Sourcery

The pavilion ahead of them was an ornate onion-shaped dome, studded with precious stones and supported on four pillars. Its interior was a mass of cushions on which lay a rather fat, middle-aged man surrounded by three young women. He wore a purple robe interwoven with gold thread; they, as far as Rincewind could see, demonstrated that you could make six small saucepan lids and a few yards of curtain netting go a long way although – he shivered – not really fat enough.

The man appeared to be writing. He glanced up at them.

‘I suppose you don’t know a good rhyme for “thou”?’ he said peevishly.

Rincewind and Conina exchanged glances.

‘Plough?’ said Rincewind. ‘Bough?’

‘Cow?’ suggested Conina, with forced brightness.

The man hesitated. ‘Cow I quite like,’ he said. ‘Cow has got possibilities. Cow might, in fact, do. Do pull up a cushion, by the way. Have some sherbet. Why are you standing there like that?’

‘It’s these ropes,’ said Conina.

‘I have this allergy to cold steel,’ Rincewind added.

‘Really, how tiresome,’ said the fat man, and clapped a pair of hands so heavy with rings that the sound was more of a clang. Two guards stepped forward smartly and cut the bonds, and then the whole battalion melted away, although Rincewind was acutely conscious of dozens of dark eyes watching them from the surrounding foliage. Animal instinct told him that, while he now appeared to be alone with the man and Conina, any aggressive moves on his part would suddenly make the world a sharp and painful place. He tried to radiate tranquillity and total friendliness. He tried to think of something to say.

‘Well,’ he ventured, looking around at the brocaded hangings, the ruby-studded pillars and the gold filigree cushions, ‘you’ve done this place up nicely. It’s—’ he sought for something suitably descriptive – ‘well, pretty much of a miracle of rare device.’^{18}

‘One aims for simplicity,’ sighed the man, still scribbling busily. ‘Why are you here? Not that it isn’t always a pleasure to meet fellow students of the poetic muse.’

‘We were brought here,’ said Conina.

‘Men with swords,’ added Rincewind.

‘Dear fellows, they do so like to keep in practice. Would you like one of these?’

He snapped his fingers at one of the girls.

‘Not, er, right now,’ Rincewind began, but she’d picked up a plate of golden-brown sticks and demurely passed it towards him. He tried one. It was delicious, a sort of sweet crunchy flavour with a hint of honey. He took two more.

‘Excuse me,’ said Conina, ‘but who are you? And where is this?’

‘My name is Creosote, Seriph of Al Khali,’^{19} said the fat man, ‘and this is my Wilderness. One does one’s best.’

Rincewind coughed on his honey stick.

‘Not Creosote as in “As rich as Creosote”?’ he said.

‘That was my dear father. I am, in fact, rather richer. When one has a great deal of money, I am afraid, it is hard to achieve simplicity. One does one’s best.’ He sighed.

‘You could try giving it away,’ said Conina.

He sighed again. ‘That isn’t easy, you know. No, one just has to try to do a little with a lot.’

‘No, no, but look,’ said Rincewind, spluttering bits of stick, ‘they say, I mean, everything you touch turns into gold, for goodness sake.’

‘That could make going to the lavatory a bit tricky,’ said Conina brightly. ‘Sorry.’

‘One hears such stories about oneself,’ said Creosote, affecting not to have heard. ‘So tiresome. As if wealth mattered. True riches lie in the treasure houses of literature.’

‘The Creosote I heard of,’ said Conina slowly, ‘was head of this band of, well, mad killers. The original Assassins,^{20} feared throughout hubward Klatch. No offence meant.’

‘Ah yes, dear father,’ said Creosote junior. ‘The Hashishim. Such a novel idea.[15] But not really very efficient. So we hired Thugs instead.’

‘Ah. Named after a religious sect,’ said Conina knowingly.

Creosote gave her a long look. ‘No,’ he said slowly, ‘I don’t think so. I think we named them after the way they push people’s faces through the back of their heads. Dreadful, really.’

He picked up the parchment he had been writing on, and continued, ‘I seek a more cerebral life, which is why I had the city centre converted into a Wilderness. So much better for the mental flow. One does one’s best. May I read you my latest oeuvre?’

‘Egg?’ said Rincewind, who wasn’t following this.

Creosote thrust out one pudgy hand and declaimed as follows: ^{21}

‘A summer palace underneath the bough,
A flask of wine, a loaf of bread, some lamb couscous with courgettes, roast peacock tongues, kebabs, iced sherbet, selection of sweets from the trolley and choice of Thou,
Singing beside me in the Wilderness,
And Wilderness is—’

He paused, and picked up his pen thoughtfully.