Sourcery

‘Then get me a dozen barrels of oil and all the kindling you can find! That ape’s gonna fry!’

From high in the Library roof, home of owls and bats and other things, there was a clink of chain and the sound of glass being broken as respectfully as possible.

———

‘They don’t look very worried,’ said Nijel, slightly affronted.

‘How can I put this?’ said Rincewind. ‘When they come to write the list of Great Battle Cries of the World, “Erm, excuse me” won’t be one of them.’

He stepped to one side. ‘I’m not with him,’ he said earnestly to a grinning guard. ‘I just met him, somewhere. In a pit.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘This sort of thing happens to me all the time,’ he said.

The guards stared through him.

‘Erm,’ he said.

‘Okay,’ he said.

He sidled back to Nijel.

‘Are you any good with that sword?’

Without taking his eyes off the guards, Nijel fumbled in his pack and handed Rincewind the book.

‘I’ve read the whole of chapter three,’ he said. ‘It’s got illustrations.’

Rincewind turned over the crumpled pages. The book had been used so hard you could have shuffled it, but what was probably once the front cover showed a rather poor woodcut of a muscular man. He had arms like two bags full of footballs, and he was standing knee-deep in languorous women and slaughtered victims with a smug expression on his face.

About him was the legend: Inne Juste 7 Dayes I wille make You a Barbearian Hero! Below it, in a slightly smaller type, was the name: Cohen the Barbarean. Rincewind rather doubted it. He had met Cohen and, while he could read after a fashion, the old boy had never really mastered the pen and still signed his name with an ‘X’, which he usually spelled wrong. On the other hand, he gravitated rapidly to anything with money in it.

Rincewind looked again at the illustration, and then at Nijel.

‘Seven days?’

‘Well, I’m a slow reader.’

‘Ah,’ said Rincewind.

‘And I didn’t bother with chapter six, because I promised my mother I’d stick with just the looting and pillaging, until I find the right girl.’

‘And this book teaches you how to be a hero?’

‘Oh, yes. It’s very good.’ Nijel gave him a worried glance. ‘That’s all right, isn’t it? It cost a lot of money.’

‘Well, er. I suppose you’d better get on with it, then.’

Nijel squared his, for want of a better word, shoulders, and waved his sword again.

‘You four had better just jolly well watch out,’ he said, ‘or … hold on a moment.’ He took the book from Rincewind and riffled through the pages until he found what he was looking for, and continued. ‘Yes, or “the chill winds of fate will blow through your bleached skeletons/the legions of Hell will drown your living soul in acid”. There. How d’you like them … excuse me a moment … apples?’

There was a metallic chord as four men drew their swords in perfect harmony.

Nijel’s sword became a blur. It made a complicated figure eight in the air in front of him, spun over his arm, flicked from hand to hand behind his back, seemed to orbit his chest twice, and leapt like a salmon.

One or two of the harem ladies broke into spontaneous applause. Even the guards looked impressed.

‘That’s a Triple Orcthrust with Extra Flip,’ said Nijel proudly. ‘I broke a lot of mirrors learning that. Look, they’re stopping.’

‘They’ve never seen anything like it, I imagine,’ said Rincewind weakly, judging the distance to the doorway.

‘I should think not.’

‘Especially the last bit, where it stuck in the ceiling.’

Nijel looked upwards.

‘Funny,’ he said, ‘it always did that at home, too. I wonder what I’m doing wrong.’

‘Search me.’

‘Gosh, I’m sorry,’ said Nijel, as the guards seemed to realise that the entertainment was over and closed in for the kill.

‘Don’t blame yourself—’ said Rincewind, as Nijel reached up and tried unsuccessfully to free the blade.

‘Thank you.’

‘—I’ll do it for you.’

Rincewind considered his next step. In fact, he considered several steps. But the door was too far away and anyway, by the sound of it, things were not a lot healthier out there.

There was only one thing for it. He’d have to try magic.

He raised his hand and two of the men fell over. He raised his other hand and the other two fell over.

Just as he was beginning to wonder about this, Conina stepped daintily over the prone bodies, idly rubbing the sides of her hands.

‘I thought you’d never turn up,’ she said. ‘Who’s your friend?’

———

As has already been indicated, the Luggage seldom shows any sign of emotion, or at least any emotion less extreme than blind rage and hatred, and therefore it is hard to gauge its feelings when it woke up, a few miles outside Al Khali, on its lid in a dried-up wadi with its legs in the air.

Even a few minutes after dawn the air was like the breath of a furnace. After a certain amount of rocking the Luggage managed to get most of its feet pointing the right way, and stood doing a complicated slow-motion jig to keep as few of them on the burning sand as possible.