tp.lightfantastic-第7节

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　the　sort　of　thing　you're　supposed　to　say　to　maintain　steppe…cred　in　barbarian　circles。
　The　man　on　his　right　thoughtfully　drank　his　cocktail　of　mare's　milk　and　snowcat　blood；　and　spoke　thus：　The　crisp　horizon　of　the　steppe；　the　wind　in　your　hair；　a　fresh　horse　under　you。'
　The　man　on　his　left　said：　The　cry　of　the　white　eagle　in　the　heights；　the　fall　of　snow　in　the　forest；　a　true　arrow　in　your　bow。'
　The　chieftain　nodded；　and　said：　'Surely　it　is　the　sight　of　your　enemy　slain；　the　humiliation　of　his　tribe　and　the　lamentation　of　his　women。'
　There　was　a　general　murmur　of　whiskery　approval　at　this　outrageous　display。
　Then　the　chieftain　turned　respectfully　to　his　guest；　a　small　figure　carefully　warming　his　chilblains　by　the　fire；　and　said：　'But　our　guest；　whose　name　is　legend；　must　tell　us　truly：　what　is　it　that　a　man　may　call　the　greatest　things　in　life？'
　The　guest　paused　in　the　middle　of　another　unsuccessful　attempt　to　light　up。
　'What　shay？'　he　said；　toothlessly。
　'I　said：　what　is　it　that　a　man　may　call　the　greatest　things　in　life？'
　The　warriors　leaned　closer。　This　should　be　worth　hearing。
　The　guest　thought　long　and　hard　and　then　said；　with　deliberation：　'Hot　water；　good　dentishtry　and　shoft　lavatory　paper。'
　

　Brilliant　octarine　light　flared　in　the　forge。　Galder　Weatherwax；　stripped　to　the　waist；　his　face　hidden　by　a　mask　of　smoked　glass；　squinted　into　the　glow　and　brought　a　hammer　down　with　surgical　precision。　The　magic　squealed　and　writhed　in　the　tongs　but　still　he　worked　it；　drawing　it　into　a　line　of　agonised　fire。
　A　floorboard　creaked。　Galder　had　spent　many　hours　tuning　them；　always　a　wise　precaution　with　an　ambitious　assistant　who　walked　like　a　cat。
　D　flat。　That　meant　he　was　just　to　the　right　of　the　door。
　'Ah；　Trymon；'　he　said；　without　turning；　and　noted　with　some　satisfaction　the　faint　indrawing　of　breath　behind　him。　'Good　of　you　to　e。　Shut　the　door；　will　you？'
　Trymon　pushed　the　heavy　door；　his　face　expressionless。　On　the　high　shelf　above　him　various　bottled　impossibilities　wallowed　in　their　pickle　jars　and　watched　him　with　interest。
　Like　all　wizards'　workshops；　the　place　looked　as　though　a　taxidermist　had　dropped　his　stock　in　a　foundry　and　then　had　a　fight　with　a　maddened　glassblower；　braining　a　passing　crocodile　in　the　process　（it　hung　from　the　ceiling　and　smelt　strongly　of　camphor）。　There　were　lamps　and　rings　that　Trymon　itched　to　rub；　and　mirrors　that　looked　as　though　they　could　repay　a　second　glance。　A　pair　of　seven…league　boots　stirred　restlessly　in　a　cage。　A　whole　library　of　grimoires；　not　of　course　as　powerful　as　the　Octavo　but　still　heavy　with　spells；　creaked　and　rattled　their　chains　as　they　sensed　the　wizard's　covetous　glance　on　them。　The　naked　power　of　it　all　stirred　him　as　nothing　else　could；　but　he　deplored　the　scruffiness　and　Galder's　sense　of　theatre。
　For　example；　he　happened　to　know　that　the　green　liquid　bubbling　mysteriously　through　a　maze　of　contorted　pipework　on　one　of　the　benches　was　just　green　dye　with　soap　in　it；　because　he'd　bribed　one　of　the　servants。
