Discworld 05 - Sourcery

by Terry Pratchett

  “He looks incredibly cold.” Conina shivered.

  “I expect he’s gone to a warmer place. Don’t you think we should shut the box?”

  It’s perfectly safe now, said the hat’s voice from inside the glow. And so perish all enemies of wizardry.

  Rincewind wasn’t about to trust what a hat said.

  “We need something to shut the lid,” he muttered. “A knife or something. You wouldn’t have one, would you?”

  “Look the other way,” Conina warned.

  There was a rustle and another gust of perfume.

  “You can look back now.”

  Rincewind was handed a twelve-inch throwing knife. He took it gingerly. Little particles of metal glinted on its edge.

  “Thanks.” He turned back. “Not leaving you short, am I?”

  “I have others.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  Rincewind reached out gingerly with the knife. As it neared the leather box its blade went white and started to steam. He whimpered a little as the cold struck his hand—a burning, stabbing cold, a cold that crept up his arm and made a determined assault on his mind. He forced his numb fingers into action and, with great effort, nudged the edge of the lid with the tip of the blade.

  The glow faded. The snow became sleet, then melted into drizzle.

  Conina nudged him aside and pulled the box out of the frozen arms.

  “I wish there was something we could do for him. It seems wrong just to leave him here.”

  “He won’t mind,” said Rincewind, with conviction.

  “Yes, but we could at least lean him against the wall. Or something.”

  Rincewind nodded, and grabbed the frozen thief by his icicle arm. The man slipped out of his grasp and hit the cobbles.

  Where he shattered.

  Conina looked at the pieces.

  “Urg,” she said.

  There was a disturbance further up the alley, coming from the back door of the Troll’s Head. Rincewind felt the knife snatched from his hand and then go past his ear in a flat trajectory that ended in the doorpost twenty yards away. A head that had been sticking out withdrew hurriedly.

  “We’d better go,” said Conina, hurrying along the alley. “Is there somewhere we can hide? Your place?”

  “I generally sleep at the University,” said Rincewind, hopping along behind her.

  You must not return to the University, growled the hat from the depths of its box. Rincewind nodded distractedly. The idea certainly didn’t seem attractive.

  “Anyway, they don’t allow women inside after dark,” he said.

  “And before dark?”

  “Not then, either.”

  Conina sighed. “That’s silly. What have you wizards got against women, then?”

  Rincewind’s brow wrinkled. “We’re not supposed to put anything against women,” he said. “That’s the whole point.”

  Sinister gray mists rolled through the docks of Morpork, dripping from the rigging, coiling around the drunken rooftops, lurking in alleys. The docks at night were thought by some to be even more dangerous than the Shades. Two muggers, a sneak thief and someone who had merely tapped Conina on the shoulder to ask her the time had already found this out.

  “Do you mind if I ask you a question?” said Rincewind, stepping over the luckless pedestrian who lay coiled around his private pain.

  “Well?”

  “I mean, I wouldn’t like to cause offense.”

  “Well?”

  “It’s just that I can’t help noticing—”

  “Hmmm?”

  “You have this certain way with strangers.” Rincewind ducked, but nothing happened.

  “What are you doing down there?” said Conina, testily.

  “Sorry.”

  “I know what you’re thinking. I can’t help it, I take after my father.”

  “Who was he, then? Cohen the Barbarian?” Rincewind grinned to show it was a joke. At least, his lips moved in a desperate crescent.

  “No need to laugh about it, wizard.”

  “What?”

  “It’s not my fault.”

  Rincewind’s lips moved soundlessly. “Sorry,” he said. “Have I got this right? Your father really is Cohen the Barbarian?”

  “Yes.” The girl scowled at Rincewind. “Everyone has to have a father,” she added. “Even you, I imagine.”

  She peered around a corner.

  “All clear. Come on,” she said, and then when they were striding along the damp cobbles she continued: “I expect your father was a wizard, probably.”

