‘No,’ he said, shaking the dice box. ‘It'll add to the run.’

Cohen pinched out the end of his ragged cigarette, stuffed it behind his ear, and looked up at the green ice.

‘It's not too late to turn back,’ said Evil Harry. ‘If anyone wanted to, I mean.’

‘Yes it is,’ said Cohen, without looking around. ‘Besides, someone's not playing fair.’

‘Funny, really,’ said Vena. ‘All my life I've gone adventuring with old maps found in old tombs and so on, and I never ever worried about where they came from. It's one of those things you never think about, like who leaves all the weapons and keys and medicine kits lying around in the unexplored dungeons.’

‘Someone be setting a trap,’ said Boy Willie.

‘Probably. Won't be the first trap I've walked into,’ said Cohen.

‘We're going up against the gods, Cohen,’ said Harry. ‘A man does that, a man's got to be sure of his luck.’

‘Mine's worked up to now,’ said Cohen. He reached out and touched the rock face in front of him. ‘It's warm.’

‘But it's got ice on!’ said Harry.

‘Yeah. Strange, eh?’ said Cohen. ‘It's just like the scrolls said. And see the way the snow's sticking to it? It's the magic. Well… here goes…’

Archchancellor Ridcully decided that the crew needed to be trained. Ponder Stibbons pointed out that they were going into the completely unexpected, and Ridcully ruled therefore that they should be given some unexpected training.

Rincewind, on the other hand, said that they were heading for certain death, which everyone managed eventually with no training whatsoever.

Later he said that Leonard's device would do, though. After five minutes on it, certain death seemed like a release.

‘He's thrown up again,’ said the Dean.

‘He's getting better at it, though,’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies.

‘How can you say that? Last time it was a whole ten seconds before he let go!’

‘Yes, but he's throwing up more, and it's going further,’ said the Chair as they strolled away.

The Dean looked up. It was hard to see the flying device in the shadows of the tarpaulin-covered barge. Sheets were spread over the more interesting bits. There were strong smells of glue and varnish. The Librarian, who tended to get involved in things, was hanging peacefully from a spar and hammering wooden pegs into a plank.

‘It'll be balloons, you mark my words,’ said the Dean. ‘I've got a mental picture. Balloons and sails and rigging and so on. Probably an anchor, too. Fanciful stuff.’

‘Over in the Agatean Empire they have kites big enough to carry men,’ said the Chair.

‘Perhaps he's just building a bigger kite, then.’

In the distance Leonard of Quirm was sitting in a pool of light, sketching. Occasionally he'd hand a page to a waiting apprentice, who would hurry away.

‘Did you see the design he came up with yesterday?’ said the Dean. ‘Had this idea that they might have to get outside the machine to repair it so – so he designed a sort of device to let you fly around with a dragon on your back! Said it was for emergencies!’

‘What kind of emergency would be worse than having a dragon strapped to your back?’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies.

‘Exactly! The man lives in an ivory tower!’

‘Does he? I thought Vetinari had him locked up in some attic.’

‘Well. I mean, years of that is going to give a man a very limited vision, in my humble opinion. Nothing much to do but tick the days off on the wall.’

‘They say he paints good pictures,’ said the Chair.

‘Well, pictures,’ said the Dean dismissively.

‘But they say that his are so good the eyes follow you round the room.’

‘Really? What does the rest of the face do?’

‘That stays where it is, I suppose,’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies.

‘To me, this does not sound good,’ said the Dean as they wandered out into the daylight.

At his desk, while considering the problem of steering a craft in thin air, Leonard carefully drew a rose.

Evil Harry shut his eyes.

‘This does not feel good,’ he said.

‘It's easy when you get used to it,’ said Cohen. ‘It's just a matter of how you look at things.’

Evil Harry opened his eyes again.

He was standing on a broad, greenish plain, which curved down gently to right and left. It was like being on a high, grassy ridge. It stretched off into a cloudy distance.

‘It's just a stroll,’ said Boy Willie, beside him.

‘Look, my feet aren't the problem here,’ said Evil Harry. ‘My feet aren't quarrelling. It's my brain.’

‘It helps if you think of the ground as being behind you,’ said Boy Willie.

‘No,’ said Evil Harry. ‘It doesn't.’

The strange feature of the mountain was this: once a foot was set on it, direction became a matter of personal choice. To put it another way, gravity was optional. It stayed under your feet, no matter which way your feet were pointing.

Evil Harry wondered why it was affecting only him. The Horde seemed entirely unmoved. Even Mad Hamish's horrible wheelchair was bowling along happily in a direction which, up until now, Harry had thought of as vertical. It was, he thought, probably because Evil Lords were generally brighter than heroes. You needed some functioning brain cells to do the payroll even for half a dozen henchmen. And Evil Harry's braincells were telling him to look straight ahead and try to believe that he was strolling along a broad, happy ridge and on no account to turn around, to even think about turning round, because behind him was gnh gnh gnk…

‘Steady on!’ said Boy Willie, steadying his arm. ‘Listen to your feet. They know what they're about.’

To Harry's horror, Cohen chose this moment to turn around.

‘Will you look at that view!’ he said. ‘I can see everybody's house from up here!’

‘Oh, no, please, no,’ mumbled Evil Harry, flinging himself forward and holding on to the mountain.

‘It's great, isn't it?’ said Truckle. ‘Seein' all them seas sort of hanging right over you like – What's up with Harry?’

‘Just a bit poorly,’ said Vena.

To Cohen's surprise, the minstrel seemed quite at home with the view.

‘I came from up in the mountains,’ he explained. ‘You get a head for heights up there.’

‘I bin to everywhere I can see,’ said Cohen, looking around. ‘Been there, done that… been there again, done it twice… nowhere left where I ain't been…’

The minstrel looked him up and down, and a kind of understanding dawned. I know why you are doing this now, he thought. Thank goodness for a classical education. Now, what was the quote?

‘“And Carelinus wept, for there were no more worlds to conquer”,’ he said.

‘Who's that bloke? You mentioned him before,’ said Cohen.

‘You haven't heard of the Emperor Carelinus?’

‘Nope.’

‘But… he was the greatest conquerer that ever lived! His empire spanned the entire Disc! Except for the Counterweight Continent and Fourecks, of course.’

‘I don't blame him. You can't get a good beer in one of 'em for love nor money, and the other's a bugger to get to.’

‘Well, when he got as far as the coast of Muntab, it was said that he stood on the shore and wept. Some philosopher told him there were more worlds out there somewhere, and that he'd never be able to conquer them. Er… that reminded me a bit of you.’

Cohen strolled along in silence for a moment.

‘Yeah,’ he said at last. ‘Yeah, I can see how that could be. Only not as cissy, obviously.’

‘It is now,’ said Ponder Stibbons, ‘T minus twelve hours.’

His audience, sitting on the deck, watched him with alert and polite incomprehension.

‘That means the flying machine will go over the Edge just before dawn tomorrow,’ Ponder explained.