Thomas Moran Sunset on the Moor

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to keep It from getting to the Library,’ said the Dean, peering through the rain that was beginning to thud on the cobbles. ‘To stay alive in reality, Things need magic to hold themselves together. They’ve got no natural morphogenic field, you see, and–‘
‘Do something! Blow it up with magic!’ shouted Ginger. ‘Oh, that poor monkey!’
‘We can’t useThey had been stepping out of the Great Hall when a giant woman had lurched past the gate with a gibbering ape in one hand. Now the Bursar was trying to control an antique broom out of the University museum while a madman behind him feverishly tried to load a crossbow.
Airborne, the Archchancellor had said. It was absolutely essential magic! That’s like pouring oil on a fire!’ snapped the Dean. ‘Besides . . . I don’t know how you go about blowing up a fifty‑foot woman. It’s not the sort of thing I’ve ever been called upon to do.’‘It’s not a woman! It’s . . . it’s a film creature, you idiot! Do you think I’m really that big?’ shouted Gin­ger. ‘It’s using Holy Wood! It’s a Holy Wood monster! From film land!’ ‘Steer, godsdamnit! Steer!’‘I don’t know how to!’‘You just have to throw your weight about!’The Bursar gripped the broomstick nervously. It’s all very well for you to say, he thought. You’re used ‘to it.

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Victor eased himself carefully out of the music pit, which was now several feet in the air, and ran over to Ginger. She was on her knees, and sobbing.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
‘Where died watching a click,’ he said. ‘Yeah. A comedy,’ said Gaspode, trotting ahead of him.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘They’re all grinnin’.’
‘Gaspode!’
‘Well, you’ve got to look on the bright side, haven’t you?’ sneered the dog. ‘Can’t go around bein’ miserable jus’ because you’re in some lost underground tomb with a mad cat lover an’ a torch that’s goin’ to go out any minute‑‘am I? What’s happening?’‘I couldn’t even begin to explain.’The torch was spluttering on the floor. It wasn’t an actinic fire now, it was just a piece of charred and nearly extinguished driftwood. Victor grabbed it and waved it around until a dull yellow flame appeared.‘Gaspode?’ he snapped.‘Yeah?’‘You two dogs lead the way.’‘Oh, thank you very much.’Ginger clung to him as they lurched back up the aisle. Despite the incipient terror, Victor had to admit that it was a very pleasant sensation. He looked around at the occasional occupants of the seats and shuddered.‘It looks as though they

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firing messages up her spine, insidiously insisting that in those long fangs and bandy legs was everything a troll girl could wish for in a mate.
Trolls like Rock or Morry, of course, were far more modern and could do things like use a knife and fork, but there was Maybe this make-up the girls had been talking about could be worth a try.
She sighed, blew out the lamp, opened the door and stepped out into a maze of roots.
A gigantic tree stretched the whole length of the alley. He must have dragged it for miles. The few surviving branches poked through windows or waved forlornly in the air.
In the middle of it all was Detritus, perched proudly on the trunk, his face split in a watermelon grinsomething, well, reassuring about Detritus. Perhaps it was the way his knuckles touched the ground so dynamically. And apart from anything else, she was sure she was brighter than he was. There was a sort of gormless unstoppability about him that she found rather fascinating. That was the instincts at work again -intelligence has never been a particularly valuable survival trait in a troll. And she had to admit that, whatever she might attempt in the way of feather boas and fancy hats, she was pushing 140 and was 400 lbs above the fashionable weight. If only he’d buck his ideas up. Or at least, buck one idea up.

