'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.'
ltered under the gimlet gaze.
'Oh,' he said. 'Oh. Of course. Sorry.'
'Yesh,' said Cohen, and sighed. Thatsh right, boy. I'm a lifetime in my own legend.'
'Gosh,' said Rincewind. 'How old are you, exactly?'
'Eighty-sheven.'
'But you were the greatest!' said Bethan. 'Bards still sing songs about you.'
Cohen shrugged, and gave a little yelp of pain.
'I never get any royaltiesh,' he said. He looked moodily at the snow. That'sh the shaga of my life. Eighty yearsh in the bushiness and what have I got to show for it? Backache, pilesh, bad digeshtion and a hundred different recipesh for shoop. Shoop! I hate shoop!'
Bethan's forehead wrinkled. 'Shoop?'
'Soup,' explained Rincewind.
Yeah, shoop,' said Cohen, miserably. 'It'sh my teeths, you shee. No-one takes you sheriously when you've got no teeths, they shay “Shit down by the fire, grandad, and have shome shoo—” Cohen looked sharply at Rincewind. That'sh a nashty cough you have there, boy.'
Rincewind looked away, unable to look Bethan in the face. Then his heart sank. Twoflower was still leaning against the tree, peacefully unconscious, and looking as reproachful as was possible in the circumstances.
Cohen appeared to remember him, too. He got unsteadily to his feet and shuffled over to the tourist. He humbed both eyes open, examined the graze, felt the pulse.
'He'sh gone,' he said.
'Dead?' said Rincewind, In the debating chamber of his mind a dozen emotions got to their feet and started shouting. Relief was in full spate when Shock cut in on a point of order and then Bewilderment, Terror and Loss started a fight which was ended only when Shame slunk in from next door to see what all the row was about.
'No,' said Cohen thoughtfully, 'not exshactly. Just – gone.'
'Gone where?'
'I don't know,' said Cohen, 'but I think I know shomeone who might have a map.'
Far out on the snowfield half a dozen pinpoints of red light glowed in the shadows.
'He's not far away,' said the leading wizard, peering into a small crystal sphere.