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“You're you and I'm me. Amazing. And it's here and now.”
“Yes, but then was then.”
“I sent you a lot of letters,” said Ridcully
“Never got 'em.”
There was a glint in Ridcully's eye.
“That's odd. And there was me putting all those destination spells on them too,” he said. He gave her a critical up-and-down glance. “How much do you weigh, Esme? Not a spare ounce on you, I'll be bound.”
“What do you want to know for?”
“Indulge an old man.”
“Nine stones, then.”
“Hmm . . . should be about right . . . three miles hubward . . . you'll feel a slight lurch to the left, nothing to worry about. . .”
In a lightning movement, he grabbed her hand. He felt young and light-headed. The wizards back at the University would have been astonished.
“Let me take you away from all this.”
He snapped his fingers.
There has to be at least an approximate conservation of mass. It's a fundamental magical rule. If something is moved from A to B, something that was at B has got to find itself at A.
And then there's momentum. Slow as the disc spins, various points of its radii are moving at different speeds relative to the Hub, and a wizard projecting himself any distance toward the Rim had better be prepared to land jogging.
The three miles to Lancre Bridge merely involved a faint tug, which Ridcully had been ready for, and he landed up leaning against the parapet with Esme Weatherwax in his arms.
The customs troll who had until a fraction of a second previously been sitting there ended up lying full length on the floor of the Great Hall, coincidentally on top of the Bursar.
Granny Weatherwax looked over at the rushing water, and then at Ridcully.
“Take me back this instant,” she said. “You've got no right to do that.”
“Dear me, I seem to have run out of power. Can't understand it, very embarrassing, fingers gone all limp,” said Ridcully. “Of course, we could walk. It's a lovely evening. You always did get lovely evenings here.”
“It was all fifty or sixty years ago!” said Granny. “You can't suddenly turn up and say all those years haven't happened.”
“Oh, I know they've happened all right,” said Ridcully. “I'm the head wizard now. I've only got to give an order and a thousand wizards will. . . uh . . . disobey, come to think of it, or say 'What?', or start to argue. But they have to take notice.”
“I've been to that University a few times,” said Granny. “A bunch of fat old men in beards.”
“That's right! That's them!”
“A lot of 'em come from the Ramtops,” said Granny. “I knew a few boys from Lancre who became wizards.”
“Very magical area,” Ridcully agreed. “Something in the air.”
Below them, the cold black waters raced, always dancing to gravity, never flowing uphill.
“There was even a Weatherwax as Archchancellor, years ago,” said Ridcully.
“So I understand. Distant cousin. Never knew him,” said Granny.
They both stared down at the river for a moment. Occasionally a twig or a branch would whirl along in the current.
