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It is well known that eight colours make up white. But there are also eight colours of blackness, for those that have the seeing of them, and the hives of Death are among the black grass in the black orchard under the black-blossomed, ancient boughs of trees that will, eventually, produce apples that … put it like this … probably won’t be red.
No enemies had ever taken Ankh-Morpork. Well, technically they had, quite often; the city welcomed free-spending barbarian invaders, but somehow the puzzled raiders always found, after a few days, that they didn’t own their own horses any more, and within a couple of months they were just another minority group with its own graffiti and food shops.
It took place in the midnight in the University’s Great Hall, in a welter of incense, candlesticks, runic inscriptions and magic circles, none of which was strictly necessary but which made the wizards feel better.
A bench all down one wall contained a selection of glassware apparently created by a drunken glassblower with hiccups, and inside its byzantine coils coloured liquids seethed and bubbled.
On a perch beside it someone had nailed a stuffed bird. Whatever sins it had committed in life, it hadn’t deserved what the taxidermist had done to it.
“You’re a parrot?” he said. “That’s it.” Rincewind stared at the thing on the perch. It had one eye that glittered like a ruby. Most of the rest of it was pink and purple skin, studded with the fag-ends of feathers, so that the net effect was of an oven-ready hairbrush. It jiggled arthritically on its perch and then slowly lost its balance, until it was hanging upside down. “I thought you were stuffed,” said Rincewind. “Up yours, wizard.”
He was trying to conjure up a succubus.” It should be impossible to leer when all you’ve got is a beak, but the parrot managed it.
The Disc might almost have been designed to be seen from space; it hadn’t, Rincewind was damn sure, been designed to be lived on. But he had to admit that it was impressive.
“Pretty good,” said the parrot. “Polly want a continent.”
Pre-eminent amongst Rincewind’s talents was his skill in running away, which over the years he had elevated to the status of a genuinely pure science; it didn’t matter if you were fleeing from or to, so long as you were fleeing. It was flight alone that counted. I run, therefore I am; more correctly, I run, therefore with any luck I’ll still be.
It was the first chariot Rincewind had ever seen that was pulled by llamas. That wasn’t what was odd about it. What was odd about it was that it was being carried by people, two holding each side of the axle and running after the animals, their sandalled feet flapping on the flagstones.
Quezovercoatl, the Feathered Boa.
Quetzalcóatl the Aztec God was in fact portrayed as a winged serpent. This is almost, but not quite, the same as a feathered boa. A feather boa is of course also an item of women's clothing that became popular in the 1920s
“You didn’t have to go and kick me!” “You’re quite right. It was an entirely voluntary act on my part.”
cowards make far better strategists.
“Lose me own head next. I done a whole world once and completely left out the fingles. Not one of the buggers. Couldn’t get ‘em at the time, told myself I could nip back when they were in stock, completely forgot. Imagine that. No-one spotted it, of course, because obviously they just evolved there and they didn’t know there ought to be fingles, but it was definitely causing them deep, you know, psychological problems. Deep down inside they could tell there was something missing, sort of thing.”
“What’re quantum mechanics?” “I don’t know. People who repair quantums, I suppose.”
“Multiple exclamation marks,” he went on, shaking his head, “are a sure sign of a diseased mind.”
This thing was the kind of terrifying thing that could only be created by someone sitting down and thinking horrible thoughts very clearly. It had more tentacles than legs, but fewer arms than heads. It also had a badge. The badge said: “My name is Urglefloggah, Spawn of the Pit and Loathly Guardian of the Dread Portal: How May I Help You?” It was not very happy about this.
Astfgl had achieved in Hell a particularly high brand of boredom which is like the boredom you get which a) is costing you money, and b) is taking place while you should be having a nice time.
“Or it helps if you’ve got a lyre, I think.” “Ah. We could be on firmer ground here,” said Rincewind. He thought for a bit and then said, “Er. My dog … my dog has six legs.”
He looked down at the broad steps they were climbing. They were something of a novelty; each one was built out of large stone letters. The one he was just stepping on to, for example, read: I Meant It For The Best. The next one was: I Thought You’d Like It. Eric was standing on: For the Sake of the Children. “Weird, isn’t it?” he said. “Why do it like this?” “I think they’re meant to be good intentions,” said Rincewind. This was a road to Hell, and demons were, after all, traditionalists.
Just erotic. Nothing kinky. It’s the difference between using a feather and using a chicken.
people only go to hell if that’s where they believe, in their deepest heart, that they deserve to go. Which they won’t do if they don’t know about it. This explains why it is important to shoot missionaries on sight.
