Sourcery

as though reciting.
    “What, just like that?” said Nijel.
    “Yes.”
    “I don’t believe it,” said Conina. She was beginning to crouch, her knuckles whitening.
    “It is true,” said Coin. “Everything I say is true. It has to be.”
    “I want to—” Conina began, and Coin stood up, extended a hand and said, “Stop.”
    She froze. Nijel stiffened in mid-frown.
    “You will leave,” said Coin, in a pleasant, level voice, “and you will ask no more questions. You will be totally satisfied. You have all your answers. You will live happily ever after. You will forget hearing these words. You will go now.”
    They turned slowly and woodenly, like puppets, and trooped to the door. The Librarian opened it for them, ushered them through and shut it behind them.
    Then he stared at Coin, who sagged back onto the stool.
    “All right, all right,” said the boy, “but it was only a little magic. I had to. You said yourself people had to forget.”
    “Oook?”
    “I can’t help it! It’s too easy to change things!” He clutched his head. “I’ve only got to think of something! I can’t stay, everything I touch goes wrong, it’s like trying to sleep on a heap of eggs! This world is too thin! Please tell me what to do! ”
    The Librarian spun around on his bottom a few times, a sure sign of deep thought.
    Exactly what he said is not recorded, but Coin smiled, nodded, shook the Librarian’s hand, and opened his own hands and drew them up and around him and stepped into another world. It had a lake in, and some distant mountains, and a few pheasants watching him suspiciously from under the trees. It was the magic all sourcerers learned, eventually.
    Sourcerers never become part of the world. They merely wear it for a while.
    He looked back, halfway across the turf, and waved at the Librarian. The ape gave him an encouraging nod.
    And then the bubble shrank inside itself, and the last sourcerer vanished from this world and into a world of his own.

    Although it has nothing much to do with the story, it is an interesting fact that, about five hundred miles away, a small flock, or rather in this case a herd, of birds were picking their way cautiously through the trees. They had heads like a flamingo, bodies like a turkey, and legs like a Sumo wrestler; they walked in a jerky, bobbing fashion, as though their heads were attached to their feet by elastic bands. They belonged to a species unique even among Disc fauna, in that their prime means of defense was to cause a predator to laugh so much that they could run away before it recovered.
    Rincewind would have been vaguely satisfied to know that they were geas.

    Custom was slow in the Mended Drum. The troll chained to the doorpost sat in the shade and reflectively picked someone out of his teeth.
    Creosote was singing softly to himself. He had discovered been and wasn’t having to pay for it, because the coinage of compliments—rarely employed by the swains of Ankh—was having an astonishing effect on the landlord’s daughter. She was a large, good-natured girl, with a figure that was the color and, not to put too fine a point on it, the same shape as unbaked bread. She was intrigued. No one had ever referred to her breasts as jewelled melons before.
    “Absolutely,” said the Seriph, sliding peacefully off his bench, “no doubt about it.” Either the big yellow sort or the small green ones with huge warty veins, he told himself virtuously.
    “And what was that about my hair?” she said encouragingly, hauling him back and refiling his glass.
    “Oh.” The Seriph’s brow wrinkled. “Like a goat of flocks that grazes on the slopes of Mount Wossname, and no mistake. And as for your ears,” he added quickly, “no pink-hued shells that grace the sea-kissed sands of—”
    “Exactly how like a flock of goats?” she said.
    The Seriph hesitated. He’d always considered it one of his best lines. Now it was meeting Ankh-Morpork’s famous literal-mindedness head-on for the first time. Strangely enough, he felt rather impressed.
    “I mean, in size, shape or smell?” she went on.
    “I think,” said the Seriph, “that perhaps the phrase I had in mind was exactly not like a flog of gits.”
    “Ah?” The girl pulled the flagon toward her.
    “And I think perhaps I would like another drink,” he said indistinctly, “and then—and then—” He looked sideways at the girl, and took the plunge. “Are you much of a raconteur?”
    “What?”
    He licked