Sourcery

She leaned against a wall and glared at him.
    “Listen,” she said, “There’s this long word, see, an old witch told me about it…can’t remember it…you wizards know about long words.”
    Rincewind thought about long words. “Marmalade?” he volunteered.
    She shook her head irritably. “It means you take after your parents.”
    Rincewind frowned. He wasn’t too good on the subject of parents.
    “Kleptomania? Recidivist?” he hazarded.
    “Begins with an H.”
    “Hedonism?” said Rincewind desperately.
    “ Herrydeterry ,” said Conina. “This witch explained it to me. My mother was a temple dancer for some mad god or other, and father rescued her, and—they stayed together for a while. They say I get my looks and figure from her.”
    “And very good they are, too,” said Rincewind, with hopeless gallantry.
    She blushed. “Yes, well, but from him I got sinews you could moor a boat with, reflexes like a snake on a hot tin, a terrible urge to steal things and this dreadful sensation every time I meet someone that I should be throwing a knife through his eye at ninety feet. I can, too,” she added with a trace of pride.
    “Gosh.”
    “It tends to put men off.”
    “Well, it would,” said Rincewind weakly.
    “I mean, when they find out, it’s very hard to hang onto a boyfriend.”
    “Except by the throat, I imagine,” said Rincewind.
    “Not what you really need to build up a proper relationship.”
    “No. I can see,” said Rincewind. “Still, pretty good if you want to be a famous barbarian thief.”
    “But not,” said Conina, “if you want to be a hairdresser.”
    “Ah.”
    They stared into the mist.
    “ Really a hairdresser?” said Rincewind.
    Conina sighed.
    “Not much call for a barbarian hairdresser, I expect,” said Rincewind. “I mean, no one wants a shampoo-and-beheading.”
    “It’s just that every time I see a manicure set I get this terrible urge to lay about me with a double-handed cuticle knife. I mean sword,” said Conina.
    Rincewind sighed. “I know how it is,” he said. “I wanted to be a wizard.”
    “But you are a wizard.”
    “Ah. Well, of course, but—”
    “Quiet!”
    Rincewind found himself rammed against the wall, where a trickle of condensed mist inexplicably began to drip down his neck. A broad throwing knife had mysteriously appeared in Conina’s hand, and she was crouched like a jungle animal or, even worse, a jungle human.
    “What—” Rincewind began.
    “Shut up!” she hissed. “Something’s coming!”
    She stood up in one fluid movement, spun on one leg and let the knife go.
    There was a single, hollow, wooden thud.
    Conina stood and stared. For once, the heroic blood that pounded through her veins, drowning out all chances of a lifetime in a pink pinny, was totally at a loss.
    “I’ve just killed a wooden box,” she said.
    Rincewind looked around the corner.
    The Luggage stood in the dripping street, the knife still quivering in its lid, and stared at her. Then it changed its position slightly, its little legs moving in a complicated tango pattern, and stared at Rincewind. The Luggage didn’t have any features at all, apart from a lock and a couple of hinges, but it could stare better than a rockful of iguanas. It could outstare a glass-eyed statue. When it came to a look of betrayed pathos, the Luggage could leave the average kicked spaniel moping back in its kennel. It had several arrowheads and broken swords sticking in it.
    “What is it?” hissed Conina.
    “It’s just the Luggage,” said Rincewind wearily.
    “Does it belong to you?”
    “Not really. Sort of.”
    “Is it dangerous?”
    The Luggage shuffled around to stare at her again.
    “There’s two schools of thought about that,” said Rincewind. “There’s some people who say it’s dangerous, and others who say it’s very dangerous. What do you think?”
    The Luggage raised its lid a fraction.
    The Luggage was made from the wood of the sapient peartree, a plant so magical that it had nearly died out on the Disc and survived only in one or two places; it was a sort of rosebay willowherb, only instead of bomb sites it sprouted in areas that had seen vast expenditures of magic. Wizards’ staves were traditionally made of it; so was the Luggage.
    Among the Luggage’s magical qualities was a fairly simple and direct one: it would follow its adopted owner anywhere. Not anywhere in any particular set of dimensions, or country, or universe, or lifetime.