I want you to stay OUT of danger.

Rincewind sagged. "Why me?" he moaned.

For the good of the University. For the honor of wizardry. For the sake of the world. For your heart's desire. And I'll freeze you alive if you don't.

Rincewind breathed a sigh almost of relief. He wasn't good on bribes, or cajolery, or appeals to his better nature. But threats, now, threats were familiar. He knew where he was with threats.

The sun dawned on Small G.o.ds' Day like a badly poached egg. The mists had closed in over Ankh-Morpork in streamers of silver and gold-damp, warm, silent. There was the distant grumbling of springtime thunder, out on the plains. It seemed warmer than it ought to be.

Wizards normally slept late. On this morning, however, many of them had got up early and were wandering the corridors aimlessly. They could feel the change in the air.

The University was filling up with magic.

Of course, it was usually full of magic anyway, but it was an old, comfortable magic, as exciting and dangerous as a bedroom slipper. But seeping through the ancient fabric was a new magic, saw-edged and vibrant, bright and cold as comet fire. It sleeted through the stones and crackled off sharp edges like static electricity on the nylon carpet of Creation. It buzzed and sizzled. It curled wizardly beards, poured in wisps of octarine smoke from fingers that had done nothing more mystical for three decades than a little light illusion. How can the effect be described with delicacy and taste? For most of the wizards, it was like being an elderly man who, suddenly faced with a beautiful young woman, finds to his horror and delight and astonishment that the flesh is suddenly as willing as the spirit.

And in the halls and corridors of the University the word was being whispered: Sourcery Sourcery!

A few wizards surrept.i.tiously tried spells that they hadn't been able to master for years, and watched in amazement as they unrolled perfectly. Sheepishly at first, and then with confidence, and then with shouts and whoops, they threw fireb.a.l.l.s to one another or produced live doves out of their hats or made multi-colored sequins fall out of the air.

Sourcery! One or two wizards, stately men who had hitherto done nothing more blameworthy that eat a live oyster, turned themselves invisible and chased the maids and bedders through the corridors.

Sourcery! Some of the bolder spirits had tried out ancient flying spells and were bobbing a little uncertainly among the rafters. Sourcery!

Only the Librarian didn't share in the manic breakfast. He watched the antics for some time, pursing his prehensile lips, and then knuckled stiffly off toward his Library. If anyone had bothered to notice, they'd have heard him bolting the door.

It was deathly quiet in the Library. The books were no longer frantic. They'd pa.s.sed through their fear and out into the calm waters of abject terror, and they crouched on their shelves like so many mesmerized rabbits.

A long hairy arm reached up and grabbed Casplock's Compleet Lexicon of Majik with Precepts for the Wise Casplock's Compleet Lexicon of Majik with Precepts for the Wise before it could back away, soothed its terror with a long-fingered hand, and opened it under "S." The Librarian smoothed the trembling page gently and ran a h.o.r.n.y nail down the entries until he came to: before it could back away, soothed its terror with a long-fingered hand, and opened it under "S." The Librarian smoothed the trembling page gently and ran a h.o.r.n.y nail down the entries until he came to: Sourcerer, n. (mythical). A proto-wizard, a doorway through which new majik may enterr the world, a wizard not limited by the physical capabilities of hys own bodie, not by Destinie, nor by Deathe. It is written that there once werre sourcerers in the youth of the world but not may there by nowe and blessed be, for sourcery is not for menne and the return of sourcery would mean the Ende of the Worlde...If the Creator hadd meant menne to bee as G.o.ddes, he ould have given them wings. SEE ALSO: thee Apocralypse, the legende of thee Ice Giants, and thee Teatime of the G.o.ddes n. (mythical). A proto-wizard, a doorway through which new majik may enterr the world, a wizard not limited by the physical capabilities of hys own bodie, not by Destinie, nor by Deathe. It is written that there once werre sourcerers in the youth of the world but not may there by nowe and blessed be, for sourcery is not for menne and the return of sourcery would mean the Ende of the Worlde...If the Creator hadd meant menne to bee as G.o.ddes, he ould have given them wings. SEE ALSO: thee Apocralypse, the legende of thee Ice Giants, and thee Teatime of the G.o.ddes.

