“Servile morons!”
“Childish conjurors!”
“Bloodthirsty priests!”
“Interfering wizards!”
Ridcully raised an eyebrow. The Chief Priest nodded very slightly.
They left the two groups hurling imprecations at each other from a safe distance and strolled nonchalantly toward a comparatively quiet part of the room where, beside a statue of one of the Patrician’s predecessors, they turned and faced one another again.
“So…how are things in the godbothering business?” said Ridcully.
“We do our humble best. How is the dangerous meddling with things man was not meant to understand?”
“Pretty fair. Pretty fair.” Ridcully removed his hat and fished inside the pointy bit. “Can I offer you a drop of something?”
“Alcohol is a snare for the spirit. Would you care for a cigarette? I believe you people indulge.”
“Not me. If I was to tell you what that stuff does to your lungs—”
Ridcully unscrewed the very tip of his hat and poured a generous measure of brandy into it.
“So,” he said, “what’s happening?”
“We had an altar float up into the air and drop on us.”
“A chandelier unscrewed itself. Ev
erything’s unscrewing itself. You know, I saw a suit of clothes run past on the way here? Two pairs of pants for seven dollars!”
“Hmm. Did you see the label?”
“Everything’s throbbing, too. Notice the way everything’s throbbing?”
“We thought it was you people.”
“It’s not magic. I suppose the gods aren’t more than usually unhappy?”
“Apparently not.”
Behind them, the priests and the wizards were screaming chin to chin.
The Chief Priest moved a little closer.
“I think I could be strong enough to master and defeat just a little snare,” he said. “I haven’t felt like this since Mrs. Cake was one of my flock.”
“Mrs. Cake? What’s a Mrs. Cake?”
“You have…ghastly Things from the Dungeon Dimensions and things, yes? Terrible hazards of your ungodly profession?” said the Chief Priest.
“Yes.”
“We have someone called Mrs. Cake.”
Ridcully gave him an enquiring look.
“Don’t ask,” said the priest, shuddering. “Just be grateful you’ll never have to find out.”