“I shall be chopped into small pieces, I expect,” said Rincewind, walking toward the door at the speed of a dying snail.
Conina blinked.
“What hat?” she said, and then, “Oh, that hat.”
“I suppose there’s no possible chance that you two might be of some assistance?” Rincewind ventured.
Somewhere inside Conina and Nijel’s private world the bluebirds went to roost, the little pink clouds drifted away and the orchestra packed up and sneaked off to do a private gig at a nightclub somewhere. A bit of reality reasserted itself.
Conina dragged her admiring gaze away from Nijel’s rapt face and turned it onto Rincewind, where it grew slightly cooler.
She sidled across the floor and grabbed the wizard by the arm.
“Look,” she said, “you won’t tell him who I really am, will you? Only boys get funny ideas and—well, anyway, if you do I will personally break all your—”
“I’ll be far too busy,” said Rincewind, “what with you helping me get the hat and everything. Not that I can imagine what you see in him,” he added, haughtily.
“He’s nice. I don’t seem to meet many nice people.”
“Yes, well—”
“He’s looking at us!”
“So what? You’re not frightened of him, are you?”
“Suppose he talks to me!”
Rincewind looked blank. Not for the first time in his life, he felt that there were whole areas of human experience that had passed him by, if areas could pass by people. Maybe he had passed them by. He shrugged.
“Why did you let them take you off to the harem without a fight?” he said.
“I’ve always wanted to know what went on in one.”
There was a pause. “Well?” said Rincewind.
“Well, we all sat round, and then after a bit the Seriph came in, and then he asked me over and said that since I was new it would be my turn, and then, you’ll never guess what he wanted me to do. The girls said it’s the only thing he’s interested in.”
“Er.”
“Are you all right?”
“Fine, fine,” Rincewind muttered.
“Your face has gone all shiny.”
“No, I’m fine, fine.”
“He asked me to tell him a story.”
“What about?” said Rincewind suspiciously.
“The other girls said he prefers something with rabbits in it.”
“Ah. Rabbits.”
“Small fluffy white ones. But the only stories I know are the ones father taught me when I was little, and I don’t think they’re really suitable.”
“Not many rabbits?”
“Lots of arms and legs being chopped off,” said Conina, and sighed. “That’s why you mustn’t tell him about me you see? I’m just not cut out for a normal life.”
“Telling stories in a harem isn’t bloody normal,” said Rincewind. “It’ll never catch on.”
“He’s looking at us again!” Conina grabbed Rincewind’s arm.
He shook her off. “Oh, good grief,” he said, and hurried across the room to Nijel, who grabbed his other arm.
“You haven’t been telling her about me, have you?” he demanded. “I’ll never live it down if you’ve told her that I’m only just learning how—”
“Nonono. She just wants you to help us. It’s a sort of quest.”
Nijel’s eyes gleamed.
“You mean a geas?” he said.
“Pardon?”
“It’s in the book. To be a proper hero it says you’ve got to labor under a geas.”
Rincewind’s forehead wrinkled. “Is it a sort of bird?”
“I think it’s more a sort of obligation, or something,” said Nijel, but without much certainty.
“Sounds more like a kind of bird to me,” said Rincewind, “I’m sure I read it in a bestiary once. Large. Couldn’t fly. Big pink legs, it had.” His face went blank as his ears digested what they had just heard his lips say.
Five seconds later they were out of the room, leaving behind four prone guards and the harem ladies themselves, who settled down for a bit of story-telling.
The desert rimwards of Al Khali is bisected by the river Tsort, famed in myth and lies, which insinuates its way through the brown landscapes like a long damp descriptive passage punctuated with sandbanks. And every sandbank is covered with sunbaked logs, and most of the logs are the kind of logs that have teeth, and most of the logs opened one lazy eye at the distant sounds of splashing from upstream, and suddenly most of the logs had legs. A dozen scaly bodies slipped into the turbid waters, which rolled over them again. The dark waters were unruffled, except for a few inconsequential V-shaped ripples.
The Luggage paddled gently down the stream. The water was making it feel a little better. It spun gently in the weak current, the focus of several mysterious little swirls that sped across the surface of the water.
The ripples converged.
The Luggage jerked. Its lid flew open. It shot under the surface with a brief, despairing creak.
The chocolate-colored waters of the Tsort rolled back again. They were getting good at it.
And the tower of sourcery loomed over Al Khali like a vast and beautiful fungus, the kind that appear in books with little skull-and-crossbones symbols beside them.
The Seriph’s guard had fought back, but there were now quite a lot of bewildered frogs and newts around the base of the tower, and they were the fortunate ones. They still had arms and legs, of a sort, and most of their essential organs were still on the inside. The city was under the rule of sourcery…martial lore.
Some of the buildings nearest the base of the tower were already turning into the bright white marble that the wizards obviously preferred.
The trio stared out through a hole in the palace walls.
“Very impressive,” said Conina critically. “Your wizards are more powerful than I thought.”
“Not my wizards,” said Rincewind. “I don’t know whose wizards they are. I don’t like it. All the wizards I knew couldn’t stick one brick on another.”
