Sourcery - A Novel Of Discworld Part 2

"Oh, G.o.ds," he said. "Look at that!"

"Oook?"

There was a s.h.i.+ny black tide flowing out of a grating near the kitchens. Early evening starlight glinted off millions of little black backs.

But it wasn't the sight of the c.o.c.kroaches that was so upsetting. It was the fact that they were marching in step, a hundred abreast. Of course, like all the informal inhabitants of the University the roaches were a little unusual, but there was something particularly unpleasant about the sound of billions of very small feet hitting the stones in perfect time.

Rincewind stepped gingerly over the marching column. The Librarian jumped it.

The Luggage, of course, followed them with a noise like someone tapdancing over a bag of potato chips.

And so, forcing the Luggage to go all the way around to the gates anyway, because otherwise it'd only batter a hole in the wall, Rincewind quit the University with all the other insects and small frightened rodents and decided that if a few quiet beers wouldn't allow him to see things in a different light, then a few more probably would. It was certainly worth a try.

That was why he wasn't present in the Great Hall for dinner. It would turn out to be the most important missed meal of his life.

Further along the University wall there was a faint clink as a grapnel caught the spikes that lined its top. A moment later a slim, black-clad figure dropped lightly into the University grounds and ran soundlessly toward the Great Hall, where it was soon lost in the shadows.

No-one would have noticed it anyway. On the other side of the campus the Sourcerer was walking toward the gates of the University. Where his feet touched the cobbles blue sparks crackled and evaporated the early evening dew.

It was very very hot. The big fireplace at the turnwise end of the Great Hall was practically incandescent. Wizards feel the cold easily, so the sheer blast of heat from the roaring logs was melting candles twenty feet away and bubbling the varnish on the long tables. The air over the feast was blue with tobacco smoke, which writhed into curious shapes as it was bent by random drifts of magic. On the center table the complete carca.s.s of a whole roast pig looked extremely annoyed at the fact that someone had killed it without waiting for it to finish its apple, and the model University made of b.u.t.ter was sinking gently into a pool of grease. hot. The big fireplace at the turnwise end of the Great Hall was practically incandescent. Wizards feel the cold easily, so the sheer blast of heat from the roaring logs was melting candles twenty feet away and bubbling the varnish on the long tables. The air over the feast was blue with tobacco smoke, which writhed into curious shapes as it was bent by random drifts of magic. On the center table the complete carca.s.s of a whole roast pig looked extremely annoyed at the fact that someone had killed it without waiting for it to finish its apple, and the model University made of b.u.t.ter was sinking gently into a pool of grease.

There was a lot of beer about. Here and there red-faced wizards were happily singing ancient drinking songs which involved a lot of knee-slapping and cries of "Ho!" The only possible excuse for this sort of thing is that wizards are celibate, and have to find their amus.e.m.e.nt where they can.

Another reason for the general conviviality was the fact that no one was trying to kill anyone else. This is an unusual state of affairs in magical circles.

The higher levels of wizardry are a perilous place. Every wizard is trying to dislodge the wizards above him while stamping on the fingers of those below; to say that wizards are healthily compet.i.tive by nature is like saying that piranhas are naturally a little peckish. However, ever since the great Mage Wars left whole areas of the Disc uninhabitable*, wizards have been forbidden to settle their differences by magical means, because it caused a lot of trouble for the population at large and in any case it was often difficult to tell which of the resultant patches of smoking fat had been the winner. So they traditionally resort to knives, subtle poisons, scorpions in shoes and hilarious b.o.o.by traps involving razor-sharp pendulums.

On Small G.o.ds' Eve, however, it was considered extremely bad form to kill a brother wizard, and wizards felt able to let their hair down without fear of being strangled with it.

The Archchancellor's chair was empty. Wayzygoose was dining alone in his study, as befits a man chosen by the G.o.ds after their serious discussion with sensible senior wizards earlier in the day. Despite his eighty years, he was feeling a little bit nervous and hardly touched his second chicken.

In a few minutes he would have to make a speech. Wayzygoose had, in his younger days, sought power in strange places; he'd wrestled with demons in blazing octagrams, stared into dimensions that men were not meant to know of, and even outfaced the Unseen University grants committee, but nothing in the eight circles of nothingness was quite so bad as a couple of hundred expectant faces staring up at him through the cigar smoke.

The heralds would soon be coming by to collect him. He sighed and pushed his pudding away untasted, crossed the room, stood in front of the big mirror, and fumbled in the pocket of the robe for his notes.

After a while he managed to get them in some sort of order and cleared his throat.

