“The moon?” said Twoflower. “I don’t under—”
“If I’ve got to spell it out,” said the troll, testily, “I’m suffering from chronic tides.”
A bell jangled in the darkness of the shack. Tethis strode across the creaking floor to the complicated devices of levers, strings and bells that was mounted on the Circumfence’s topmost strand where it passed through the hut.
The bell rang again, and then started to clang away in an odd jerky rhythm for several minutes. The troll stood with his ear pressed close to it.
When it stopped he turned slowly and looked at them with a worried frown.
“You’re more important than I thought,” he said. “You’re not to wait for the salvage fleet. You’re to be collected by a flyer. That’s what they say in Krull.” He shrugged. “And I hadn’t even sent a message that you’re here, yet. Someone’s been drinking vul nut wine again.”
He picked up a large mallet that hung on a pillar beside the bell and used it to tap out a brief carillon.
“That’ll be passed from lengthman to lengthman all the way back to Krull,” he said. “Marvelous really, isn’t it?”
It came speeding across the sea, floating a man-length above it, but still leaving a foaming wake as whatever power that held it up smacked brutally into the water. Rincewind knew what power held it up. He was, he would be the first to admit, a coward, an incompetent, and not even very good at being a failure; but he was still a wizard of sorts, he knew one of the Eight Great Spells, he would be claimed by Death himself when he died, and he recognized really finely honed magic when he saw it.
The lens skimming toward the island was perhaps twenty feet across, and totally transparent. Sitting around its circumference were a large number of black-robed men, each one strapped securely to the Disc by a leather harness and each one staring down at the waves with an expression so tormented, so agonizing, that the transparent disc seemed to be ringed with gargoyles.
Rincewind sighed with relief. This was such an unusual sound that it made Twoflower take his eyes off the approaching disc and turn them on him.
“We’re important, no lie,” explained Rincewind. “They wouldn’t be wasting all that magic on a couple of potential slaves.” He grinned.
“What is it?” said Twoflower.
“Well, the disc itself would have been created by Fresnel’s Wonderful Concentrator,” said Rincewind, authoritatively. “That calls for many rare and unstable ingredients, such as demon’s breath and so forth, and it takes at least eight fourth-grade wizards a week to envision. Then there’s those wizards on it, who must all be gifted hydrophobes—”
“You mean they hate water?” said Twoflower.
“No, that wouldn’t work,” said Rincewind. “Hate is an attracting force, just like love. They really loathe it, the very idea of it revolts them. A really good hydrophobe has to be trained on dehydrated water from birth. I mean, that costs a fortune in magic alone. But they make great weather magicians. Rain clouds just give up and go away.”
“It sounds terrible,” said the water troll behind them.
“And they all die young,” said Rincewind, ignoring him. “They just can’t live with themselves.”
“Sometimes I think a man could wander across the Disc all his life and not see everything there is to see,” said Twoflower. “And now it seems there are lots of other worlds as well. When I think I might die without seeing a hundredth of all there is to see it makes me feel,” he paused, then added, “well, humble, I suppose. And very angry, of course.”
The flyer halted a few yards hubward of the island, throwing up a sheet of spray. It hung there, spinning slowly. A hooded figure standing by the stubby pillar at the exact center of the lens beckoned to them.
“You’d better wade out,” said the troll. “It doesn’t do to keep them waiting. It has been nice to make your acquaintance.” He shook them both, wetly, by the hand. As he waded out a little way with them the two nearest loathers on the lens shied away with expressions of extreme disgust.
The hooded figure reached down with one hand and released a rope ladder. In its other hand it held a silver rod, which had about it the unmistakable air of something designed for killing people. Rincewind’s first impression was reinforced when the figure raised the stick and waved it carelessly toward the shore. A section of rock vanished, leaving a small gray haze of nothingness.
“That’s so you don’t think I’m afraid to use it,” said the figure.
“Don’t think you’re afraid?” said Rincewind. The hooded figure snorted.