Sourcery - A Novel Of Discworld Part 9

Hakardly raised an admonitory finger.

"You do not frighten me, young man," he snapped. "Talented you may be, but magical talent alone is not enough. There are many other qualities required of a great wizard. Administrative ability, for example, and wisdom, and the-"

Coin lowered his staff.

"The Lore applies to all wizards, does it not?" he said.

"Absolutely! It was drawn up-"

"But I am not a wizard, Lord Hakardly."

The wizard hesitated. "Ah," he said, and hesitated again. "Good point," he said.

"But I am well aware of the need for wisdom, foresight and good advice, and I would be honored if you could see your way clear to providing those much-valued commodities. For example-why is it that wizards do not rule the world?"

"What?"

"It is a simple question. There are in this room-" Coin's lips moved for a fraction of a second-"four hundred and seventy-two wizards, skilled in the most subtle of arts. Yet all you rule are these few acres of rather inferior architecture. Why is this?"

The most senior wizards exchanged knowing glances.

"Such it may appear," said Hakardly eventually, "but, my child, we have domains beyond the ken of the temporal power." His eyes gleamed. "Magic can surely take the mind to inner landscape of arcane-"

"Yes, yes," said Coin. "Yet there are extremely solid walls outside your University. Why is this?"

Carding ran his tongue over his lips. It was extraordinary. The child was speaking his thoughts.

"You squabble for power," said Coin, sweetly, "and yet, beyond these walls, to the man who carts nightsoil or the average merchant, is there really so much difference between a high-level mage and a mere conjuror?"

Hakardly stared at him in complete and untrammeled astonishment.

"Child, it's obvious to the meanest citizen," he said. "The robes and tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs themselves-"

"Ah," said Coin, "the robes and tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs. Of course."

A short, heavy and thoughtful silence filled the hall.

"It seems to me," said Coin eventually, "that wizards rule only wizards. Who rules in the reality outside?"

"As far as the city is concerned, that would be the Patrician, Lord Vetinari," said Carding with some caution.

"And is he a fair and just ruler?"

Carding thought about it. The Patrician's spy network was said to be superb. "I would say," he said carefully, "that he is unfair and unjust, but scrupulously evenhanded. He is unfair and unjust to everyone, without fear or favor."

"And you are content with this?" said Coin.

Carding tried not to catch Hakardly's eye.

"It's not a case of being content with it," he said. "I suppose we've not given it much thought. A wizard's true vocation, you see-"

"Is it really true that the wise suffer themselves to be ruled in this way?"

Carding growled. "Of course not! Don't be silly! We merely tolerate it. That's what wisdom is all about, you'll find that out when you grow up, it's a case of biding one's time-"

"Where is this Patrician? I would like to see him."

"That can be arranged, of course," said Carding. "The Patrician is always graciously pleased to grant wizards an interview, and-"

"Now I I will grant will grant him him an interview," said Coin. "He must learn that wizards have bided their time long enough. Stand back, please." an interview," said Coin. "He must learn that wizards have bided their time long enough. Stand back, please."

He pointed the staff.

The temporal ruler of the sprawling city of Ankh-Morpork was sitting in his chair at the foot of the steps leading up to the throne, looking for any signs of intelligence in intelligence reports. The throne had been empty for more than two thousand years, since the death of the last of the line of the kings of Ankh. Legend said that one day the city would have a king again, and went on with various comments about magic swords, strawberry birthmarks and all the other things that legends gabble on about in these circ.u.mstances.

In fact the only real qualification now was the ability to stay alive for more than about five minutes after revealing the existence of any magic swords or birthmarks, because the great merchant families of Ankh had been ruling the city for the last twenty centuries and were about to relinquish power as the average limpet is to let go of its rock.

The current Patrician, head of the extremely rich and powerful Vetinari family, was thin, tall and apparently as cold-blooded as a dead penguin. Just by looking at him you could tell he was the sort of man you'd expect to keep a white cat, and caress it idly while sentencing people to death in a piranha tank; and you'd hazard for good measure that he probably collected rare thin porcelain, turning it over and over in his blue-white fingers while distant screams echoed from the depths of the dungeons. You wouldn't put it past him to use the word "exquisite" and have thin lips. He looked the kind of person who, when they blink, you mark it off on the calendar.

Practically none of this was in fact the case, although he did have a small and exceedingly elderly wire-haired terrier called Wuffles that smelled badly and wheezed at people. It was said to be the only thing in the entire world he truly cared about. He did of course sometimes have people horribly tortured to death, but this was considered to be perfectly acceptable behavior for a civic ruler and generally approved of by the overwhelming majority of citizens.* The people of Ankh are of a practical persuasion, and felt that the Patrician's edict forbidding all street theater and mime artists made up for a lot of things. He didn't administer a reign of terror, just the occasional light shower. The people of Ankh are of a practical persuasion, and felt that the Patrician's edict forbidding all street theater and mime artists made up for a lot of things. He didn't administer a reign of terror, just the occasional light shower.

The Patrician sighed, and laid the latest report on top of the large heap beside the chair.

When he had been a little boy he had seen a showman who could keep a dozen plates spinning in the air. If the man had been capable of working the same trick with a hundred of them, Lord Vetinari considered, he would just about begin to be ready for training in the art of ruling Ankh-Morpork, a city once described as resembling an overturned termite heap without the charm.

He glanced out of the window at the distant pillar of the Tower of Art, the center of Unseen University, and wondered vaguely whether any of those tiresome old fools could come up with a better way of collating all this paperwork. They wouldn't, of course-you couldn't expect a wizard to understand anything as basic as elementary civic espionage.

