‘And saved, remember!’ Trev pointed out.

‘Exactly, young man,’ agreed Ridcully. ‘It must be a game of speed. This is the year of the Pensive Hare, after all. People get bored so easily. No wonder there are fights. We need, do we not, to make a sport that is more exciting than beating other people over the head with big weapons.’

‘That one’s always been very popular,’ said Ponder doubtfully.

‘Well, we are wizards, after all. And now I must go and greet the bloody, the so-called Archchancellor of Brazeneck so-called College in the correct damn spirit of fraternal goodwill!’

‘So called,’ murmured Ponder, not quite softly enough.

‘What say?’ the Archchancellor bellowed.

‘Just wondering what you want me to do, Archchancellor?’

‘Do? Keep ’em playing! See who’s good at it! Work out what the most beautiful rules are,’ Ridcully called out, heading out of the Hall at speed.

‘By myself?’ said Ponder, horrified. ‘I’ve got a huge workload!’

‘Delegate!’

‘You know I’m hopeless at delegating, sir!’

‘Then delegate the job of delegating to someone who isn’t! Now, I must be off before he steals the silverware!’

It was very rare for Glenda to take time off. Being the head of the Night Kitchen was a mental state, not a physical one. The only meal she ever ate at home was breakfast, and that was always in a hurry. But now she’d stolen some time to sell the dream. May Hedges was looking after the kitchen and she was reliable and got on with everyone and so there were no worries there.

The sun had come out and now she knocked on the rear door of Mr Stronginthearm’s workshop. The dwarf opened the door with rouge all over his fingers. ‘Oh, hello, Glenda. How’s it going?’

She thumped a wad of orders on the table proudly and opened the suitcase. It was empty. ‘And I need a lot more samples,’ she said.

‘Oh, that’s wonderful,’ said the dwarf. ‘When did you get these?’

‘This morning.’

It had been easy. Door after door seemed to have opened for her and every time a little voice in her head said, ‘Are you doing the right thing?’ a slightly deeper voice, which sounded remarkably like Madame Sharn, said, ‘He wants to make it. You want to sell it. They want to buy it. The dream goes round and round and so does the money.’

‘The lipstick went down very well,’ she said. ‘Those troll girls put it on with a trowel and I’m not kidding. So what you ought to do, sir, is sell a trowel. A pretty one, in a nice box with sprinkles on it.’

He gave her an admiring look. ‘This isn’t like you, Glenda.’

‘Not sure about that,’ said Glenda, as more samples were dropped into the battered case. ‘Have you thought about getting into shoes?’

‘Do you think it would be worth a try? They don’t normally wear shoes.’

‘They didn’t wear lipstick until they moved here,’ said Glenda. ‘It could be the coming thing.’

‘But they’ve got feet like granite. They don’t need shoes.’

‘But they’ll want them,’ said Glenda. ‘You could be in on the ground floor, as it were.’

Stronginthearm looked puzzled and Glenda remembered that even city dwarfs were used to the topsy-turvy language of home. ‘Oh, sorry, I meant to say the top floor.’

‘And then there’s dresses,’ said Glenda. ‘I’ve been looking around and no one makes proper dresses for trolls. They’re just outsized human dresses. And they’re cut to make the troll look smaller, but they’d be better if they were cut to make them look bigger. More like a troll and less like a fat human. You know, you want the clothing to shout, “I’m a great big troll lady and proud of it”.’

‘Have you been hit on the head with something?’ said Stronginthearm. ‘Because, if so, I’d like it to drop on me.’

‘Well, it’s spreading the dream, isn’t it?’ said Glenda, carefully arranging the samples in her suitcase. ‘It’s a bit more important than I thought.’

She made fourteen more successful calls before calling it a day, posted the orders through Stronginthearm’s letterbox and, with a light case and uncharacteristically light heart, went back to work.

Ridcully turned the corner and there, right in front of him, was… His mind spun as it sought for the correct mode of address: ‘Archchancellor’ was out of the question, ‘Dean’ too obvious an insult, ‘Two Chairs’ ditto with knobs on, and ‘ungrateful, backstabbing, slimy bastard’ took too long to say. What the hell was the bastard’s name? Great heavens, they’d been friends since their first day at UU… ‘Henry!’ he exploded. ‘What a pleasant surprise. What brings you here to our miserable and sadly out-of-date little university?’

‘Oh, come now, Mustrum. When I left, the lads were pushing back the boundaries of knowledge. It’s been a bit quiet since, I gather. By the way, this is Professor Turnipseed.’

There appeared from behind the self-styled Archchancellor of Brazeneck, like a moonlet moving out of the shadow of a gas giant, a sheepish young man who instantly reminded Ridcully of Ponder Stibbons, although for the life of him he couldn’t make out why. Perhaps it was the look of someone permanently doing sums in his head, and not just proper sums either, but the sneaky sort with letters in them.

‘Oh, well, you know how it is with boundaries,’ Ridcully mumbled. ‘You look at what’s on the other side and you realize why there was a boundary in the first place. Good afternoon, Turnipseed. Your face is familiar.’

‘I used to work here, sir,’ said Turnipseed sheepishly.

‘Oh yes, I recall. In the High Energy Magic Department, yes?’

‘A coming man, our Adrian,’ said the former Dean, proprietorially. ‘We have our own High Energy Magic Building now, you know. We call it the Higher Energy Magic Building, but I stress that this is only to avoid confusion. No slight on good old UU is intended. Adopt, adapt, improve, that’s my motto.’

Well, if you adapted it then it’s now grab, copy and look innocent, Ridcully thought, but carefully. Senior wizards never rowed in public. The damage was apt to be appalling. No, politeness ruled, but with sharpened edges.

‘I doubt there will be any confusion, Henry. We are the senior college, after all. And of course I am the only Archchancellor in these parts.’

‘By custom and practice, Mustrum, and times are changing.’

‘Or being changed, at least. But I wear the Archchancellor’s Hat, Henry, as worn by my predecessors down the centuries. The Hat, Henry, of supreme authority in the affairs of the Wise, the Cunning and the Crafty. The hat, in fact, on my head.’

‘It isn’t, you know,’ said Henry cheerfully. ‘You are wearing the everyday hat that you made yourself.’

‘It would be on my head if I wanted it to be!’

Henry’s smile was glassy. ‘Of course, Mustrum, but the authority of the Hat has often been challenged.’

‘Almost correct, old chap. In fact, it is the ownership of the Hat that has, in the past, been disputed, but the Hat itself, never. Now, I note that you yourself are wearing a particularly spiffy hat of a magnificence that goes beyond the sublime, but it is just a hat, old boy, just a hat. No offence meant, of course, and I am sure that in another millennium it will have become weighted with dignity and wisdom. I can see that you have left plenty of room.’

Turnipseed decided to make a run for the lavatories right now, and with a muted apology pushed past Ridcully and sped away.

Oddly enough, the sudden lack of an audience lowered the tension rather than increased it.

Henry pulled a slim packet out of his pocket. ‘Cigarette? I know that you roll your own, but Verdant and Scour make these specially for me and they are rather fine.’

Ridcully took one, because a wizard, however haughty, who would not accept a free smoke or a drink would be in his coffin, but he took care not to notice the words ‘Archchancellor’s Choice’ in garish type on the packet.