Free Reaper Man by Terry Pratchett

potency. Ridcully inherited the formula from his uncle who, afterhalf a pint of sauce on a big meal one evening, had a charcoal biscuit to settle his stomach, lit his pipe and disappeared in mysterious circumstances, although his shoes were found on the roof the following summer.
    There was cold mutton for lunch. Mutton went well with Wow-Wow Sauce; on the night of Ridcully senior’s death, for example, it had gone at least three miles.
    Mustrum tied his napkin behind his neck, rubbed his hands together, and reached out.
    The cruet moved.
    He reached out again. It slid away.
    Ridcully sighed.
    “All right, you fellows,” he said. “No magic at Table, you know the rules. Who’s playing silly buggers?”
    The other senior wizards stared at him.
    “I, I, I don’t think we can play it anymore,” said the Bursar, who at the moment was only occasionally bouncing off the sides of sanity, “I, I, I think we lost some of the pieces…”
    He looked around, giggled, and went back to trying to cut his mutton with a spoon. The other wizards were keeping knives out of his way at present.
    The entire cruet floated up into the air and started to spin slowly. Then it exploded.
    The wizards, dripping vinegar and expensive spices, watched it owlishly.
    “It was probably the sauce,” the Dean ventured. “It was definitely going a bit critical last night.”
    Something dropped on his head and landed in his lunch. It was a black iron screw, several inches long.
    Another one mildly concussed the Bursar.
    After a second or two, a third landed point down on the table by the Archchancellor’s hand and stuck there.
    The wizards turned their eyes upward.
    The Great Hall was lit in the evenings by one massive chandelier, although the word so often associated with glittering prismatic glassware seemed inappropriate for the huge, heavy, black, tallow-encrusted thing that hung from the ceiling like a threatening overdraft. It could hold a thousand candles. It was directly over the senior wizards’ table.
    Another screw tinkled onto the floor by the fireplace.
    The Archchancellor cleared his throat.
    “Run?” he suggested.
    The chandelier dropped.
    Bits of table and crockery smashed into the walls. Lumps of lethal tallow the size of a man’s head whirred through the windows. A whole candle, propelled out of the wreckage at a freak velocity, was driven several inches into a door.
    The Archchancellor disentangled himself from the remains of his chair.
    “Bursar!” he yelled.
    The Bursar was exhumed from the fireplace.
    “Um, yes, Archchancellor?” he quavered.
    “What was the meanin’ of that ?”
    Ridcully’s hat rose from his head.
    It was a basic floppy-brimmed, pointy wizarding hat, but adapted to the Archchancellor’s outgoing lifestyle. Fishing flies were stuck in it. A very smallpistol crossbow was shoved in the hatband in case he saw something to shoot while out jogging, and Mustrum Ridcully had found that the pointy bit was just the right size for a small bottle of Bentinck’s Very Old Peculiar Brandy. He was quite attached to his hat.
    But it was no longer attached to him.
    It drifted gently across the room. There was a faint but distinct gurgling noise.
    The Archchancellor leapt to his feet. “Bugger that ,” he roared. “That stuff’s nine dollars a fifth!” He made a leap for the hat, missed, and kept on going until he drifted to a halt several feet above the ground.
    The Bursar raised a hand, nervously.
    “Possibly woodworm?” he said.
    “If there is any more of this,” growled Ridcully, “any more at all, d’you hear, I shall get very angry!”
    He was dropped to the floor at the same time as the big doors opened. One of the college porters bustled in, followed by a squad of the Patrician’s palace guard.
    The guard captain looked the Archchancellor up and down with the expression of one to whom the word “civilian” is pronounced in the same general tones as “cockroach.”
    “You the head chap?” he