The Light Fantastic

‘That’s right. Mind you, there is a saving on the rates.’

‘Rates?’

‘Yes, they’re—’ the shopkeeper paused, and wrinkled his forehead. ‘I can’t quite remember, it was such a long time ago. Rates, rates —’

‘Very large mice?’

‘That’s probably it.’

‘Hold on—it’s thinking about something,’ said Cohen.

Lackjaw looked up wearily. It had been quite nice, sitting here in the shade. He had just worked out that in trying to escape from a city of crazed madmen he had appeared to have allowed one mad man to give him his full attention. He wondered whether he would live to regret this.

He earnestly hoped so.

‘Oh yes, it’s definitely thinking,’ he said bitterly. ‘Anyone can see that.’

‘I think it’s found them.’

‘Oh, good.’

‘Hold onto it.’

‘Are you mad?’ said Lackjaw.

‘I know this thing, trust me. Anyway, would you rather be left with all these star people? They might be interested in having a talk with you.’

Cohen sidled over to the Luggage, and then flung himself astride it. It took no notice.

‘Hurry up,’ he said. ‘I think it’s going to go.’

Lackjaw shrugged, and climbed on gingerly behind Cohen.

‘Oh?’ he said, ‘and how does it g —’

Ankh-Morpork!

Pearl of cities!

This is not a completely accurate description, of course—it was not round and shiny—but even its worst enemies would agree that if you had to liken Ankh-Morpork to anything, then it might as well be a piece of rubbish covered with the diseased secretions of a dying mollusc.

There have been bigger cities. There have been richer cities. There have certainly been prettier cities. But no city in the multiverse could rival Ankh-Morpork for its smell.

The Ancient Ones, who know everything about all the universes and have smelt the smells of Calcutta and!Xrc —! and dauntocum Marsport, have agreed that even these fine examples of nasal poetry are mere limericks when set against the glory of the Ankh-Morpork smell.

You can talk about ramps. You can talk about garlic. You can talk about France. Go on. But if you haven’t smelled Ankh-Morpork on a hot day you haven’t smelled anything.

The citizens are proud of it. They carry chairs outside to enjoy it on a really good day. They puff out their cheeks and slap their chests and comment cheerfully on its little distinctive nuances. They have even put up a statue to it, to commemorate the time when the troops of a rival state tried to invade by stealth one dark night and managed to get to the top of the walls before, to their horror, their nose plugs gave out. Rich merchants who ave spent many years abroad sent back home for specially-stoppered and sealed bottles of the stuff, which brings tears to their eyes.

It has that kind of effect.

There is only really one way to describe the effect the smell of Ankh-Morpork has on the visiting nose, and that is by analogy.

Take a tartan. Sprinkle it with confetti. Light it with strobe lights.

Now take a chameleon.

Put the chameleon on the tartan.

Watch it closely.

See?

Which explains why, when the shop finally materialised in Ankh-Morpork, Rincewind sat bolt upright and said ‘We’re here,’ Bethan went pale and Twoflower, who had no sense of smell, said, ‘Really? How can you tell?’

It had been a long afternoon. They had broken into realspace in a number of walls in a variety of cities because, according to the shopkeeper, the Disc’s magical field was playing up and upsetting everything.

All the cities were empty of most of their citizens and belonged to roaming gangs of crazed left-ear people.

‘Where do they all come from?’ said Twoflower, as they fled yet another mob.

‘Inside every sane person there’s a madman struggling to get out,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘That’s what I’ve always thought. No one goes mad quicker than a totally sane person.’

‘That doesn’t make sense,’ said Bethan, ‘or if it makes sense, I don’t like it.’.

The star was bigger than the sun. There would be no night tonight. On the opposite horizon the Disc’s own sunlet was doing its best to set normally, but the general effect of all that red light was to make the city, never particularly beautiful, look like something painted by a fanatical artist after a bad time on the shoe polish.

But it was home. Rincewind peered up and down the mpty street and felt almost happy.

At the back of his mind the Spell was kicking up a ruckus, but he ignored it. Maybe it was true that magic was getting weaker as the star got nearer, or perhaps he’d had the Spell in his head for so long he had built up some kind of psychic immunity, but he found he could resist it.

‘We’re in the docks,’ he declared. ‘Just smell that sea air!’

‘Oh,’ said Bethan, leaning against the wall, ‘yes.’

‘That’s ozone, that is,’ said Rincewind. That’s air with character, is that.’ He breathed deeply.

Twoflower turned to the shopkeeper.

‘Well, I hope you find your sorcerer,’ he said. ‘Sorry we didn’t buy anything, but all my money’s in my Luggage, you see.’

The shopkeeper pushed something into his hand.

‘A little gift,’ he said. ‘You’ll need it.’