Rincewind wouldn't recognise a hint if it came with "HINT" written on it in big flowing script with bells, whistles and ribbons. So naturally he asks: "Are what?"
He gets shakily to his feet, straightening his hat. A few more sorry sequins flutter off. "Well, they're right snarky buggers where I come from," he explains. "I was rather hoping to be a pile of charcoal right about now. I guess it doesn't work without the copper rod."
"All right," he sighs. "It's not as if it's not used to it." He takes one of the plates and cautiously places it on top of his hat. The hat, being in a very high state of squashiness, actually accommodates the plate quite well and it might even stay put, barring any sudden movement by the wearer. Rincewind puts another plate on his left palm, fine as paint, but he stares at his right, empty hand, then looks imploringly at Xellos.