  “I shouldn’t think so,” said Rincewind. “Wizardry isn’t allowed to run in families.” He paused. He knew Cohen, he’d even been a guest at one of his weddings when he married a girl of Conina’s age; you could say this about Cohen, he crammed every hour full of minutes. “A lot of people would like to take after Cohen, I mean, he was the best fighter, the greatest thief, he—”

  “A lot of men would,” Conina snapped. She leaned against a wall and glared at him.

  “Listen,” she said, “There’s this long word, see, an old witch told me about it…can’t remember it…you wizards know about long words.”

  Rincewind thought about long words. “Marmalade?” he volunteered.

  She shook her head irritably. “It means you take after your parents.”

  Rincewind frowned. He wasn’t too good on the subject of parents.

  “Kleptomania? Recidivist?” he hazarded.

  “Begins with an H.”

  “Hedonism?” said Rincewind desperately.

  “Herrydeterry,” said Conina. “This witch explained it to me. My mother was a temple dancer for some mad god or other, and father rescued her, and—they stayed together for a while. They say I get my looks and figure from her.”

  “And very good they are, too,” said Rincewind, with hopeless gallantry.

  She blushed. “Yes, well, but from him I got sinews you could moor a boat with, reflexes like a snake on a hot tin, a terrible urge to steal things and this dreadful sensation every time I meet someone that I should be throwing a knife through his eye at ninety feet. I can, too,” she added with a trace of pride.

  “Gosh.”

  “It tends to put men off.”

  “Well, it would,” said Rincewind weakly.

  “I mean, when they find out, it’s very hard to hang onto a boyfriend.”

  “Except by the throat, I imagine,” said Rincewind.

  “Not what you really need to build up a proper relationship.”

  “No. I can see,” said Rincewind. “Still, pretty good if you want to be a famous barbarian thief.”

  “But not,” said Conina, “if you want to be a hairdresser.”

  “Ah.”

  They stared into the mist.

  “Really a hairdresser?” said Rincewind.

  Conina sighed.

  “Not much call for a barbarian hairdresser, I expect,” said Rincewind. “I mean, no one wants a shampoo-and-beheading.”

  “It’s just that every time I see a manicure set I get this terrible urge to lay about me with a double-handed cuticle knife. I mean sword,” said Conina.

  Rincewind sighed. “I know how it is,” he said. “I wanted to be a wizard.”

  “But you are a wizard.”

  “Ah. Well, of course, but—”

  “Quiet!”

  Rincewind found himself rammed against the wall, where a trickle of condensed mist inexplicably began to drip down his neck. A broad throwing knife had mysteriously appeared in Conina’s hand, and she was crouched like a jungle animal or, even worse, a jungle human.

  “What—” Rincewind began.

  “Shut up!” she hissed. “Something’s coming!”

  She stood up in one fluid movement, spun on one leg and let the knife go.

  There was a single, hollow, wooden thud.

  Conina stood and stared. For once, the heroic blood that pounded through her veins, drowning out all chances of a lifetime in a pink
pinny, was totally at a loss.

  “I’ve just killed a wooden box,” she said.

  Rincewind looked around the corner.

  The Luggage stood in the dripping street, the knife still quivering in its lid, and stared at her. Then it changed its position slightly, its little legs moving in a complicated tango pattern, and stared at Rincewind. The Luggage didn’t have any features at all, apart from a lock and a couple of hinges, but it could stare better than a rockful of iguanas. It could outstare a glass-eyed statue. When it came to a look of betrayed pathos, the Luggage could leave the average kicked spaniel moping back in its kennel. It had several arrowheads and broken swords sticking in it.

  “What is it?” hissed Conina.

  “It’s just the Luggage,” said Rincewind wearily.

  “Does it belong to you?”

  “Not really. Sort of.”

  “Is it dangerous?”

  The Luggage shuffled around to stare at her again.

  “There’s two schools of thought about that,” said Rincewind. “There’s some people who say it’s dangerous, and others who say it’s very dangerous. What do you think?”

  The Luggage raised its lid a fraction.

