Sourcery

‘You put it on the floor upside down,’ said Rincewind.

Conina sat very still for a while. Then she said, ‘I must say this is very comfortable. It’s the first time I’ve ever flown on a carpet.’

‘It’s the first time I’ve ever flown one,’ said Rincewind vaguely.

‘You do it very well,’ she said.

‘Thank you.’

‘You said you were frightened of heights.’

‘Terrified.’

‘You don’t show it.’

‘I’m not thinking about it.’

Rincewind turned and looked at the tower behind them. It had grown quite a lot in the last minute, blossoming at the top into a complexity of turrets and battlements. A swarm of tiles was hovering over it, individual tiles swooping down and clinking into place like ceramic bees on a bombing run. It was impossibly high – the stones at the bottom would have been crushed if it wasn’t for the magic that crackled through them.

Well, that was just about it as far as organised wizardry was concerned. Two thousand years of peaceful magic had gone down the drain, the towers were going up again, and with all this new raw magic floating around something was going to get very seriously hurt. Probably the universe. Too much magic could wrap time and space around itself, and that wasn’t good news for the kind of person who had grown used to things like effects following things like causes.

And, of course, it would be impossible to explain things to his companions. They didn’t seem to grasp ideas properly; more particularly, they didn’t seem able to get the hang of doom. They suffered from the terrible delusion that something could be done. They seemed prepared to make the world the way they wanted it or die in the attempt, and the trouble with dying in the attempt was that you died in the attempt.

The whole point about the old University organisation was that it kept a sort of peace between wizards who got along with one another about as easily as cats in a sack, and now the gloves were off anyone who tried to interfere was going to end up severely scratched. This wasn’t the old, gentle, rather silly magic that the Disc was used to; this was magic war, white-hot and searing.

Rincewind wasn’t very good at precognition; in fact he could barely see into the present. But he knew with weary certainty that at some point in the very near future, like thirty seconds or so, someone would say: ‘Surely there’s something we could do?’

The desert passed below them, lit by the low rays of the setting sun.

‘There don’t seem to be many stars,’ said Nijel. ‘Perhaps they’re scared to come out.’

Rincewind looked up. There was a silver haze high in the air.

‘It’s raw magic settling out of the atmosphere,’ he said. ‘It’s saturated.’

Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twen—

‘Surely there’s—’ Conina began.

‘There isn’t,’ said Rincewind flatly, but with just the faintest twinge of satisfaction. ‘The wizards will fight each other until there’s one victor. There isn’t anything anyone else can do.’

‘I could do with a drink,’ said Creosote. ‘I suppose we couldn’t stop somewhere where I could buy an inn?’

‘What with?’ said Nijel, ‘You’re poor, remember?’

‘Poor I don’t mind,’ said the Seriph, ‘It’s sobriety that is giving me difficulties.’

Conina prodded Rincewind gently in the ribs.

‘Are you steering this thing?’ she said.

‘No.’

‘Then where is it going?’

Nijel peered downwards.

‘By the look of it,’ he said, ‘it’s going hubwards. Towards the Circle Sea.’

‘Someone must be guiding it.’

Hallo, said a friendly voice in Rincewind’s head.

You’re not my conscience again, are you? thought Rincewind.

I’m feeling really bad.

Well, I’m sorry, Rincewind thought, but none of this is my fault. I’m just a victim of circuses. I don’t see why I should take the blame.

Yes, but you could do something about it.

Like what?

You could destroy the sourcerer. All this would collapse then.

I wouldn’t stand a chance.

Then at least you could die in the attempt. That might be preferable to letting magical war break out.

‘Look, just shut up, will you?’ said Rincewind.

‘What?’ said Conina.

‘Um?’ said Rincewind, vaguely. He looked down blankly at the blue and gold pattern underneath him, and added, ‘You’re flying this, aren’t you? Through me! That’s sneaky!’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Oh. Sorry. Talking to myself.’

‘I think,’ said Conina, ‘that we’d better land.’

They glided down towards a crescent of beach where the desert reached the sea. In a normal light it would have been blinding white with a sand made up of billions of tiny shell fragments, but at this time of day it was blood-red and primordial. Ranks of drift-wood, carved by the waves and bleached by the sun, were piled up on the tideline like the bones of ancient fish or the biggest floral art accessory counter in the universe. Nothing stirred, apart from the waves. There were a few rocks around, but they were firebrick hot and home to no mollusc or seaweed.