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From
the
palace
came
the
muffled
sounds
of
complicated
destruction
.
.
.
Errol
pulled
a
broomstick
across
the
floor
with
his
mouth
and
,
whimpering
with
effort
,
hauled
it
upright
.
After
a
lot
more
whimpering
and
several
false
starts
he
managed
to
winkle
the
end
of
it
between
the
wall
and
the
big
jar
of
lamp
oil
.
He
paused
for
a
moment
,
breathing
like
a
bellows
,
and
pushed
.
The
jar
resisted
for
a
moment
,
rocked
back
and
forth
once
or
twice
,
and
then
fell
over
and
smashed
on
the
flagstones
.
Crude
,
very
badly
-
refined
oil
spread
out
in
a
black
puddle
.
Errol
’
s
huge
nostrils
twitched
.
Somewhere
in
the
back
of
his
brain
unfamiliar
synapses
clicked
like
telegraph
keys
.
Great
balks
of
information
flooded
down
the
thick
nerve
cord
to
his
nose
,
carrying
inexplicable
information
about
triple
bonds
,
alkanes
and
geometric
isomerism
.
However
,
almost
all
of
it
missed
the
small
part
of
Errol
’
s
brain
that
was
used
for
being
Errol
.
All
he
knew
was
that
he
was
suddenly
very
,
very
thirsty
.
Something
major
was
happening
in
the
palace
.
There
was
the
occasional
crash
of
a
floor
or
thump
of
a
falling
ceiling
.
.
.
In
his
rat
-
filled
dungeon
,
behind
a
door
with
more
locks
than
a
major
canal
network
,
the
Patrician
of
Ankh
-
Morpork
lay
back
and
grinned
in
the
darkness
.
Outside
,
bonfires
flared
in
the
dusk
.