"My brothers in art," he began, "I cannot tell you how much I-er, how much...fine traditions of this ancient university...er...as I look around me and see the pictures of Archchancellors gone before..." He paused, sorted through his notes again, and plunged on rather more certainly. "Standing here tonight I am reminded of the story about the three-legged pedlar and the, er, merchant's daughters. It seems that this merchant..."

There was a knock at the door.

"Enter," Wayzygoose barked, and peered at the notes carefully.

"This merchant," he muttered, "this merchant, yes, this merchant had three daughters. I think it was. Yes. It was three. It would appear..."

He looked into the mirror, and turned round.

He started to say, "Who are y-"

And found that there are things worse than making speeches, after all.

The small dark figure creeping along the deserted corridors heard the noise, and didn't take too much notice. Unpleasant noises were not uncommon in areas where magic was commonly practiced. The figure was looking for something. It wasn't sure what it was, only that it would know it when it found it.

After some minutes its search led it to Wayzygoose's room. The air was full of greasy coils. Little particles of soot drifted gently on the air currents, and there were several foot-shaped burn marks on the floor.

The figure shrugged. There was no accounting for the sort of things you found in wizard's rooms. It caught sight of its multi-faceted reflection in the shattered mirror, adjusted the set of its hood, and got on with the search.

Moving like one listening to inner directions, it padded noiselessly across the room until it reached the table whereon stood a tall, round and battered leather box. It crept closer and gently raised the lid.

The voice from inside sounded as though it was talking through several layers of carpet when it said, At last. What kept you? At last. What kept you?

"I mean, how did they all get started? I mean, back in the old times, there were real wizards, there was none of this levels business. They just went out and-did it. Pow!"

One or two of the other customers in the darkened bar of the Mended Drum tavern looked around hastily at the noise. They were new in town. Regular customers never took any notice of surprising noises like groans or unpleasantly gristly sounds. It was a lot healthier. In some parts of the city curiosity didn't just kill the cat, it threw it in the river with lead weights tied to its feet.

Rincewind's hands weaved unsteadily over the array of empty gla.s.ses on the table in front of him. He'd almost been able to forget about the c.o.c.kroaches. After another drink he might manage to forget about the mattress, too.

"Whee! A fireball! Fizz! Vanis.h.i.+ng like smoke! Whee!-Sorry."

The Librarian carefully pulled what remained of his beer out of the reach of Rincewind's flailing arms.

"Proper magic." Rincewind stifled a belch.

"Oook."

Rincewind stared into the frothy remnants of his last beer, and then, with extreme care in case the top of his head fell off, leaned down and poured some into a saucer for the Luggage. It was lurking under the table, which was a relief. It usually embarra.s.sed him in bars by sidling up to drinkers and terrorizing them into feeding it potato chips.

He wondered fuzzily where his train of thought had been derailed.

"Where was I?"

"Oook," the Librarian hinted.

"Yeah." Rincewind brightened. "They didn't have all this levels and grades business, you know. They had sourcerers in those days. They went out in the world and found new spells and had adventures-" didn't have all this levels and grades business, you know. They had sourcerers in those days. They went out in the world and found new spells and had adventures-"

He dipped a finger in a puddle of beer and doodled a design on the stained, scratched timber of the table.

One of Rincewind's tutors had said of him that "to call his understanding of magical theory abysmal abysmal is to leave no suitable word to describe his grasp of its practice." This had always puzzled him. He objected to the fact that you had to be good at magic to be a wizard. He is to leave no suitable word to describe his grasp of its practice." This had always puzzled him. He objected to the fact that you had to be good at magic to be a wizard. He knew knew he was a wizard, deep in his head. Being good at magic didn't have anything to do with it. That was just an extra, it didn't actually he was a wizard, deep in his head. Being good at magic didn't have anything to do with it. That was just an extra, it didn't actually define define somebody. somebody.

"When I was a little boy," he said wistfully, "I saw this picture of a sourcerer in a book. He was standing on a mountain top waving his arms and the waves were coming right up, you know, like they do down in Ankh Bay in a gale, and there were flashes of lightning all around him-"

"Oook?"

"I don't know why they didn't, perhaps he had rubber boots on," Rincewind snapped, and went on dreamily, "And he had this staff and a hat on, just like mine, and his eyes were sort of glowing and there was all this sort of like glitter glitter coming out of his fingertips, and I thought one day I'll do that, and-" coming out of his fingertips, and I thought one day I'll do that, and-"

"Oook?"

"Just a half, then."

"Oook."

