"Sir would most decidedly not," he says crisply, and taps the cup (equally crisply) with his wand as the tea ball steeps before filling both it and the duplicate he's just made with hot, just strong enough this time to be satisfyingly fragrant (it's just possible that a drop of clear fluid has fallen from his palm into the cup he subsequently places in front of Rincewind, but then again, it could be a drop of condensation from the spout of the kettle, or just a breath of wind stirring the surface). "Sit." A chair zips up to catch Rincewind in the backs of the legs, knocking him into it.