  The Luggage was made from the wood of the sapient peartree, a plant so magical that it had nearly died out on the Disc and survived only in one or two places; it was a sort of rosebay willowherb, only instead of bomb sites it sprouted in areas that had seen vast expenditures of magic. Wizards’ staves were traditionally made of it; so was the Luggage.

  Among the Luggage’s magical qualities was a fairly simple and direct one: it would follow its adopted owner anywhere. Not anywhere in any particular set of dimensions, or country, or universe, or lifetime. Anywhere. It was about as easy to shake off as a head cold and considerably more unpleasant.

  The Luggage was also extremely protective of its owner. It would be hard to describe its attitude to the rest of creation, but one could start with the phrase “bloody-minded malevolence” and work up from there.

  Conina stared at that lid. It looked very much like a mouth.

  “I think I’d vote for ‘terminally dangerous,’” she said.

  “It likes potato chips,” volunteered Rincewind, and then added, “Well, that’s a bit strong. It eats potato chips.”

  “What about people?”

  “Oh, and people. About fifteen so far, I think.”

  “Were they good or bad?”

  “Just dead, I think. It also does your laundry for you, you put your clothes in and they come out washed and ironed.”

  “And covered in blood?”

  “You know, that’s the funny thing,” said Rincewind.

  “The funny thing?” repeated Conina, her eyes not leaving the Luggage.

  “Yes, because, you see, the inside isn’t always the same, it’s sort of multidimensional, and—”

  “How does it feel about women?”

  “Oh, it’s not choosy. It ate a book of spells last year. Sulked for three days and then spat it out.”

  “It’s horrible,” said Conina, and backed away.

  “Oh, yes,” said Rincewind, “absolutely.”

  “I mean the way it stares!”

  “It’s very good at it, isn’t it?”

  We must leave for Klatch, said a voice from the hatbox. One of these boats will be adequate. Commandeer it.

  Rincewind looked at the dim, mist-wreathed shapes that loomed in the mist under a forest of rigging. Here and there a riding light made a little fuzzy ball of light in the gloom.

  “Hard to disobey, isn’t it?” said Conina.

  “I’m trying,” said Rincewind. Sweat prickled on his forehead.

  Go aboard now, said the hat. Rincewind’s feet began to shuffle of their own accord.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” he moaned.

  Because I have no alternative. Believe me, if I could have found an eighth level mage I would have done so. I must not be worn!

  “Why not? You are the Archchancellor’s hat.”

  And through me speak all the Archchancellors who ever lived. I am the University. I am the Lore. I am the symbol of magic under the control of men—and I will not be worn by a sourcerer! There must be no more sourcerers! The world is too worn out for sourcery!

  Conina coughed.

  “Did you understand any of that?” she said, cautiously.

  “I understood some of it, but I didn’t believe it,” said Rincewind. His feet remained firmly rooted to the cobbles.

  They called me a figurehat! The voice was heavy with sarcasm. Fat wizards who betray everything the University ever stood for, and they called me a figurehat! Rincewind, I command you. And you, madam. Serve me well and I will grant you your deepest desire.

  “How can you grant my deepest desire if the world’s going to end?”

  The hat appeared to think about it. Well, have you got a deepest desire that need only take a couple of minutes?

  “Look, how can you do magic? You’re just a—” Rincewind’s voice trailed off.

  I AM magic. Proper magic. Besides, you don’t get worn by some of the world’s greatest wizards for two thousand years without learning a few things. Now. We must flee.

  But with dignity of course.

  Rincewind looked pathetically at Conina, who shrugged again.

  “Don’t ask me,” she said. “This looks like an adventure. I’m doomed to have them, I’m afraid. That’s genetics* for you.”

  “But I’m no good at them! Believe me, I’ve been through dozens!” Rincewind wailed.

  Ah. Experience, said the hat.

  “No, really, I’m a terrible coward, I always run away.” Rincewind’s chest heaved. “Danger has stared me in the back of the head, oh, hundreds of times!”

  I don’t want you to go into danger.

  “Good!”

  I want you to stay OUT of danger.

