Sourcery - Страница 11

‘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 on to 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 round 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 round 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 crisps,’ volunteered Rincewind, and then added, ‘Well, that’s a bit strong. It eats crisps.’

‘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 hat-box. 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 honour 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.