"How do you pay for this stuff? Every time anyone gives you any money you eat it."

"Oook."

"Amazing."

Rincewind completed his sketch in the beer. There was a stick figure on a cliff. It didn't look much like him-drawing in stale beer is not a precise art-but it was meant to.

"That's what I wanted to be," he said. "Pow! Not all this messing around. All this books and stuff, that isn't what it should all be about. What we need is real wizardry."

That last remark would have earned the prize for the day's most erroneous statement if Rincewind hadn't then said: "It's a pity there aren't any of them around anymore."

Spelter rapped on the table with his spoon.

He was an impressive figure, in his ceremonial robe with the purple-and-vermine* hood of the Venerable Council of Seers and the yellow sash of a fifth level wizard; he'd been fifth level for three years, waiting for one of the sixty-four sixth level wizards to create a vacancy by dropping dead. He was in an amiable mood, however. Not only had he just finished a good dinner, he also had in his quarters a small vial of a guaranteed untastable poison which, used correctly, should guarantee him promotion within a few months. Life looked good. hood of the Venerable Council of Seers and the yellow sash of a fifth level wizard; he'd been fifth level for three years, waiting for one of the sixty-four sixth level wizards to create a vacancy by dropping dead. He was in an amiable mood, however. Not only had he just finished a good dinner, he also had in his quarters a small vial of a guaranteed untastable poison which, used correctly, should guarantee him promotion within a few months. Life looked good.

The big clock at the end of the hall trembled on the verge of nine o'clock.

The tattoo with the spoon hadn't had much effect. Spelter picked up a pewter tankard and brought it down hard.

"Brothers!" he shouted, and nodded as the hubbub died away. "Thank you. Be upstanding, please, for the ceremony of the, um, keys."

There was a ripple of laughter and a general buzz of expectancy as the wizards pushed back their benches and got unsteadily to their feet.

The double doors to the hall were locked and triple barred. An incoming Archchancellor had to request entry three times before they would be unlocked, signifying that he was appointed with the consent of wizardry in general. Or some such thing. The origins were lost in the depths of time, which was as good a reason as any for retaining the custom.

The conversation died away. The a.s.sembled wizardry stared at the doors.

There was a soft knocking.

"Go away!" shouted the wizards, some of them collapsing at the sheer subtlety of the humor.

Spelter picked up the great iron ring that contained the keys to the University. They weren't all metal. They weren't all visible. Some of them looked very strange indeed.

"Who is that who knocketh without?" he intoned.

"I do."

What was strange about the voice was this: it seemed to every wizard that the speaker was standing right behind him. Most of them found themselves looking over their shoulders.

In that moment of shocked silence there was the sharp little snick of the lock. They watched in fascinated horror as the iron bolts traveled back of their own accord; the great oak beams of timber, turned by Time into something tougher than rock, slid out of their sockets; the hinges flared from red through yellow to white and then exploded. Slowly, with a terrible inevitability, the doors fell into the hall.

There was an indistinct figure standing in the smoke from the burning hinges.

"b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, Virrid," said one of the wizards nearby, "that was a good one."

As the figure strode into the light they could all see that it was not, after all, Virrid Wayzygoose.

He was at least a head shorter than any other wizard, and wore a simple white robe. He was also several decades younger; he looked about ten years old, and in one hand he held a staff considerably taller than he was.

"Here, he's no wizard-"

"Where's his hood, then?"

"Where's his hat hat?"

The stranger walked up the line of astonished wizards until he was standing in front of the top table. Spelter looked down at a thin young face framed by a ma.s.s of blond hair, and most of all he looked into two golden eyes that glowed from within. But he felt they weren't looking at him. They seemed to be looking at a point six inches beyond the back of his head. Spelter got the impression that he was in the way, and considerably surplus to immediate requirements.

He rallied his dignity and pulled himself up to his full height.

"What is the meaning of, um, this?" he said. It was pretty weak, he had to admit, but the steadiness of that incandescent glare appeared to be stripping all the words out of his memory.

"I have come," said the stranger.

"Come? Come for what?"

"To take my place. Where is the seat for me?"

"Are you a student?" demanded Spelter, white with anger. "What is your name, young man?"

The boy ignored him and looked around at the a.s.sembled wizards.

"Who is the most powerful wizard here?" he said. "I wish to meet him."

Spelter nodded his head. Two of the college porters, who had been sidling toward the newcomer for the last few minutes, appeared at either elbow.

"Take him out and throw him in the street," said Spelter. The porters, big solid serious men, nodded. They gripped the boy's pipestem arms with hands like banana bunches.