Something was happening. The floor inside the chalked magic octogram was going white with frost.
“It’s never done that before,” said the Senior Wrangler.
“This is all wrong, you know,” said the Dean. “We should have some candles and some cauldrons and some stuff bubbling in crucibles and some glitter dust and some colored smoke—”
“The Rite doesn’t need any of that stuff,” said Ridcully sharply.
“It might not need them, but I do,” muttered the Dean. “Doing it without the right paraphernalia is like taking all your clothes off to have a bath.”
“That’s what I do,” said Ridcully.
“Humph. Well, each to his own, of course, but some of us like to think that we’re maintaining standards.”
“Perhaps he’s on holiday?” said the Bursar.
“Oh, yes,” sneered the Dean. “On a beach somewhere? A few iced drinks and a Kiss Me Quick hat?”
“Hold on. Hold on. Someone’s coming,” hissed the Senior Wrangler.
The faint outlines of a hooded figure appeared above the octogram. It wavered constantly, as if it was being seen through superheated air.
“That’s him,” said the Dean.
“No it isn’t,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “It’s just a gray ro—there’s nothing in—”
He stopped.
It turned, slowly. It was filled out, suggesting a wearer, but at the same time had a feeling of hollowness, as if it was merely a shape for something with no shape of its own. The hood was empty.
The emptiness watched the wizards for a few seconds and then focused on the Archchancellor.
It said, Who are you?
Ridcully swallowed. “Er. Mustrum Ridcully. Archchancellor.”
The hood nodded. The Dean stuck a finger in his ear and waggled it around. The robe wasn’t talking. Nothing was being heard. It was just that, afterward, you had a sudden memory of what had just failed to be said and no knowledge of how it had got there.
The hood said, You are a superior being on this world?
Ridcully looked at the other wizards. The Dean glared.
“Well…you know…yes…first among equals and all that sort of thing…yes…” Ridcully managed.
He was told, We bring good news.
“Good news? Good news?” Ridcully squirmed under the gazerless gaze. “Oh, good. That is good news.”
He was told, Death has retired.
“Pardon?”
He was told, Death has retired.
“Oh? That is…news…” said Ridcully uncertainly. “Uh. How? Exactly…how?”
He was told, We apologize for the recent lapse in standards.
“Lapse?” said the Archchancellor, now totally mystified. “Well, uh, I’m not sure there’s been a…I mean, of course the fella was always knockin’ around, but most of the time we hardly…”