　One　day；　he　thought；　it's　all　going　to　go。　Starting　with　that　bloody　alligator。　His　knuckles　whitened　。　。　。
　'Well　now；'　said　Galder　cheerfully；　hanging　up　his　apron　and　sitting　back　in　his　chair　with　the　lion　paw　arms　and　duck　legs；　'You　sent　me　this　memmy…thing。'
　Trymon　shrugged。　'Memo。　I　merely　pointed　out；　lord；　that　the　other　Orders　have　all　sent　agents　to　Skund　Forest　to　recapture　the　spell；　while　you　do　nothing；'　he　said。　'No　doubt　you　will　reveal　your　reasons　in　good　time。'
　'Your　faith　shames　me；'　said　Galder。
　The　wizard　who　captures　the　spell　will　bring　great　honour　on　himself　and　his　order；'　said　Trymon。　The　others　have　used　boots　and　all　manner　of　elsewhere　spells。　What　do　you　propose　using；　master？'
　'Did　I　detect　a　hint　of　sarcasm　there？'
　'Absolutely　not；　master。'
　'Not　even　a　smidgeon？'
　'Not　even　the　merest　smidgeon；　master。'
　'Good。　Because　I　don't　propose　to　go。'　Galder　reached　down　and　picked　up　an　ancient　book。　He　mumbled　a　mand　and　it　creaked　open；　a　bookmark　suspiciously　like　a　tongue　flicked　back　into　the　binding。
　He　fumbled　down　beside　his　cushion　and　produced　a　little　leather　bag　of　tobacco　and　a　pipe　the　size　of　an　incinerator。　With　all　the　skill　of　a　terminal　nicotine　addict　he　rubbed　a　nut　of　tobacco　between　his　hands　and　tamped　it　into　the　bowl。　He　snapped　his　fingers　and　fire　flared。　He　sucked　deep；　sighed　with　satisfaction　。　。　。
　。　。　。　looked　up。
　'Still　here；　Tryrnon？'
　'You　summoned　me；　master；'　said　Trymon　levelly。　At　least；　that's　what　his　voice　said。　Deep　in　his　grey　eyes　was　the　faintest　glitter　that　said　he　had　a　list　of　every　slight；　every　patronising　twinkle；　every　gentle　reproof；　every　knowing　glance；　and　for　every　single　one　Galder's　living　brain　was　going　to　spend　a　year　in　acid。
　'Oh；　yes；　so　I　did。　Humour　the　deficiencies　of　an　old　man；'　said　Galder　pleasantly。　He　held　up　the　book　he　had　been　reading。
　'I　don't　hold　with　all　this　running　about；'　he　said。　'It's　all　very　dramatic；　mucking　about　with　magic　carpets　and　the　like；　but　it　isn't　true　magic　to　my　mind。　Take　seven　league　boots；　now。　If　men　were　meant　to　walk　twenty…one　miles　at　a　step　I　am　sure　God　would　have　given　us　longer　legs　。　。　。　Where　was　I？'
　'I　am　not　sure；'　said　Trymon　coldly。
　'Ah；　yes。　Strange　that　we　could　find　nothing　about　the　Pyramid　of　Tsort　in　the　Library；　you　would　have　thought　there'd　be　something；　wouldn't　you？'
　The　librarian　will　be　disciplined；　of　course。'
　Galder　looked　sideways　at　him。　'Nothing　drastic；'　he　said。　'Withold　his　bananas；　perhaps。'
　They　looked　at　each　other　for　a　moment。
　Galder　broke　off　first　…　looking　hard　at　Trymon　always　bothered　him。　It　had　the　same　disconcerting　effect　as　gazing　into　a　mirror　and　seeing　no…one　there。
　'Anyway；'　he　said；　'strangely　enough；　I　found　assistance　elsewhere。　In　my　own　modest　bookshelves；　in　fact。　The　journal　of　Skrelt　Changebasket；　the　founder　of　our　order。　You；　my　keen　young　man　who　would　rush　off　so　soon；　do　you　know　what　happens　when　a　wizard　dies？'
　'Any　spells　he　has　memorised　say　themselves；'　said　Trymon。　'It　is　one　of　the　first　things　we　learn。'
