Equal Rites

could be arranged. No, I mean, would you come and lecture the students? Once in a while?”
    “What on?”
    Cutangle groped for a subject.
    “Herbs?” he hazarded. “We’re not very good on herbs here. And headology. Esk told me a lot about headology. It sounds fascinating.”
    The sugar lump disappeared through a crack in a nearby wall with a final jerk. Cutangle nodded toward it.
    “They’re very heavy on the sugar,” he said, “but we haven’t got the heart to do anything about it.”
    Granny frowned, and then nodded across the haze over the city to the distant glitter of the snow on the Ramtops.
    “It’s a long way,” she said. “I can’t be keeping on going backward and forward at my time of life.”
    “We could buy you a much better broomstick,” said Cutangle. “One you don’t have to bump start. And you, you could have a flat here. And all the old clothes you can carry,” he added, using the secret weapon. He had wisely invested in some conversation with Mrs. Whitlow.
    “Mmph,” said Granny, “Silk?”
    “Black and red,” said Cutangle. An image of Granny in black and red silk trotted across his mind, and he bit heavily into his scone.
    “And maybe we can bring some students out to your cottage in the summer,” Cutangle went on, “for extra-mural studies.”
    “Who’s Extra Muriel?”
    “I mean, there’s lots they can learn, I’m sure.
    Granny considered this. Certainly the privy needed a good seeing-to before the weather got too warm, and the goat shed was ripe for the mucking-out by spring. Digging over the Herb bed was a chore, too. The bedroom ceiling was a disgrace, and some of the tiles needed fixing.
    “Practical things?” she said, thoughtfully.
    “Absolutely,” said Cutangle.
    “Mmph. Well, I’ll think about it,” said Granny, dimly aware that one should never go too far on a first date.
    “Perhaps you would care to dine with me this evening and let me know?” said Cutangle, his eyes agleam.
    “What’s to eat?”
    “Cold meat and potatoes.” Mrs. Whitlow had done her work well.
    There was.
    Esk and Simon went on to develop a whole new type of magic that no one could exactly understand but which nevertheless everyone considered very worthwhile and somehow comforting.
    Perhaps more importantly, the ants used all the sugar lumps they could steal to build a small sugar pyramid in one of the hollow walls, in which, with great ceremony, they entombed the mummified body of a dead queen. On the wall of one tiny hidden chamber they inscribed, in insect hieroglyphs, the true secret of longevity.
    They got it absolutely right and it would probably have important implications for the universe if it hadn’t, next time the University flooded, been completely washed away.

About the Author
    Terry Pratchett lives in England, an island off the coast of France, where he spends his time writing Discworld novels in accordance with the Very String Anthropic Principle, which holds that the entire Purpose of the Universe is to make possible a being that will live in England, an island off the coast of France, and spend his time writing Discworld novels. Which is exactly what he does. Which proves the whole business true. Any questions?
    Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

Unanimous Praise For
Terry Pratchett
    “For lighthearted escape with a thoughtful center, you can’t do better than…any…Discworld novel.”
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    “If I were making my list of Best Books of the Twentieth Century, Terry Pratchett’s would be most of them.”
    —Elizabeth Peters
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    — Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine
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    —Jerry Pournelle
    “The funniest parodist working in the field today, period.”
    — New York Review of Science Fiction
    “Pratchett demonstrates just how great the distance is between one–or