He sighed again, and picked up the transcript of what the president of the Thieves' Guild had said to his deputy at midnight in the soundproof room hidden behind the office in the Guild headquarters, and...

Was in the Great Ha...

Was not not in the Great Hall of Unseen University, where he had spent some interminable dinners, but there were a lot of wizards around him and they were... in the Great Hall of Unseen University, where he had spent some interminable dinners, but there were a lot of wizards around him and they were...

...different.

Like Death, which some of the city's less fortunate citizens considered he intimately resembled, the Patrician never got angry until he had time to think about it. But sometimes he thought very quickly.

He stared around at the a.s.sembled wizards, but there was something about them that choked the words of outrage in his throat. They looked like sheep who had suddenly found a trapped wolf at exactly the same time as they heard about the idea of unity being strength.

There was something about their eyes.

"What is the meaning of this outr-" he hesitated, and concluded, "this? A merry Small G.o.ds' Day prank, is it?"

His eyes swivelled to meet those of a small boy holding a long metal staff. The child was smiling the oldest smile the Patrician had ever seen.

Carding coughed.

"My lord," he began.

"Out with it, man," snapped Lord Vetinari.

Carding had been diffident, but the Patrician's tone was just that tiny bit too peremptory. The wizard's knuckles went white.

"I am a wizard of the eighth level," he said quietly, "and you will not use that tone to me."

"Well said," said Coin.

"Take him to the dungeons," said Carding.

"We haven't got any dungeons," said Spelter. "This is a university."

"Then take him to the wine cellars," snapped Carding. "And while you're down there, build some dungeons."

"Have you the faintest inkling of what you are doing?" said the Patrician. "I demand to know the meaning of this-"

"You demand nothing at all," said Carding. "And the meaning is that from now on the wizards will rule, as it was ordained. Now take-"

"You? Rule Ankh-Morpork? Wizards who can barely govern themselves?"

"Yes!" Carding was aware that this wasn't the last word in repartee, and was even more alive to the fact that the dog Wuffles, who had been teleported along with his master, had waddled painfully across the floor and was peering short-sightedly at the wizard's boots.

"Then all truly wise men would prefer the safety of a nice deep dungeon," said the Patrician. "And now you will cease this foolery and replace me in my palace, and it is just possible that we will say no more about this. Or at least that you won't have the chance to."

Wuffles gave up investigating Carding's boots and trotted toward Coin, shedding a few hairs on the way.

"This pantomime pantomime has gone on long enough," said the Patrician. "Now I am getting-" has gone on long enough," said the Patrician. "Now I am getting-"

Wuffles growled. It was a deep, primeval noise, which struck a chord in the racial memory of all those present and filled them with an urgent desire to climb a tree. It suggested long gray shapes hunting in the dawn of time. It was astonis.h.i.+ng that such a small animal could contain so much menace, and all of it was aimed at the staff in Coin's hand.

The Patrician strode forward to s.n.a.t.c.h the animal, and Carding raised his hand and sent a blaze of orange and blue fire searing across the room.

The Patrician vanished. On the spot where he had been standing a small yellow lizard blinked and glared with malevolent reptilian stupidity.

Carding looked in astonishment at his fingers, as if for the first time.

"All right," he whispered hoa.r.s.ely.

The wizards stared down at the panting lizard, and then out at the city sparkling in the early morning light. Out there was the council of aldermen, the city watch, the Guild of Thieves, the Guild of Merchants, the priesthoods...and none of them knew what was about to hit them.

It has begun, said the hat, from its box on the deck.

"What has?" said Rincewind.

The rule of sourcery.

Rincewind looked blank. "Is that good?"

Do you ever understand anything anyone says to you?

Rincewind felt on firmer ground here. "No," he said. "Not always. Not lately. Not often."

"Are you sure you are are a wizard?" said Conina. a wizard?" said Conina.

"It's the only thing I've ever been sure of," he said, with conviction.

"How strange."

Rincewind sat on the Luggage in the sun on the foredeck of the Ocean Waltzer Ocean Waltzer as it lurched peacefully across the green waters of the Circle Sea. Around them men did what he was sure were important nautical things, and he hoped they were doing them correctly, because next to heights he hated depths most of all. as it lurched peacefully across the green waters of the Circle Sea. Around them men did what he was sure were important nautical things, and he hoped they were doing them correctly, because next to heights he hated depths most of all.

"You look worried," said Conina, who was cutting his hair. Rincewind tried to make his head as small as possible as the blades flashed by.

"That's because I am."

"What exactly is the Apocralypse?"

Rincewind hesitated. "Well," he said, "it's the end of the world. Sort of."

"Sort of? Sort of Sort of the end of the world? You mean we won't be certain? We'll look around and say 'Pardon me, did you hear something?'?" the end of the world? You mean we won't be certain? We'll look around and say 'Pardon me, did you hear something?'?"

"It's just that no two seers have ever agreed about it. There have been all kinds of vague predictions. Quite mad, some of them. So it was called the Apocralypse." He looked embarra.s.sed. "It's a sort of apocryphal Apocalypse. A kind of pun, you see."

"Not very good."

"No. I suppose not."*

Conina's scissors snipped busily.

"I must say the captain seemed quite happy to have us aboard," she observed.

"That's because they think it's lucky to have a wizard on the boat," said Rincewind. "It isn't, of course."

"Lots of people believe it," she said.

"Oh, it's lucky for other people, just not for me. I can't swim."

"What, not a stroke?"

Rincewind hesitated, and twiddled the star on his hat cautiously.