“I think,” he began, “that is, I think they’re some sort of eggs. I thought…why breakfast? and then I thought…eggs…”
Knock.
“Oh. Well, perhaps it was a rather silly idea…”
sorry, was it once for yes or twice for yes?
“Twoice!” snapped the medium.
KNOCK. KNOCK.
“Ah,” breathed Windle. “And they hatch into something with wheels on?”
twice for yes, was it?
“Roight!”
KNOCK. KNOCK.
“I thought so. I thought so! I found one under my floor that tried to hatch where there wasn’t enough room!” crowed Windle. Then he frowned.
“But hatch into what?”
Mustrum Ridcully trotted into his study and took his wizard’s staff from its rack over the fireplace. He licked his finger and gingerly touched the top of the staff. There was a small octarine spark and a smell of greasy tin.
He headed back for the door.
Then he turned around slowly, because his brain had just had time to analyze the study’s cluttered contents and spot the oddity.
“What the hell’s that doin’ there?” he said.
He prodded it with the tip of the staff. It gave a jingling noise and rolled a little way.
It looked vaguely, but not very much, like the sort of thing the maids trundled around loaded with mops and fresh linen and whatever it was maids pushed around. Ridcully made a mental note to take it up with the housekeeper. Then he forgot about it.
“Damn wire wheely things are gettin’ everywhere,” he muttered.
Upon the word “damn,” something like a large bluebottle with cat-sized dentures flopped out of the air, fluttered madly as it took stock of its surroundings, and then flew after the unheeding Archchancellor.
The words of wizards have power. And swearwords have power. And with life force practically crystallising out of the air, it had to find outlets wherever it could.
cities. said One-Man-Bucket. I think they’re city eggs.
The senior wizards gathered again in the Great Hall. Even the Senior Wrangler was feeling a certain excitement. It was considered bad form to use magic against fellow wizards, and using it against civilians was unsporting. It did you good to have a really righteous zap occasionally.
The Archchancellor looked them over.
“Dean, why have you got stripes all over your face?” he inquired.
“Camouflage, Archchancellor.”
“Camouflage, eh?”
“Yo, Archchancellor.”
“Oh, well. So long as you feel happy in yourself, that’s what matters.”
They crept out toward the patch of ground that had been Modo’s little territory. At least, most of them crept. The Dean advanced in a series of spinning leaps, occasionally flattening himself against the wall, and saying “Hut! Hut! Hut!” under his breath.