Sourcery

Anywhere . It was about as easy to shake off as a head cold and considerably more unpleasant.
    The Luggage was also extremely protective of its owner. It would be hard to describe its attitude to the rest of creation, but one could start with the phrase “bloody-minded malevolence” and work up from there.
    Conina stared at that lid. It looked very much like a mouth.
    “I think I’d vote for ‘terminally dangerous,’” she said.
    “It likes potato chips,” volunteered Rincewind, and then added, “Well, that’s a bit strong. It eats potato chips.”
    “What about people?”
    “Oh, and people. About fifteen so far, I think.”
    “Were they good or bad?”
    “Just dead, I think. It also does your laundry for you, you put your clothes in and they come out washed and ironed.”
    “And covered in blood?”
    “You know, that’s the funny thing,” said Rincewind.
    “The funny thing?” repeated Conina, her eyes not leaving the Luggage.
    “Yes, because, you see, the inside isn’t always the same, it’s sort of multidimensional, and—”
    “How does it feel about women?”
    “Oh, it’s not choosy. It ate a book of spells last year. Sulked for three days and then spat it out.”
    “It’s horrible,” said Conina, and backed away.
    “Oh, yes,” said Rincewind, “absolutely.”
    “I mean the way it stares!”
    “It’s very good at it, isn’t it?”
    We must leave for Klatch , said a voice from the hatbox. One of these boats will be adequate. Commandeer it .
    Rincewind looked at the dim, mist-wreathed shapes that loomed in the mist under a forest of rigging. Here and there a riding light made a little fuzzy ball of light in the gloom.
    “Hard to disobey, isn’t it?” said Conina.
    “I’m trying,” said Rincewind. Sweat prickled on his forehead.
    Go aboard now , said the hat. Rincewind’s feet began to shuffle of their own accord.
    “Why are you doing this to me?” he moaned.
    Because I have no alternative. Believe me, if I could have found an eighth level mage I would have done so. I must not be worn!
    “Why not? You are the Archchancellor’s hat.”
    And through me speak all the Archchancellors who ever lived. I am the University. I am the Lore. I am the symbol of magic under the control of men—and I will not be worn by a sourcerer! There must be no more sourcerers! The world is too worn out for sourcery!
    Conina coughed.
    “Did you understand any of that?” she said, cautiously.
    “I understood some of it, but I didn’t believe it,” said Rincewind. His feet remained firmly rooted to the cobbles.
    They called me a figurehat! The voice was heavy with sarcasm. Fat wizards who betray everything the University ever stood for, and they called me a figurehat! Rincewind, I command you. And you, madam. Serve me well and I will grant you your deepest desire .
    “How can you grant my deepest desire if the world’s going to end?”
    The hat appeared to think about it. Well, have you got a deepest desire that need only take a couple of minutes?
    “Look, how can you do magic? You’re just a—” Rincewind’s voice trailed off.
    I AM magic. Proper magic. Besides, you don’t get worn by some of the world’s greatest wizards for two thousand years without learning a few things. Now. We must flee .
    But with dignity of course .
    Rincewind looked pathetically at Conina, who shrugged again.
    “Don’t ask me,” she said. “This looks like an adventure. I’m doomed to have them, I’m afraid. That’s genetics * for you.”
    “But I’m no good at them! Believe me, I’ve been through dozens!” Rincewind wailed.
    Ah. Experience , said the hat.
    “No, really, I’m a terrible coward, I always run away.” Rincewind’s chest heaved. “Danger has stared me in the back of the head, oh, hundreds of times!”
    I don’t want you to go into danger .
    “Good!”
    I want you to stay OUT of danger .
    Rincewind sagged. “Why me?” he moaned.
    For the good of the University. For the honor of wizardry. For the sake of the world. For your heart’s desire. And I’ll freeze you alive if you don’t .
    Rincewind breathed a sigh almost of relief. He wasn’t good on bribes, or cajolery, or appeals to his better nature. But threats, now, threats were familiar. He knew where he was with threats.

    The sun dawned on Small Gods’ Day like a badly poached egg. The mists had closed in over Ankh-Morpork in streamers of silver and gold—damp, warm, silent. There was the distant grumbling of