“I don’t like the idea of wizards ruling everybody,” said Nijel. “Of course, as a hero I am philosophically against the whole idea of wizardry in any case. The time will come when,” his eyes glazed slightly, as if he was trying to remember something he’d seen somewhere, “the time will come when all wizardry has gone from the face of the world and the sons of, of—anyway, we can all be a bit more practical about things,” he added lamely.
“Read it in a book, did you?” said Rincewind sourly. “Any geas in it?”
“He’s got a point,” said Conina. “I’ve nothing against wizards, but it’s not as if they do much good. They’re just a bit of decoration, really. Up to now.”
Rincewind pulled off his hat. It was battered, stained and covered with rock dust, bits of it had been sheared off, the point was dented and the star was shedding sequins like pollen, but the word ‘Wizzard’ was still just readable under the grime.
“See this?” he demanded, red in the face. “Do you see it? Do you? What does it tell you?”
“That you can’t spell?” said Nijel.
“What? No! It says I’m a wizard, that’s what! Twenty years behind the staff, and proud of it! I’ve done my time, I have! I’ve pas—I’ve sat dozens of exams! If all the spells I’ve read were piled on top of one another, they’d…it’d…you’d have a lot of spells!”
“Yes, but—” Conina began.
“Yes?”
“You’re not actually very good at them, are you?”
Rincewind glared at her. He tried to think of what to say next, and a small receptor area opened in his mind at the same time as an inspiration particle, its path bent and skewed by a trillion random events, screamed down through the atmosphere and burst silently just at the right spot.
“Talent just defines what you do,” he said. “It doesn’t define what you are. Deep down, I mean. When you know what you are, you can do anything.�
�
He thought a bit more and added, “That’s what makes sourcerers so powerful. The important thing is to know what you really are.”
There was a pause full of philosophy.
“Rincewind?” said Conina, kindly.
“Hmm?” said Rincewind, who was still wondering how the words got into his head.
“You really are an idiot. Do you know that?”
“You will all stand very still.”
Abrim the vizier stepped out of a ruined archway. He was wearing the Archchancellor’s hat.
The desert fried under the flame of the sun. Nothing moved except the shimmering air, hot as a stolen volcano, dry as a skull.
A basilisk lay panting in the baking shade of a rock, dribbling corrosive yellow slime. For the last five minutes its ears had been detecting the faint thump of hundreds of little legs moving unsteadily over the dunes, which seemed to indicate that dinner was on the way.
It blinked its legendary eyes and uncoiled twenty feet of hungry body, winding out and onto the sand like fluid death.
The Luggage staggered to a halt and raised its lid threateningly. The basilisk hissed, but a little uncertainly, because it had never seen a walking box before, and certainly never one with lots of alligator teeth stuck in its lid. There were also scraps of leathery hide adhering to it, as though it had been involved in a fight in a handbag factory, and in a way that the basilisk wouldn’t have been able to describe even if it could talk, it appeared to be glaring.
Right, the reptile thought, if that’s the way you want to play it.
It turned on the Luggage a stare like a diamond drill, a stare that nipped in via the staree’s eyeballs and flayed the brain from the inside, a stare that tore the frail net curtains on the windows of the soul, a stare that—
The basilisk realized something was very wrong. An entirely new and unwelcome sensation started to arise just behind its saucer-shaped eyes. It started small, like the little itch in those few square inches of back that no amount of writhing will allow you to scratch, and grew until it became a second, red-hot, internal sun.
The basilisk was feeling a terrible, overpowering and irresistible urge to blink…
It did something incredibly unwise.
It blinked.
“He’s talking through his hat,” said Rincewind.
“Eh?” said Nijel, who was beginning to realize that the world of the barbarian hero wasn’t the clean, simple place he had imagined in the days when the most exciting thing he had ever done was stack parsnips.
“The hat’s talking through him, you mean,” said Conina, and she backed away too, as one tends to do in the presence of horror.
“Eh?”
“I will not harm you. You have been of some service,” said Abrim, stepping forward with his hands out. “But you are right. He thought he could gain power through wearing me. Of course, it is the other way around. An astonishingly devious and clever mind.”
“So you tried his head on for size?” said Rincewind. He shuddered. He’d worn the hat. Obviously he didn’t have the right kind of mind. Abrim did have the right kind of mind, and now his eyes were gray and colorless, his skin was pale and he walked as though his body was hanging down from his head.
Nijel had pulled out his book and was riffling feverishly through the pages.
“What on earth are you doing?” said Conina, not taking her eyes off the ghastly figure.
“I’m looking up the Index of Wandering Monsters,” said Nijel. “Do you think it’s an Undead? They’re awfully difficult to kill, you need garlic and—”
“You won’t find this in there,” said Rincewind slowly. “It’s—it’s a vampire hat.”
“Of course, it might be a Zombie,” said Nijel, running his finger down a page. “It says here you need black pepper and sea salt, but—”
“You’re supposed to fight the bloody things, not eat them,” said Conina.
“This is a mind I can use,” said the hat. “Now I can fight back. I shall rally wizardry. There is room for only one magic in this world, and I embody it. Sourcery beware!”
