1, Holy Wood
'That's if ever you change your mind,' he said. 'Everyone in Holy Wood knows me.'
Victor stared at the card. 'Thank you,' he said vaguely. 'Er. Are you a wizard?'
Silverfish glared at him.
'Whatever made you think that?' he snapped.
'You're wearing a dress with magic symbols-'
'Magic symbols? Look closely, boy! These are certainly not the credulous symbols of a ridiculous and outmoded belief system! These are the badges of an enlightened craft whose clear, new dawn is just . . . er, dawning! Magic symbols!' he finished, in tones of withering scorn. 'And it's a robe, not a dress,' he added.
Victor peered at the collection of stars and crescent moons and things. The badges of an enlightened craft whose new dawn was just dawning looked just like the credulous symbols of a ridiculous and outmoded belief system to him, but this was probably not the time to say so.
'Sorry,' he said again. 'Couldn't see them clearly.'
'I'm an alchemist,' said Silverfish, only slightly mollified.
'Oh, lead into gold, that sort of thing,' said Victor.
'Not lead, lad. Light. It doesn't work with lead. Light into gold . . . '
'Really?' said Victor politely, as Silverfish started to set up a tripod in the middle of the plaza.
A small crowd was collecting. A small crowd collected very easily in Ankh-Morpork. As a city, it had some of the most accomplished spectators in the universe. They'd watch anything, especially if there was any possibility of anyone getting hurt in an amusing way.
'Why don't you stay for the show?' said Silverfish, and hurried off.
An alchemist. Well, everyone knew that alchemists were a little bit mad, thought Victor. It was perfectly normal.
Who'd want to spend their time moving pictures? Most of them looked all right where they were.
'Sausages inna bun! Get them while they're hot!' bellowed a voice by his ear. He turned.
'Oh, hallo, Mr Dibbler,' he said.
'Evening, lad. Want to get a nice hot sausage down you?'
Victor eyed the glistening tubes in the tray around Dibbler's neck. They smelled appetizing. They always did. And then you bit into them, and learned once again that Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler could find a use for bits of an animal that the animal didn't know it had got. Dibbler had worked out that with enough fried onions and mustard people would eat anything.
'Special rate for students,' Dibbler whispered conspiratorially. 'Fifteen pence, and that's cutting my own throat.' He flapped the frying pan lid strategically, raising a cloud of steam.
The piquant scent of fried onions did its wicked work.
'Just one, then,' Victor said warily.
Dibbler flicked a sausage out of the pan and snatched it into a bun with the expertise of a frog snapping a mayfly.
'You won't live to regret it,' he said cheerfully,
Victor nibbled a bit of onion. That was safe enough.
'What's all this?' he said, jerking a thumb in the direction of the flapping screen.
'Some kind of entertainment,' said Dibbler. 'Hot sausages! They're lovely!' He lowered his voice again to its normal conspiratorial hiss.
'All the rage in the other cities, I hear,' he added. 'Some sort of moving pictures. They've been trying to get it right before coming to Ankh-Morpork.'