　'In　fact　it　is　not　true　of　the　original　Eight　Great　Spells。　By　dint　of　close　study　Skrelt　learned　that　a　Great　Spell　will　simply　take　refuge　in　the　nearest　mind　open　and　ready　to　receive　it。　Just　push　the　big　mirror　over　here；　will　you？'
　Galder　got　to　his　feet　and　shuffled　across　to　the　forge；　which　was　now　cold。　The　strand　of　magic　still　writhed；　though；　at　once　present　and　not　present；　like　a　slit　cut　into　another　universe　full　of　hot　blue　light。　He　picked　it　p　easily；　took　a　longbow　from　a　rack；　said　a　word　of　power；　and　watched　with　satisfaction　as　the　magic　grasped　the　ends　of　the　bow　and　then　tightened　until　the　wood　creaked。　Then　lie　selected　an　arrow。
　Trymon　had　tugged　a　heavy；　full…length　mirror　into　the　middle　of　the　floor。　When　I　am　head　of　the　Order；　he　told　himself；　I　certainly　won't　shuffle　around　in　carpet　slippers。
　Trymon；　as　mentioned　earlier；　felt　that　a　lot　could　be　done　by　fresh　blood　if　only　the　dead　wood　could　be　removed　…　but；　just　for　the　moment；　he　was　genuinely　interested　in　seeing　what　the　old　fool　would　do　next。
　He　may　have　derived　some　satisfaction　if　he　had　known　that　Galder　and　Skrelt　Changebasket　were　both　absolutely　wrong。
　Galder　made　a　few　passes　in　front　of　the　glass；　which　clouded　over　and　then　cleared　to　show　an　aerial　view　of　the　Forest　of　Skund。　He　looked　at　it　intently　while　holding　the　bow　with　the　arrow　pointing　vaguely　at　the　ceiling。　He　muttered　a　few　words　like　'allow　for　wind　speed　of；　say；　three　knots'　and　'adjust　for　temperature'　and　then；　with　a　rather　disappointing　movement；　released　the　arrow。
　If　the　laws　of　action　and　reaction　had　anything　to　do　with　it；　it　should　have　flopped　to　the　ground　a　few　feet　away。　But　no…one　was　listening　to　them。
　With　a　sound　that　defies　description；　but　which　for　the　sake　of　pleteness　can　be　thought　of　basically　as　'spang！'　plus　three　days　hard　work　in　any　decently　equipped　radiophonic　workshop；　the　arrow　vanished。
　Galder　threw　the　bow　aside　and　grinned。
　'Of　course；　it'll　take　about　an　hour　to　get　there；'　he　said。　Then　the　spell　will　simply　follow　the　ionised　path　back　here。　To　me。'
　'Remarkable；'　said　Trymon；　but　any　passing　telepath　would　have　read　in　letters　ten　yards　high：　if　you；　then　why　not　me？　He　looked　down　at　the　cluttered　workbench；　when　a　long　and　very　sharp　knife　looked　tailormade　for　what　he　suddenly　had　in　mind。
　Violence　was　not　something　he　liked　to　be　involved　in　except　at　one　remove。　But　the　Pyramid　of　Tsort　had　been　quite　clear　about　the　rewards　for　whoever　brought　all　right　spells　together　at　the　right　time；　and　Trymon　was　not　about　to　let　years　of　painstaking　work　go　for　nothing　because　some　old　fool　had　a　bright　idea。
　'Would　you　like　some　cocoa　while　we're　waiting？'　said　Galder；　hobbling　across　the　room　to　the　servants'　bell。
　'Certainly；'　said　Trymon。　He　picked　up　the　knife；　weighing　it　for　balance　and　accuracy。　'I　must　congratulate　you；　master。　I　can　see　that　we　must　all　get　up　very　early　in　the　morning　to　get　the　better　of　you。'
　Galder　laughed。　And　the　knife　left　Trymon's　hand　at　such　speed　that