The Librarian read the cross-references, turned back to the first entry, and stared at it through deep dark eyes for a long time. Then he put the book back carefully, crept under his desk, and pulled the blanket over his head.

But in the minstrel gallery over the Great Hall Carding and Spelter watched the scene with entirely different emotions.

Standing side by side they looked almost exactly like the number 10.

"What is happening?" said Spelter. He'd had a sleepless night, and wasn't thinking very straight.

"Magic is flowing into the University," said Carding. "That's what sourcerer means. A channel for magic. Real magic, my boy. Not the tired old stuff we've made do with these past centuries. This is the dawning of a...a-"

"New, um, dawn?"

"Exactly. A time of miracles, a...a-"

"a.n.u.s mirabilis?"

Carding frowned. "Yes," he said, eventually, "something like that, I expect. You have quite a way with words, you know."

"Thank you, brother."

The senior wizard appeared to ignore the familiarity. Instead he turned and leaned on the carved rail, watching the magical displays below them. His hands automatically went to his pockets for his tobacco pouch, and then paused. He grinned, and snapped his fingers. A lighted cigar appeared in his mouth.

"Haven't been able to do that in years," he mused. "Big changes, my boy. They haven't realized it yet, but it's the end of Orders and Levels. That was just a-rationing system. We don't need them anymore. Where is the boy?"

"Still asleep-" Spelter began.

"I am here," said Coin.

He stood in the archway leading to the senior wizard's quarters, holding the octiron staff that was half again as tall as he was. Little veins of yellow fire coruscated across its matt black surface, which was so dark that it looked like a slit in the world.

Spelter felt the golden eyes bore through him, as if his innermost thoughts were being scrolled across the back of his skull.

"Ah," he said, in a voice that he believed was jolly and avuncular but in fact sounded like a strangled death rattle. After a start like that his contribution could only get worse, and it did. "I see you're, um, up," he said.

"My dear boy," said Carding.

Coin gave him a long, freezing stare.

"I saw you last night," he said. "Are you puissant?"

"Only mildly," said Carding, hurriedly recalling the boy's tendency to treat wizardry as a terminal game of conkers. "But not so puissant as you, I'm sure."

"I am to be made Archchancellor, as is my destiny?"

"Oh, absolutely," said Carding. "No doubt about it. May I have a look at your staff? Such an interesting design-"

He reached out a pudgy hand.

It was a shocking breach of etiquette in any case; no wizard should even think of touching another's staff without his express permission. But there are people who can't quite believe that children are fully human, and think that the operation of normal good manners doesn't apply to them.

Carding's fingers curled around the black staff.

There was a noise that Spelter felt rather than heard, and Carding bounced across the gallery and struck the opposite wall with a sound like a sack of lard hitting a pavement.

"Don't do that," said Coin. He turned and looked through Spelter, who had gone pale, and added: "Help him up. He is probably not badly hurt."

The bursar scuttled hurriedly across the floor and bent over Carding, who was breathing heavily and had gone an odd color. He patted the wizard's hand until Carding opened one eye.

"Did you see what happened?" he whispered.

"I'm not sure. Um. What did happen?" hissed Spelter.

"It bit me."

"The next time you touch the staff," said Coin, matter-of-factly, "you will die. Do you understand?"

Carding raised his head gently, in case bits of it fell off.

"Absolutely," he said.

"And now I would like to see the University," the boy continued. "I have heard a great deal about it..."

Spelter helped Carding to his unsteady feet and supported him as they trotted obediently after the boy.

"Don't touch his staff," muttered Carding.

"I'll remember, um, not to," said Spelter firmly. "What did it feel like?"

"Have you ever been bitten by a viper?"

"No."

"In that case you'll understand exactly what it felt like."

"Hmmm?"

"It wasn't like a snake bite at all."

They hurried after the determined figure as Coin marched down the stairs and through the ravished doorway of the Great Hall.

Spelter dodged in front, anxious to make a good impression.

"This is the Great Hall," he said. Coin turned his golden gaze toward him, and the wizard felt his mouth dry up. "It's called that because it's a hall, d'you see. And big."

