The Light Fantastic

they’re up to much. Very poor work.”
    Rincewind staggered across and tapped Wert gingerly on the chest. He was solid stone.
    This is it, he thought. I just want to go home.
    Hang on, I am home. More or less. So I just want a good sleep, and perhaps it will all be better in the morning.
    His gaze fell on the Octavo, which was outlined in tiny flashes of octarine fire. Oh yes, he thought.
    He picked it up and thumbed idly through its pages. They were thick with complex and swirling script that changed and re-formed even as he looked at it. It seemed undecided as to what it should be; one moment it was an orderly, matter-of-fact printing; the next a series of angular runes. Then it would be curly Kythian spellscript. Then it would be pictograms in some ancient, evil and forgotten writing that seemed to consist exclusively of unpleasant reptilian beings doing complicated and painful things to one another…
    The last page was empty. Rincewind sighed, and looked in the back of his mind. The Spell looked back.
    He had dreamed of this moment, how he would finally evict the Spell and take vacant possession of his own head and learn all those lesser spells which had, up until then, been too frightened to stay in his mind. Somehow he had expected it to be far more exciting.
    Instead, in utter exhaustion and in a mood to brook no argument, he stared coldly at the Spell and jerked a metaphorical thumb over his shoulder.
    You. Out.
    It looked for a moment as though the Spell was going to argue, but it wisely thought better of it.
    There was a tingling sensation, a blue flash behind his eyes, and a sudden feeling of emptiness.
    When he looked down at the page it was full of words. They were runes again. He was glad about that; the reptilian pictures were not only unspeakable but probably unpronounceable too, and reminded him of things he would have great difficulty in forgetting.
    He looked blankly at the book while Twoflower bustled around unheeded and Cohen tried in vain to lever the rings off the stone wizards.
    He had to do something, he reminded himself. What was it, now?
    He opened the book at the first page and began to read, his lips moving and his forefinger tracing the outline of each letter. As he mumbled each word it appeared soundlessly in the air beside him, in bright colors that streamed away in the night wind.
    He turned over the page.
    Other people were coming up the steps now—star people, citizens, even some of the Patrician’s personal guard. A couple of star people made a halfhearted attempt to approach Rincewind, who was surrounded now by a rainbow swirl of letters and took absolutely no notice of them, but Cohen drew his sword and looked nonchalantly at them and they thought better of it.
    Silence spread out from Rincewind’s bent form like ripples in a puddle. It cascaded down the tower and spread out through the milling crowds below, flowed over the walls, gushed darkly through the city, and engulfed the lands beyond.
    The bulk of the star loomed silently over the Disc. In the sky around it the new moons turned slowly and noiselessly.
    The only sound was Rincewind’s hoarse whispering as he turned page after page.
    “Isn’t this exciting!” said Twoflower. Cohen, who was rolling a cigarette from the tarry remnants of its ancestors, looked at him blankly, paper halfway to his lips.
    “Isn’t what exciting?” he said.
    “All this magic!”
    “It’s only lights,” said Cohen critically. “He hasn’t even produced doves out of his sleeves.”
    “Yes, but can’t you sense the occult potentiality?” said Twoflower.
    Cohen produced a big yellow match from somewhere in his tobacco bag, looked at Wert for a moment, and with great deliberation struck the match on his fossilized nose.
    “Look,” he said to Twoflower, as kindly as he could manage. “What do you expect? I’ve been around a long time, I’ve seen the whole magical thing, and I can tell you that if you go around with your jaw dropping all the time people hit it. Anyway, wizards die just like anyone else when you stick a—”
    There was a loud snap as Rincewind shut the book. He stood up, and looked around.
    What happened next was this:
    Nothing.
    It took a little while for people to realize it. Everyone had ducked instinctively, waiting for the explosion of white light or scintillating fireball or, in the case of Cohen, who had fairly low expectations, a few white pigeons, possibly a slightly crumpled rabbit.
    It wasn’t even