  Rincewind sagged. “Why me?” he moaned.

  For the good of the University. For the honor of wizardry. For the sake of the world. For your heart’s desire. And I’ll freeze you alive if you don’t.

  Rincewind breathed a sigh almost of relief. He wasn’t good on bribes, or cajolery, or appeals to his better nature. But threats, now, threats were familiar. He knew where he was with threats.

  The sun dawned on Small Gods’ Day like a badly poached egg. The mists had closed in over Ankh-Morpork in streamers of silver and gold—damp, warm, silent. There was the distant grumbling of springtime thunder, out on the plains. It seemed warmer than it ought to be.

  Wizards normally slept late. On this morning, however, many of them had got up early and were wandering the corridors aimlessly. They could feel the change in the air.

  The University was filling up with magic.

  Of course, it was usually full of magic anyway, but it was an old, comfortable magic, as exciting and dangerous as a bedroom slipper. But seeping through the ancient fabric was a new magic, saw-edged and vibrant, bright and cold as comet fire. It sleeted through the stones and crackled off sharp edges like static electricity on the nylon carpet of Creation. It buzzed and sizzled. It curled wizardly beards, poured in wisps of octarine smoke from fingers that had done nothing more mystical for three decades than a little light illusion. How can the effect be described with delicacy and taste? For most of the wizards, it was like being an elderly man who, suddenly faced with a beautiful young woman, finds to his horror and delight and astonishment that the flesh is suddenly as willing as the spirit.

  And in the halls and corridors of the University the word was being whispered: Sourcery!

  A few wizards surreptitiously tried spells that they hadn’t been able to master for years, and watched in amazement as they unrolled perfectly. Sheepishly at first, and then with confidence, and then with shouts and whoops, they threw fireballs to one another or produced live doves out of their hats or made multi-colored sequins fall out of the air.

  Sourcery! One or two wizards, stately men who had hitherto
done nothing more blameworthy that eat a live oyster, turned themselves invisible and chased the maids and bedders through the corridors.

  Sourcery! Some of the bolder spirits had tried out ancient flying spells and were bobbing a little uncertainly among the rafters. Sourcery!

  Only the Librarian didn’t share in the manic breakfast. He watched the antics for some time, pursing his prehensile lips, and then knuckled stiffly off toward his Library. If anyone had bothered to notice, they’d have heard him bolting the door.

  It was deathly quiet in the Library. The books were no longer frantic. They’d passed through their fear and out into the calm waters of abject terror, and they crouched on their shelves like so many mesmerized rabbits.

  A long hairy arm reached up and grabbed Casplock’s Compleet Lexicon of Majik with Precepts for the Wise before it could back away, soothed its terror with a long-fingered hand, and opened it under “S.” The Librarian smoothed the trembling page gently and ran a horny nail down the entries until he came to:

  Sourcerer, n. (mythical). A proto-wizard, a doorway through which new majik may enterr the world, a wizard not limited by the physical capabilities of hys own bodie, not by Destinie, nor by Deathe. It is written that there once werre sourcerers in the youth of the world but not may there by nowe and blessed be, for sourcery is not for menne and the return of sourcery would mean the Ende of the Worlde…If the Creator hadd meant menne to bee as goddes, he ould have given them wings. SEE ALSO: thee Apocralypse, the legende of thee Ice Giants, and thee Teatime of the Goddes.

  The Librarian read the cross-references, turned back to the first entry, and stared at it through deep dark eyes for a long time. Then he put the book back carefully, crept under his desk, and pulled the blanket over his head.

  But in the minstrel gallery over the Great Hall Carding and Spelter watched the scene with entirely different emotions.

  Standing side by side they looked almost exactly like the number 10.

  “What is happening?” said Spelter. He’d had a sleepless night, and wasn’t thinking very straight.

  “Magic is flowing into the University,” said Carding. “That’s what sourcerer means. A channel for magic. Real magic, my boy. Not the tired old stuff we’ve made do with these past centuries. This is the dawning of a…a—”