He swallowed. "It's a big hall," he said, fighting to stop the last of his coherence being burned away by the searchlight of that stare. "A great big hall, which is why it's called-"

"Who are those people?" said Coin. He pointed with his staff. The a.s.sembled wizards, who had turned to watch him enter, backed out of the way as though the staff was a flamethrower.

Spelter followed the sourcerer's stare. Coin was pointing to the portraits and statues of former Archchancellors, which decorated the walls. Full-bearded and point-hatted, clutching ornamental scrolls or holding mysterious symbolic bits of astrological equipment, they stared down with ferocious self-importance or, possibly, chronic constipation.

"From these walls," said Carding, "two hundred supreme mages look down upon you."

"I don't care for them," said Coin, and the staff streamed octarine fire. The Archchancellors vanished.

"And the windows are too small-"

"The ceiling is too high-"

"Everything is too old old-"

The wizards threw themselves flat as the staff flared and spat. Spelter pulled his hat over his eyes and rolled under a table when the very fabric of the University flowed around him. Wood creaked, stone groaned.

Something tapped him on the head. He screamed.

"Stop that!" shouted Carding above the din. "And pull your hat up! Show a little dignity!"

"Why are you under the table, then?" said Spelter sourly.

"We must seize our opportunity!"

"What, like the staff?"

"Follow me!"

Spelter emerged into a bright, a horrible bright new world.

Gone were the rough stone walls. Gone were the dark, owl-haunted rafters. Gone was the tiled floor, with its eye-boggling pattern of black and white tiles.

Gone, too, were the high small windows, with their gentle patina of antique grease. Raw sunlight streamed into the hall for the first time.

The wizards stared at one another, mouths open, and what they saw was not what they had always thought they'd seen. The unforgiving rays trans.m.u.ted rich gold embroidery into dusty gilt, exposed opulent fabric as rather stained and threadbare velvet, turned fine flowing beards into nicotine-stained tangles, betrayed splendid diamonds as rather inferior Ankhstones. The fresh light probed and prodded, stripping away the comfortable shadows.

And, Spelter had to admit, what was left didn't inspire confidence. He was suddenly acutely aware that under his robes-his tattered, badly-faded robes, he realized with an added spasm of guilt; the robes with the perforated area where the mice had got at them-he was still wearing his bedroom slippers.

The hall was now almost all gla.s.sa. What wasn't gla.s.s was marble. It was all so splendid that Spelter felt quite unworthy.

He turned to Carding, and saw that his fellow wizard was staring at Coin with his eyes gleaming.

Most of the other wizards had the same expression. If wizards weren't attracted to power they wouldn't be wizards, and this was real power. The staff had them charmed like so many cobras.

Carding reached out to touch the boy on the shoulder, and then thought better of it.

"Magnificent," he said, instead.

He turned to the a.s.sembled wizardry and raised his arms. "My brothers," he intoned, "we have in our midst a wizard of great power!"

Spelter tugged at his robe.

"He nearly killed you," he hissed. Carding ignored him.

"And I propose-" Carding swallowed-"I propose him for Archchancellor!"

There was a moment's silence, and then a burst of cheering and shouts of dissent. Several quarrels broke out at the back of the crowd. The wizards nearer the front weren't quite so ready to argue. They could see the smile on Coin's face. It was bright and cold, like the smile on the face of the moon.

There was a commotion, and an elderly wizard fought his way to the front of the throng.

Spelter recognized Ovin Hakardly, a seventh-level wizard and a lecturer in Lore. He was red with anger, except where he was white with rage. When he spoke, his words seared through the air like so many knives, clipped as topiary, crisp as biscuits.

"Are you mad?" he said. "No one but a wizard of the eighth level may become Archchancellor! And he must be elected by the other most senior wizards in solemn convocation! (Duly guided by the G.o.ds, of course.) It is the Lore! (The very idea!)"

Hakardly had studied the Lore of magic for years and, because magic always tends to be a two-way process, it had made its mark on him; he gave the impression of being as fragile as a cheese straw, and in some unaccountable way the dryness of his endeavours had left him with the ability to p.r.o.nounce punctuation.

He stood vibrating with indignation and, he became aware, he was rapidly standing alone. In fact he was the center of an expanding circle of empty floor fringed with wizards who were suddenly ready to swear that they'd never clapped eyes on him in their life.

Coin had raised his staff.