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 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[9] 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.
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-coloured 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 towards 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 mesmerised 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 longfingered 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: