Sourcery

showing Rincewind’s lucky number.
    He was aware of the stares of several score of customers as he followed the demure and surprisingly small figure of Conina into the room. He looked sideways into the leering faces of men who would kill him sooner than think, and in fact would find it a great deal easier.
    Where a respectable tavern would have had a bar there was just a row of squat black bottles and a couple of big barrels on trestles against the wall.
    The silence tightened like a tourniquet. Any minute now, Rincewind thought.
    A big fat man wearing nothing but a fur vest and a leather loincloth pushed back his stool and lurched to his feet and winked evilly at his colleagues. When his mouth opened, it was like a hole with a hem.
    “Looking for a man, little lady?” he said.
    She looked up at him.
    “Please keep away.”
    A snake of laughter writhed around the room. Conina’s mouth snapped shut like a letterbox.
    “Ah,” the big man gurgled, “that’s right, I likes a girl with spirit—”
    Conina’s hand moved. It was a pale blur, stopping here and here : after a few seconds of disbelief the man gave a little grunt and folded up, very slowly.
    Rincewind shrank back as every other man in the room leaned forward. His instinct was to run, and he knew it was an instinct that would get him instantly killed. It was the Shades out there. Whatever was going to happen to him next was going to happen to him here. It was not a reassuring thought.
    A hand closed around his mouth. Two more grabbed the hatbox from his arms.
    Conina spun past him, lifting her skirt to place a neat foot on a target beside Rincewind’s waist. Someone whimpered in his ear and collapsed. As the girl pirouetted gracefully around she picked up two bottles, knocked out their bottoms on the shelf and landed with their jagged ends held out in front of her. Morpork daggers, they were called in the patois of the streets.
    In the face of them, the Troll’s Head’s clientele lost interest.
    “Someone got the hat,” Rincewind muttered through dry lips, “They slipped out of the back way.”
    She glared at him and made for the door. The Head’s crowd of customers parted automatically, like sharks recognizing another shark, and Rincewind darted anxiously after her before they came to any conclusion about him.
    They ran out into another alley and pounded down it. Rincewind tried to keep up with the girl; people following her tended to tread on sharp things, and he wasn’t sure she’d remember he was on her side, whatever side that was.
    A thin, half-hearted drizzle was falling. And at the end of the alley was a faint blue glow.
    “Wait!”
    The terror in Rincewind’s voice was enough to slow her down.
    “What’s wrong?”
    “Why’s he stopped?”
    “I’ll ask him,” said Conina, firmly.
    “Why’s he covered in snow?”
    She stopped and turned around, arms thrust into her sides, one foot tapping impatiently on the damp cobbles.
    “Rincewind, I’ve known you for an hour and I’m astonished you’ve lived even that long!”
    “Yes, but I have, haven’t I? I’ve got a sort of talent for it. Ask anyone. I’m an addict.”
    “Addicted to what?”
    “Life. I got hooked on it at an early age and I don’t want to give it up and take it from me, this doesn’t look right!”
    Conina looked back at the figure surrounded by the glowing blue aura. It seemed to be looking at something in its hands.
    Snow was settling on its shoulder like really bad dandruff. Terminal dandruff. Rincewind had an instinct for these things, and he had a deep suspicion that the man had gone where shampoo would be no help at all.
    They sidled along a glistening wall.
    “There’s something very strange about him,” she conceded.
    “You mean the way he’s got his own private blizzard?”
    “Doesn’t seem to upset him. He’s smiling.”
    “A frozen grin, I’d call it.”
    The man’s icicle-hung hands had been taking the lid off the box, and the glow from the hat’s octarines shone up into a pair of greedy eyes that were already heavily rimed with frost.
    “Know him?” said Conina.
    Rincewind shrugged. “I’ve seen him around,” he said. “He’s called Larry the Fox or Fezzy the Stoat or something. Some sort of rodent, anyway. He just steals things. He’s harmless.”
    “He looks incredibly cold.” Conina shivered.
    “I expect he’s gone to a warmer place. Don’t you think we should shut the box?”
    It’s perfectly safe now , said the