He didn’t.
‘You needn’t worry. I’ve put some more on.’
He opened his eyes. The girl was wearing a demure white lace dress with fetchingly puffed sleeves. He opened his mouth. He realised with absolute clarity that up to now the trouble he had been in was simple, modest and nothing he couldn’t talk his way out of given a decent chance or, failing that, a running start. His brain started to send urgent messages to his sprinting muscles, but before they could get through she’d grabbed his arm again.
‘You really shouldn’t be so nervous,’ she said sweetly. ‘Now, let’s have a look at this thing.’
She pulled the lid off the round box in Rincewind’s unprotesting hands, and lifted out the Archchancellor’s hat.
The octarines around its crown blazed in all eight colours of the spectrum, creating the kind of effects in the foggy alley that it would take a very clever special effects director and a whole battery of star filters to achieve by any non-magical means. As she raised it high in the air it created its own nebula of colours that very few people ever see in legal circumstances.
Rincewind sank gently to his knees.
She looked down at him, puzzled.
‘Legs given out?’
‘It’s - it’s the hat. The Archchancellor’s hat,’ said Rincewind, hoarsely. His eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve stolen it!’ he shouted, struggling back to his feet and grabbing for the sparkling brim.
‘It’s just a hat.’
‘Give it to me this minute! Women musn’t touch it! It belongs to wizards!’
‘Why are you getting so worked up?’ she said.
Rincewind opened his mouth. Rincewind closed his mouth.
He wanted to say: It’s the Archchancellor’s hat, don’t you understand? It’s worn by the head of all wizards, well, on the head of the head of all wizards, no, metaphorically it’s worn by all wizards, potentially, anyway, and it’s what every wizard aspires to, it’s the symbol of organised magic, it’s the pointy tip of the profession, it’s a symbol, it’s what it means to all wizards …
And so on. Rincewind had been told about the hat on his first day at University, and it had sunk into his impressionable mind like a lead weight into a jelly. He wasn’t sure of much in the world, but he was certain that the Archchancellor’s hat was important. Maybe even wizards need a little magic in their lives.
Rincewind, said the hat.
He stared at the girl. ‘It spoke to me!’
‘Like a voice in your head?’
‘Yes!’
‘It did that to me, too.’
‘But it knew my name!’
Of course we do, stupid fellow. We are supposed to be a magic hat after all.
The hat’s voice wasn’t only clothy. It also had a strange choral effect, as if an awful lot of voices were talking at the same time, in almost perfect unison.
Rincewind pulled himself together.
‘O great and wonderful hat,’ he said pompously, ’strike down this impudent girl who has had the audacity, nay, the-’
Oh, do shut up. She stole us because we ordered her to. It was a near thing, too.
‘But she’s a-’ Rincewind hesitated. ‘She’s of the female persuasion…’ he muttered.
So was your mother.
‘Yes, well, but she ran away before I was born,’ Rincewind mumbled.