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storms that so carefully avoided Holy Wood didn’t worry about Ankh-Morpork, and it was pouring with rain. That didn’t stop up expertly over passers-by although, since it was now five a.m., the crowds had thinned out a bit.
Throat took a deep breath of the thick city air. Real air. You would have to go a long way to find air that was realer than Ankh-Morpork air. You could tell just by breathing it that other people had been doing the same thing for thousands of years.
For the first time in days he felt that he was thinking clearly.the city’s night life, though - it just made it damper. There was nothing you couldn’t buy in Ankh-Morpork, even in the middle of the night. Dibbler had a lot of things to buy. He needed posters painted. He needed all sorts of things. Many of them involved ideas he’d had to invent in his head on the long ride, and now had to explain very carefully to other people. And he had to explain it fast. The rain was a solid curtain when he finally staggered out into the grey light of dawn. The gutters overflowed. Along the rooftops, repulsive gargoyles threw

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where he ought to be was not where he was.
And finally, even further down the road, was an eight-horse wagon taking a load of lumber to Holy Wood. Its driver wasn’t thinking about anything very much, although he was slightly puzzled by an incident that occurred of the Century of the Fruitbat, that Discworld affairs were being watched keenly and impatiently by intelligences greater than Man’s, or at least much nastier; that their affairs were being scrutinized and studied as a man with a three-day appetite might study the All-You-Can-Gobble-For A Dollar menu outside Harga’s House of Ribs . . . just as he was leaving Ankh-Morpork in the darkness before dawn. A voice from the gloom by the road had shouted ‘Stop in the name of the city guard!’ and he had stopped, and when nothing further had transpired he had looked around, and there was no-one there. The wagon rumbled past, revealing to the eye of the imaginative beholder the small figure of Gaspode the Wonder Dog, trying to make himself comfortable amongst the balks of timber at the rear. He was going to Holy Wood too. And he also didn’t know why. But he was determined to find out. None would have believed, in the final years

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intellectual development was to have nothing much to do and nothing to do it with.
He and be more peaceful.'
Teppic winced. 'To be honest, I'm not sure,' he said. 'But I don't think so. They've got something they do it with, I think it's called a mocracy, and it means everyone in the whole country can say who the new Tyrant is. One man, one-' He paused. The political history lesson seemed a very long while ago, and had introduced concepts never heard of in Djelibeybi or in Ankh-Morpork, for that matter. He had a stab at it, anyway. 'One man, one reached the crest of the dune, gazed with approval over the rolling sands ahead of him, and began to think in logarithms. 'What's Ephebe like?' said Ptraci. 'I've never been there. Apparently it's ruled by a Tyrant.' 'I hope we don't meet him, then.' Teppic shook his head. 'It's not like that,' he said. 'They have a new Tyrant every five years and they'do something to him first.' He hesitated. 'I think they ee-lect him.' 'Is that something like they do to tomcats and bulls and things?' 'Er.' 'You know. To make them stop fighting

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, now,' he said, 'and here we have Cheesewright, G., skulking across the quaking rooftops. See the determined ears. See the firm set of those knees.'
The class tittered dutifully. Cheesewright gave them an idiotic grin and rolled his eyes.
'But what are these sinister figures that march in step with him, hey? /Since you find this so funny, Mr Teppic, perhaps you would be so good as to tell Mr Cheesewright?'/
Teppic froze in mid-laugh.
Mericet's gaze bored into him. He's just like Dios the high priest, Teppic thought. Even father's frightened of Dios.
He knew what he ought to do, and he was damned if he was going to do it. He ought to be scared.
'Ill-proceeded to take a number of small metal rods from his belt. They were threaded at the ends, and after a few seconds' brisk work he had a rod about three feet long on the end of which he affixed a small mirror.
That revealed nothing in the gloom beyond the opening. He pulled it back and tried again, this time attaching his preparedness,' he said. 'Carelessness. Lack of concentration. Poor maintenance of tools. Oh, and over-confidence, sir.' Mericet held his gaze for some time, but Teppic had practised on the palace cats. Finally the teacher gave a brief smile that had absolutely nothing to do with humour, tossed the chalk in the air, caught it again, and said: 'Mr Teppic is exactly right. Especially about the over-confidence.' There was a ledge leading to an invitingly open window. There was oil on the ledge, and Teppic invested several minutes in screwing small crampons into cracks in the stonework before advancing. He hung easily by the window and