Sourcery

hat’s voice from inside the glow. And so perish all enemies of wizardry .
    Rincewind wasn’t about to trust what a hat said.
    “We need something to shut the lid,” he muttered. “A knife or something. You wouldn’t have one, would you?”
    “Look the other way,” Conina warned.
    There was a rustle and another gust of perfume.
    “You can look back now.”
    Rincewind was handed a twelve-inch throwing knife. He took it gingerly. Little particles of metal glinted on its edge.
    “Thanks.” He turned back. “Not leaving you short, am I?”
    “I have others.”
    “I’ll bet.”
    Rincewind reached out gingerly with the knife. As it neared the leather box its blade went white and started to steam. He whimpered a little as the cold struck his hand—a burning, stabbing cold, a cold that crept up his arm and made a determined assault on his mind. He forced his numb fingers into action and, with great effort, nudged the edge of the lid with the tip of the blade.
    The glow faded. The snow became sleet, then melted into drizzle.
    Conina nudged him aside and pulled the box out of the frozen arms.
    “I wish there was something we could do for him. It seems wrong just to leave him here.”
    “He won’t mind,” said Rincewind, with conviction.
    “Yes, but we could at least lean him against the wall. Or something.”
    Rincewind nodded, and grabbed the frozen thief by his icicle arm. The man slipped out of his grasp and hit the cobbles.
    Where he shattered.
    Conina looked at the pieces.
    “Urg,” she said.
    There was a disturbance further up the alley, coming from the back door of the Troll’s Head. Rincewind felt the knife snatched from his hand and then go past his ear in a flat trajectory that ended in the doorpost twenty yards away. A head that had been sticking out withdrew hurriedly.
    “We’d better go,” said Conina, hurrying along the alley. “Is there somewhere we can hide? Your place?”
    “I generally sleep at the University,” said Rincewind, hopping along behind her.
    You must not return to the University , growled the hat from the depths of its box. Rincewind nodded distractedly. The idea certainly didn’t seem attractive.
    “Anyway, they don’t allow women inside after dark,” he said.
    “And before dark?”
    “Not then, either.”
    Conina sighed. “That’s silly. What have you wizards got against women, then?”
    Rincewind’s brow wrinkled. “We’re not supposed to put anything against women,” he said. “That’s the whole point.”

    Sinister gray mists rolled through the docks of Morpork, dripping from the rigging, coiling around the drunken rooftops, lurking in alleys. The docks at night were thought by some to be even more dangerous than the Shades. Two muggers, a sneak thief and someone who had merely tapped Conina on the shoulder to ask her the time had already found this out.
    “Do you mind if I ask you a question?” said Rincewind, stepping over the luckless pedestrian who lay coiled around his private pain.
    “Well?”
    “I mean, I wouldn’t like to cause offense.”
    “Well?”
    “It’s just that I can’t help noticing—”
    “Hmmm?”
    “You have this certain way with strangers.” Rincewind ducked, but nothing happened.
    “What are you doing down there?” said Conina, testily.
    “Sorry.”
    “I know what you’re thinking. I can’t help it, I take after my father.”
    “Who was he, then? Cohen the Barbarian?” Rincewind grinned to show it was a joke. At least, his lips moved in a desperate crescent.
    “No need to laugh about it, wizard.”
    “What?”
    “It’s not my fault.”
    Rincewind’s lips moved soundlessly. “Sorry,” he said. “Have I got this right? Your father really is Cohen the Barbarian ?”
    “Yes.” The girl scowled at Rincewind. “Everyone has to have a father,” she added. “Even you, I imagine.”
    She peered around a corner.
    “All clear. Come on,” she said, and then when they were striding along the damp cobbles she continued: “I expect your father was a wizard, probably.”
    “I shouldn’t think so,” said Rincewind. “Wizardry isn’t allowed to run in families.” He paused. He knew Cohen, he’d even been a guest at one of his weddings when he married a girl of Conina’s age; you could say this about Cohen, he crammed every hour full of minutes. “A lot of people would like to take after Cohen, I mean, he was the best fighter, the greatest thief, he—”
    “A lot of men would,” Conina snapped.