The Light Fantastic

Actually none of them were quite sure how old Trymion really was, but his sparse hair was still black and his skin had a waxy look to it that could be taken, in a poor light, to be the bloom of youth.

The six surviving heads of the Eight Orders sat at the long, shiny and new table in what had been Galder Weatherwax’s study and each one wondered precisely what it was about Trymon that made them want to kick him.

It wasn’t that he was ambitious and cruel. Cruel men were stupid; they all knew how to use cruel men, and they certainly knew how to bend other men’s ambitions. You didn’t stay an Eighth Level magus for long unless you were adept at a kind of mental judo.

It wasn’t that he was bloodthirsty, power-hungry or especially wicked. These things were not necessarily drawbacks in a wizard. The wizards were, on the whole, no more wicked than, say, the committee of the average Rotary Club, and each had risen to pre-eminence in his chosen profession not so much by skill at magic but by never neglecting to capitalise on the weaknesses of opponents.

It wasn’t that he was particularly wise. Every wizard considered himself a fairly hot property, wisewise; it went with the job.

It wasn’t even that he had charisma. They all knew charisma when they encountered it, and Trymon had all the charisma of a duck egg.

That was it, in fact...

He wasn’t good or evil or cruel or extreme in any way but one, which was that he had elevated greyness to the status of a fine art and cultivated a mind that was as bleak and pitiless and logical as the slopes of Hell.

And what was so strange was that each of the wizards, who had in the course of their work encountered many a fire-spitting, bat-winged, tiger-taloned entity in the privacy of a magical octogram, had never before had quite the same uncomfortable feeling as they had when, ten minutes late, Trymon strode into the room.

‘Sorry I’m late, gentlemen,’ he lied, rubbing his hands briskly. ‘So many things to do, so much to organise, I’m ure you know how it is.’

The wizards looked sidelong at one another as Trymon sat down at the head of the table and shuffled busily through some papers.

What happened to old Galder’s chair, the one with the lion arms and the chicken feet?’ said Jiglad Wert. It had gone, along with most of the other familiar furniture, and in its place were a number of low leather chairs that appeared to be incredibly comfortable until you’d sat in them for five minutes.

‘That? Oh, I had it burnt,’ said Trymon, not looking up.

‘Burnt? But it was a priceless magical artifact, a genuine—’

‘Just a piece of junk, I’m afraid,’ said Trymon, treating him to a fleeting smile. ‘I’m sure real wizards don’t really need that sort of thing, now if I may draw your attention to the business of the day—’

‘What’s this paper?’ said Jiglad Wert, of the Hood-winkers, waving the document that had been left in front of him, and waving it all the more forcefully because his own chair, back in his cluttered and comfortable tower, was if anything more ornate than Galder’s had been.

‘It’s an agenda, Jiglad,’ said Trymon, patiently.

‘And what does a gender do?’

‘It’s just a list of the things we’ve got to discuss. It’s very simple, I’m sorry if you feel that—’

‘We’ve never needed one before!’

‘I think perhaps you have needed one, you just haven’t used one,’ said Trymon, his voice resonant with reasonableness.

Wert hesitated. ‘Well, all right,’ he said sullenly, looking around the table for support, ‘but what’s this here where it says—’ he peered closely at the writing—‘ "Successor to Greyhald Spold". It’s going to be old Rhunlet Yard, isn’t it? He’s been waiting for years.’

‘Yes, but is he sound?’ said Trymon.

‘What?’

I’m sure we all realise the importance of proper leadership,’ said Trymon. ‘Now, Vard is—well, worthy, of course, in his way, but —’

‘It’s not our business,’ said one of the other wizards.

‘No, but it could be,’ said Trymon.

There was silence.

‘Interfere with the affairs of another order?’ said Wert.

‘Of course not,’ said Trymon. ‘I merely suggest that we could offer... advice. But let us discuss this later...’

The wizards had never heard of the words ‘power base’, otherwise Trymon would never have been able to get away with all this. But the plain fact was that helping others to achieve power, even to strengthen your own hand, was quite alien to them. As far as they were concerned, every wizard stood alone. Never mind about hostile paranormal entities, an ambitious wizard had quite enough to do fighting his enemies in his own Order.

‘I think we should now consider the matter of Rincewind,’ said Trymon.

‘And the star,’ said Wert. ‘People are noticing, you know.’

‘Yes, they say we should be doing something,’ said Lumuel Panter, of the Order of Midnight. ‘What, I should like to know?’

‘Oh, that’s easy,’ said Wert. They say we should read the Octavo. That’s what they always say. Crops bad? Read the Octavo. Cows ill? Read the Octavo. The Spells will make everything all right.’