Interesting Times

opponent.
    “And your move?” he said.
    She smiled. “I’ve already made it.”
    He looked down. “But I don’t see your pieces on the board.”
    “They’re not on the board yet,” she said.
    She opened her hand.
    There was something black and yellow on her palm. She blew on it, and it unfolded its wings.
    It was a butterfly.
    Fate always wins…
    At least, when people stick to the rules.

    According to the philosopher Ly Tin Wheedle, chaos is found in greatest abundance wherever order is being sought. It always defeats order, because it is better organized.

    This is the butterfly of the storms.
    See the wings, slightly more ragged than those of the common fritillary. In reality, thanks to the fractal nature of the universe, this means that those ragged edges are infinite—in the same way that the edge of any rugged coastline, when measured to the ultimate microscopic level, is infinitely long—or, if not infinite, then at least so close to it that Infinity can be seen on a clear day.
    And therefore, if their edges are infinitely long, the wings must logically be infinitely big.
    They may look about the right size for a butterfly’s wings, but that’s only because human beings have always preferred common sense to logic.
    The Quantum Weather Butterfly ( Papilio tempestae ) is an undistinguished yellow color, although the Mandelbrot patterns on the wings are of considerable interest. Its outstanding feature is its ability to create weather.
    This presumably began as a survival trait, since even an extremely hungry bird would find itself inconvenienced by a nasty localized tornado. * From there it possibly became a secondary sexual characteristic, like the plumage of birds or the throat sacs of certain frogs. Look at me , the male says, flapping his wings lazily in the canopy of the rain forest. I may be an undistinguished yellow color but in a fortnight’s time, a thousand miles away, Freak Gales Cause Road Chaos.
    This is the butterfly of the storms.
    It flaps its wings…

    This is the Discworld, which goes through space on the back of a giant turtle.
    Most worlds do, at some time in their perception. It’s a cosmological view the human brain seems pre-programmed to take.
    On veldt and plain, in cloud jungle and silent red desert, in swamp and reed marsh, in fact in any place where something goes “plop” off a floating log as you approach, variations on the following take place at a crucial early point in the development of the tribal mythology…
    “You see dat?”
    “What?”
    “It just went plop off dat log.”
    “Yeah? Well?”
    “I reckon…I reckon…like, I reckon der world is carried on der back of one of dem.”
    A moment of silence while this astrophysical hypothesis is considered, and then…
    “The whole world?”
    “Of course, when I say one of dem, I mean a big one of dem.”
    “It’d have to be, yeah.”
    “Like…really big.”
    “’S funny, but…I see what you mean.”
    “Makes sense, right?”
    “Makes sense, yeah. Thing is…”
    “What?”
    “I just hope it never goes plop.”
    But this is the Discworld, which has not only the turtle but also the four giant elephants on which the wide, slowly turning wheel of the world revolves. *
    There is the Circle Sea, approximately halfway between the Hub and the Rim. Around it are those countries which, according to History, constitute the civilized world, i.e. a world that can support historians: Ephebe, Tsort, Omnia, Klatch, and the sprawling city state of Ankh-Morpork.
    This is a story that starts somewhere else, where a man is lying on a raft in a blue lagoon under a sunny sky. His head is resting on his arms. He is happy—in his case, a mental state so rare as to be almost unprecedented. He is whistling an amiable little tune, and dangling his feet in the crystal clear water.
    They’re pink feet with ten toes that look like little piggy-wiggies.
    From the point of view of a shark, skimming over the reef, they look like lunch, dinner and tea.

    It was, as always, a matter of protocol. Of discretion. Of careful etiquette. Of, ultimately, alcohol. Or at least the illusion of alcohol.
    Lord Vetinari, as supreme ruler of Ankh-Morpork, could in theory summon the Archchancellor of Unseen University to his presence and, indeed, have him executed if he failed to obey.
    On the other hand Mustrum Ridcully, as head of the college of wizards, had made it clear in polite but firm ways that he could turn him into a small