The Light Fantastic

hiding under the table. There was the sudden zip and zing of magic.
    “Bugger!” said a voice outside. “They’ve got him! Let’s go!”
    There was more creaking, and then silence. After a while Twoflower said, “Rincewind, I think there’s a broomstick in this cupboard.”
    “Well, what’s so unusual about that?”
    “This one’s got handlebars.”
    There was a piercing shriek from below. In the darkness a wizard had tried to open the Luggage’s lid. A crash from the scullery indicated the sudden arrival of a party of Illuminated Mages of the Unbroken Circle.
    “What do you think they’re after?” whispered Twoflower.
    “I don’t know, but I think it might be a good idea not to find out,” said Rincewind thoughtfully.
    “You could be right.”
    Rincewind pushed open the door gingerly. The room was empty. He tiptoed across to the window, and looked down into the upturned faces of three Brothers of the Order of Midnight.
    “That’s him!”
    He drew back hurriedly and rushed for the stairs.
    The scene below was indescribable but since that statement would earn the death penalty in the reign of Olaf Quimby II the attempt better be made. Firstly, most of the struggling wizards were trying to illuminate the scene by various flames, fireballs and magical glows, so the overall lighting gave the impression of a disco in a strobe-light factory; each man was trying to find a position from which he could see the rest of the room without being attacked himself, and absolutely everyone was trying to keep out of the way of the Luggage, which had two Venerable Seers pinned in a corner and was snapping its lid at anyone who approached. But one wizard did happen to look up.
    “It’s him!”
    Rincewind jerked back, and something bumped into him. He looked around hurriedly, and stared when he saw Twoflower sitting on the broomstick—which was floating in midair.
    “The witch must have left it behind!” said Twoflower. “A genuine magic broomstick!”
    Rincewind hesitated. Octarine sparks were spitting off the broomstick’s bristles and he hated heights almost more than anything else, but what he really hated more than anything at all was a dozen very angry and bad-tempered wizards rushing up the stairs toward him, and this was happening.
    “All right,” he said, “but I’ll drive.”
    He lashed out with a boot at a wizard who was halfway through a Spell of Binding and jumped onto the broomstick, which bobbed down the stairwell and then turned upside down so that Rincewind was horribly eye to eye with a Brother of Midnight.
    He yelped and gave the handlebars a convulsive twist.
    Several things happened at once. The broomstick shot forward and broke through the wall in a shower of crumbs; the Luggage surged forward and bit the Brother in the leg; and with a strange whistling sound an arrow appeared from nowhere, missed Rincewind by inches, and struck the Luggage’s lid with a very solid thud.
    The Luggage vanished.

    In a little village deep in the forest an ancient shaman threw a few more twigs on his fire and stared through the smoke at his shamefaced apprentice.
    “A box with legs on?” he said.
    “Yes, master. It just appeared out of the sky and looked at me,” said the apprentice.
    “It had eyes then, this box?”
    “N—” began the apprentice and stopped, puzzled. The old man frowned.
    “Many have seen Topaxci, God of the Red Mushroom, and they earn the name of shaman,” he said. “Some have seen Skelde, spirit of the smoke, and they are called sorcerers. A few have been privileged to see Umcherrel, the soul of the forest, and they are known as spirit masters. But none have seen a box with hundreds of legs that looked at them without eyes, and they are known as idio—”
    The interruption was caused by a sudden screaming noise and a flurry of snow and sparks that blew the fire across the dark hut; there was a brief blurred vision and then the opposite wall was blasted aside and the apparition vanished.
    There was a long silence. Then a slightly shorter silence. Then the old shaman said carefully, “You didn’t just see two men go through upside down on a broomstick, shouting and screaming at each other, did you?”
    The boy looked at him levelly. “Certainly not,” he said.
    The old man heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness for that,” he said. “Neither did I.”

    The cottage was in turmoil, because not only did the wizards want to follow the broomstick, they also wanted to