He inspected the skeleton closely, just in case. It didn’t seem inclined to make a contribution to the situation.
“It belonged to his wossname, grandfather,” said a cracked voice behind him.
“Bit of an unusual bequest,” said Rincewind.
“Oh, not personally. He got it in a shop somewhere. It’s one of them wossname, articulate wossnames.”
“It’s not saying much right now,” said Rincewind, and then went very quiet and thoughtful.
“Er,” he said, without moving his head, “what, precisely, am I talking to?”
“I’m a wossname. Tip of my tongue. Begins with a P.”
Rincewind turned around slowly.
“You’re a parrot?” he said.
“That’s it.”
Rincewind stared at the thing on the perch. It had one eye that glittered like a ruby. Most of the rest of it was pink and purple skin, studded with the fag-ends of feathers, so that the net effect was of an oven-ready hairbrush. It jiggled arthritically on its perch and then slowly lost its balance, until it was hanging upside down.
“I thought you were stuffed,” said Rincewind.
“Up yours, wizard.”
Rincewind ignored it and crept over to the window. It was small, but gave out on to a gently sloping roof. And out there was real life, real sky, real buildings. He reached out to open the shutters— A crackling current coursed up his arm and earthed itself in his cerebellum.
He sat on the floor, sucking his fingers.
“He tole you,” said the parrot, swinging backwards and forwards upside down. “But you wouldn’t wossname. He’s got you by the wossnames.”
“But it should only work on demons!”
“Ah,” said the parrot, achieving enough momentum to swing upright again, whereupon it steadied itself with the stubby remains of what had once been wings. “It’s all according, isn’t it. If you come in through the door marked ‘Wossnames’ that means you get treated as a wossname, right? Demon, I mean. Subject to all the rules and wossnames. Tough one for you.”
“But you know I’m a wizard, don’t you!”
The parrot gave a squawk. “I’ve seen ‘em, mate. The real McWossname. Some of the ones we’ve had in here, they’d make you choke on your millet. Great scaly fiery wossnames. Took weeks to get the soot off the walls,” it added, in an approving tone of voice. “That was in his granddad’s day, of course. The kid hasn’t been any good at it. Up to now. Bright lad. I blame the wossnames, parents. New money, you know. Wine business. Spoil him rotten, let him play with his wossname’s old stuff, ‘Oh, he’s such an intelligent lad, nose always in a book’,” the parrot mimicked. “They never give him any of the things a sensitive growing wossname really needs, if you was to ask me.”
“What, you mean love and guidance?” said Rincewind.
“I was thinking of a bloody good wossname, thrashing,” said the parrot.
Rincewind clutched at his aching head. If this was what demons usually had to go through, no wonder they were always so annoyed.
“Polly want a biscuit,” said the parrot vaguely, in much the same way as a human would say “Er” or “As I was saying”, and went on, “His granddad was keen on it. That and his pigeons.”
“Pigeons,” said Rincewind.
“Not that he was particularly successful. It was all a bit trial and wossname.”
“I thought you said great big scaly—”
“Oh, yes. But that wasn’t what he was after. He was trying to conjure up a succubus.” It should be impossible to leer when all you’ve got is a beak, but the parrot managed it. “That’s a female demon what comes in the night and makes mad passionate wossn—”
“I’ve heard of them,” said Rincewind. “Bloody dangerous things.”
The parrot put its head on one side. “It never worked. All he ever got was a neuralger.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a demon that comes and has a headache at you.”
Demons have existed on the Discworld for at least as long as the gods, who in many ways they closely resemble. The difference is basically the same as that between terrorists and freedom fighters.
Most of the demons occupy a spacious dimension close to reality, traditionally decorated in shades of flame and maintained at roasting point. This isn’t actually necessary, but if there is one thing that your average demon is, it is a traditionalist.
In the centre of the inferno, rising majestically from a lake of lava substitute and with unparalleled views of the Eight Circles, lies the city{4} of Pandemonium.[5] At the moment, it was living up to its name.
Astfgl, the new King of the Demons, was furious. Not simply because the air-conditioning had broken down again, not because he felt surrounded by idiots and plotters on every side, and not even because no-one could pronounce his name properly yet, but also because he had just been given bad news. The demon who had been chosen by lottery to deliver it cowered in front of his throne with its tail between its legs. It was immortally afraid that something wonderful was soon going to happen to it.[6]
“It did what?” said Astfgl.
“It, er, it opened, o lord. The circle in Pseudopolis.”
“Ah. The clever boy. We have great hopes of him.”
“Er. Then it closed again, lord.” The demon shut its eyes.
“And who went through?”
“Er.” The demon looked around at its colleagues, clustered at the far end of the mile-long throne room.
“I said, and who went through?”
“In point of fact, o lord—”
“Yes?”
“We don’t know. Someone.”
“I gave orders, did I not, that when the boy succeeded the Duke Vassenego was to materialise unto him, and offer him forbidden pleasures and dark delights to bend him to Our will?”
The King growled. The problem with being evil, he’d been forced to admit, was that demons were not great innovatory thinkers and really needed the spice of human ingenuity. And he’d really been looking forward to Eric Thursley, whose brand of super-intelligent gormlessness was a rare delight. Hell needed horribly-bright, self-centred people like Eric. They were much better at being nasty than demons could ever manage.
“Indeed, lord,” said the demon, “And the duke has been awaiting the summons there for years, shunning all other temptations, steadfastly and patiently studying the world of men—”
“So where was he?”
“Er. Call of supernature, lord,” the demon gabbled. “Hadn’t turned his back for two minutes when—”
“And someone went through?”
“We’re trying to find out—”
Lord Astfgl’s patience, which in any case had the tensile strength of putty, snapped at this point. That just about summed it up. He had the kind of subjects who used the words “find out” when they meant “ascertain”. Damnation was too good for them.
“Get out,” he whispered. “And I shall see to it that you get a commendation for this—”
“O master, I plead—”
“Get out!”
The King stamped along the glowing corridors to his private apartments.
His predecessors had favoured shaggy hind legs and hoofs. Lord Astfgl had rejected all that sort of thing out of hand. He held that no-one would ever get taken seriously by those stuck-up bastards in Dunmanifestin when their rear end kept ruminating all the time, and so he favoured a red silk cloak, crimson tights, a cowl with two rather sophisticated little horns on it, and a trident. The end kept dropping off the trident but, he felt, it was the sort of get-up in which a demon king could be taken seriously …
5
Demons and their Hell are quite different from the Dungeon Dimensions, those endless parallel wastelands outside space and time. The sad, mad Things in the Dungeon Dimensions have no understanding of the world but simply crave light and shape and try to warm themselves by the fires of reality, clustering around it with about the same effect — if they ever broke through — as an ocean trying to warm itself around a candle. Whereas demons belong to the same space-time wossname, more or less, as humans, and have a deep and abiding interest in humanity’s day-to-day affairs. Interestingly enough, the gods of the Disc have never bothered much about judging the souls of the dead, and so people only go to hell if that’s where they believe, in their deepest heart, that they deserve to go. Which they won’t do if they don’t know about it. This explains why it is important to shoot missionaries on sight.