“Oh, no,” said Rincewind under his breath.
“Wizardry has learned a lot in the last twenty centuries. This upstart can be beaten. You three will follow me.”
It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t even an order. It was a sort of forecast. The voice of the hat went straight to the hindbrain without bothering to deal with the consciousness, and Rincewind’s legs started to move of their own accord.
The other two also jerked forward, walking with the awkward doll-like jerking that suggested that they, too, were on invisible strings.
“Why the oh, no?” said Conina, “I mean, ‘Oh, no’ on general principles I can understand, but was there any particular reason?”
“If we get a chance we must run,” said Rincewind.
“Did you have anywhere in mind?”
“It probably won’t matter. We’re doomed anyway.”
“Why?” said Nijel.
“Well,” said Rincewind, “have you ever heard of the Mage Wars?”
There were a lot of things on the Disc that owed their origin to the Mage Wars. Sapient pearwood was one of them.
The original tree was probably perfectly normal and spent its days drinking groundwater and eating sunshine in a state of blessed unawareness and then the magic wars broke around it and pitchforked its genes into a state of acute perspicacity.
It also left it ingrained, as it were, with a bad temper. But sapient pearwood got off lightly.
Once, when the level of background magic on the Disc was young and high and found every opportunity to burst on the world, wizards were all as powerful as sourcerers and built their towers on every hilltop. And if there was one thing a really powerful wizard can’t stand, it is another wizard. His instinctive approach to diplomacy is to hex ’em till they glow, then curse them in the dark.
That could only mean one thing. All right, two things. Three things.
All-out. Thaumaturgical. War.
And there were of course no alliances, no sides, no deals, no mercy, no cease. The skies twisted, the seas boiled. The scream and whizz of fireballs turned the night into day, but that was all right because the ensuing clouds of black smoke turned the day into night. The landscape rose and fell like a honeymoon duvet, and the very fabric of space itself was tied in multidimensional knots and bashed on a flat stone down by the river of Time. For example, a popular spell at the time was Pelepel’s Temporal Compressor, which on one occasion resulted in a race of giant reptiles being created, evolving, spreading, flourishing and then being destroyed in the space of about five minutes, leaving only its bones in the earth to mislead forthcoming generations completely. Trees swam, fishes walked, mountains strolled down to the shops for a packet of cigarettes, and the mutability of existence was such that the first thing any cautious person would do when they woke up in the mornings was count their arms and legs.
That was, in fact, the problem. All the wizards were pretty evenly matched and in any case lived in high towers well protected with spells, which meant that most magical weapons rebounded and landed on the common people who were trying to scratch an honest living from what was, temporarily, the soil, and lead ordinary, decent (but rather short) lives.
But still the fighting raged, battering the very structure of the universe of order, weakening the walls of reality and threatening to topple the whole rickety edifice of time and space into the darkness of the Dungeon Dimensions…
One story said that the gods stepped in, but the gods don’t usually take a hand in human affairs unless it amuses them. Another one—and this was the one that the wizards themselves told, and wrote down in their books—was that the wizards themselves got together and settled their differences amicably for the good of mankind. And this was generally accepted as the true account, despite being as internally likely as a lead lifebelt.
The truth isn’t easily pinned to a page. In the bathtub of history the
truth is harder to hold than the soap, and much more difficult to find…
“What happened, then?” said Conina.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Rincewind, mournfully. “It’s going to start all over again. I can feel it. I’ve got this instinct. There’s too much magic flowing into the world. There’s going to be a horrible war. It’s all going to happen. The Disc is too old to take it this time. Everything’s been worn too thin. Doom, darkness and destruction bear down on us. The Apocralypse is nigh.”
“Death walks abroad,” added Nijel helpfully.
“What?” snapped Rincewind, angry at being interrupted.
“I said, Death walks abroad,” said Nijel.
“Abroad I don’t mind,” said Rincewind. “They’re all foreigners. It’s Death walking around here I’m not looking forward to.”
“It’s only a metaphor,” said Conina.
“That’s all you know. I’ve met him.”
“What did he look like?” said Nijel.
“Put it like this—”
“Yes?”
“He didn’t need a hairdresser.”
Now the sun was a blowlamp nailed to the sky, and the only difference between the sand and red-hot ash was the color.
The Luggage plodded erratically across the burning dunes. There were a few traces of yellow slime rapidly drying on its lid.
The lonely little oblong was watched, from atop of a stone pinnacle the shape and temperature of a firebrick, by a chimera.* The chimera was an extremely rare species, and this particular one wasn’t about to do anything to help matters.
It judged its moment carefully, kicked away with its talons, folded its leathery wings and plummeted down toward its victim.
The chimera’s technique was to swoop low over the prey, lightly boiling it with its fiery breath, and then turn and rend its dinner with its teeth. It managed the fire part but then, at the point where experience told the creature it should be facing a stricken and terrified victim, found itself on the ground in the path of a scorched and furious Luggage.
The only thing incandescent about the Luggage was its rage. It had spent several hours with a headache, during which it had seemed the whole world had tried to attack it. It had had enough.
Discworld 05 - Sourcery Page 16
