawing it into a line of agonized fire.
    A floorboard creaked. Galder had spent many hours tuning them, always a wise precaution with an ambitious assistant who walked like a cat.
    D-flat. That meant he was just to the right of the door.
    “Ah, Trymon,” he said, without turning, and noted with some satisfaction the faint indrawing of breath behind him. “Good of you to come. Shut the door, will you?”
    Trymon pushed the heavy door, his face expressionless. On the high shelf above him various bottled impossibilities wallowed in their pickle jars and watched him with interest.
    Like all wizards’ workshops, the place looked as though a taxidermist had dropped his stock in a foundry and then had a fight with a maddened glass-blower, braining a passing crocodile in the process (it hung from the ceiling and smelled strongly of camphor). There were lamps and rings that Trymon itched to rub, and mirrors that looked as though they could repay a second glance. A pair of