The Light Fantastic

shrugged. A few minutes later they returned with a selection of knives, and Twoflower had even managed to find a sword.
    “We just helped ourselves,” said Bethan.
    “But we left some money,” said Twoflower. “I mean, we would have left some money, if we’d had any—”
    “So he insisted on writing a note,” said Bethan wearily.
    Twoflower drew himself up to his full height, which was hardly worth it.
    “I see no reason—” he began, stiffly.
    “Yes, yes,” said Bethan, sitting down glumly. “I know you don’t. Rincewind, all the shops have been smashed open, there was a whole bunch of people across the street helping themselves to musical instruments, can you believe that?”
    “Yeah,” said Rincewind, picking up a knife and testing its blade thoughtfully. “Luters, I expect.”
    He thrust the blade into the wall, twisted it, and stepped back as a heavy stone fell out. He looked up, counting under his breath, and levered another stone from its socket.
    “How did you do that?” said Twoflower.
    “Just give me a leg up, will you?” said Rincewind. A moment later, his feet wedged into the holes he had created, he was making further steps halfway up the wall.
    “It’s been like this for centuries,” his voice floated down. “Some of the stones haven’t got any mortar. Secret entrance, see? Watch out below.”
    Another stone cracked into the cobbles.
    “Students made it long ago,” said Rincewind. “Handy way in and out after lights out.”
    “Ah,” said Twoflower, “I understand . Over the wall and out to brightly lit tavernas to drink and sing and recite poetry, yes?”
    “Nearly right except for the singing and the poetry, yes,” said Rincewind. “A couple of these spikes should be loose—” There was a clang.
    “There’s not much of a drop this side,” came his voice after a few seconds. “Come on, then. If you’re coming.”

    And so it was that Rincewind, Twoflower and Bethan entered Unseen University.
    Elsewhere on the campus—
    The eight wizards inserted their keys and, with many a worried glance at one another, turned them. There was a faint little snicking sound as the lock slid open.
    The Octavo was unchained. A faint octarine light played across its bindings.
    Trymon reached out and picked it up, and none of the others objected. His arm tingled.
    He turned toward the door.
    “Now to the Great Hall, brothers,” he said, “if I may lead the way—”
    And there were no objections.
    He reached the door with the book tucked under his arm. It felt hot, and somehow prickly.
    At every step he expected a cry, a protest, and none came. He had to use every ounce of control to stop himself from laughing. It was easier than he could have imagined.
    The others were halfway across the claustrophobic dungeon by the time he was through the door, and perhaps they had noticed something in the set of his shoulders, but it was too late because he had crossed the threshold, gripped the handle, slammed the door, turned the key, smiled the smile.
    He walked easily back along the corridor, ignoring the enraged screams of the wizards who had just discovered how impossible it is to pass spells in a room built to be impervious to magic.
    The Octavo squirmed , but Trymon held it tightly. Now he ran, putting out of his mind the horrible sensations under his arm as the book shape-changed into things hairy, skeletal and spiky. His hand went numb. The faint chittering noises he had been hearing grew in volume, and there were other sounds behind them—leering sounds, beckoning sounds, sounds made by the voices of unimaginable horrors that Trymon found it all too easy to imagine. As he ran across the Great Hall and up the main staircase the shadows began to move and reform and close in around him, and he also became aware that something was following, something with skittery legs moving obscenely fast. Ice formed on the walls. Doorways lunged at him as he barreled past. Underfoot the stairs began to feel just like a tongue…
    Not for nothing had Trymon spent long hours in the University’s curious equivalent of a gymnasium, building up mental muscle. Don’t trust the senses, he knew, because they can be deceived. The stairs are there, somewhere—will them to be there, summon them into being as you climb and, boy, you better get good at it. Because this isn’t all imagination.

    Great A’Tuin slowed.
    With flippers the size of continents the skyturtle fought the pull of the star, and