Sourcery (Discworld, #5).pdf

Sourcery

by Terry Pratchett

v1.0 (01-feb-01) by 4i Publications. Layout corrections and quick proof in Word2000.

DEDICATION

Many years ago I saw, in Bath, a very large American lady towing a huge tartan suitcase very

fast on little rattly wheels which caught in the pavement cracks and generally gave it a life of its

own. At that moment the Luggage was born. Many thanks to that lady and everyone else in

places like Power Cable, Neb., who don't get nearly enough encouragement.

This book does not contain a map. Please feel free to draw your own.

There was a man and he had eight sons. Apart from that, he was nothing more than a comma

on the page of History. It's sad, but that's all you can say about some people.

But the eighth son grew up and married and had eight sons, and because there is only one

suitable profession for the eighth son of an eighth son, he became a wizard. And he became wise

and powerful, or at any rate powerful, and wore a pointed hat and there it would have ended ...

Should have ended ...

But against the Lore of Magic and certainly against all reason-except the reasons of the heart,

which are warm and messy and, well, unreasonable - he fled the halls of magic and fell in love

and got married, not necessarily in that order.

And he had seven sons, each one from the cradle at least as powerful as any wizard in the world.

And then he had an eighth son ...

A wizard squared. A source of magic.

A sourcerer.

Summer thunder rolled around the sandy cliffs. Far below, the sea sucked on the shingle as

noisily as an old man with one tooth who had been given a gobstopper. A few seagulls hung

lazily in the updraughts, waiting for something to happen.

And the father of wizards sat among the thrift and rattling sea grasses at the edge of the cliff,

cradling the child in his arms, staring out to sea.

There was a roil of black cloud out there, heading inland, and the light it pushed before it had

that deep syrup quality it gets before a really serious thunderstorm.

He turned at a sudden silence behind him, and looked up through tear-reddened eyes at a tall

hooded figure in a black robe.

IPSLORE THE RED? it said. The voice was as hollow as a cave, as dense as a neutron star.

Ipslore grinned the terrible grin of the suddenly mad, and held up the child for Death's

inspection.

'My son,' he said. 'I shall call him Coin.'

A NAME AS GOOD AS ANY OTHER, said Death politely. His empty sockets stared down at a small

round face wrapped in sleep. Despite rumour, Death isn't cruel-merely terribly, terribly good at

his job.

'You took his mother,' said Ipslore. It was a flat statement, without apparent rancour. In the

valley behind the cliffs Ipslore's homestead was a smoking ruin, the rising wind already spreading

the fragile ashes across the hissing dunes.

IT WAS A HEART ATTACK AT THE END, said Death. THERE ARE WORSE WAYS TO DIE. TAKE IT

FROM ME.

Ipslore looked out to sea. 'All my magic could not save her,' he said.

THERE ARE PLACES WHERE EVEN MAGIC MAY NOT GO.

'And now you have come for the child?'

NO. THE CHILD HAS HIS OWN DESTINY I HAVE COME FOR YOU.

'Ah.' The wizard stood up, carefully laid the sleeping baby down on the thin grass, and picked up

a long staff that had been lying there. It was made of a black metal, with a meshwork of silver

and gold carvings that gave it a rich and sinister tastelessness; the metal was octiron, intrinsically

magical.

'I made this, you know,' he said. 'They all said you couldn't make a staff out of metal, they said

they should only be of wood, but they were wrong. I put a lot of myself into it. I shall give it to

him.'

He ran his hands lovingly along the staff, which gave off a faint tone.

He repeated, almost to himself, 'I put a lot of myself into it.'

IT IS A GOOD STAFF, said Death.

Ipslore held it in the air and looked down at his eighth son, who gave a gurgle.

'She wanted a daughter,' he said.

Death shrugged. Ipslore gave him a look compounded of bewilderment and rage.

'What is he?'

THE EIGHTH SON OF AN EIGHTH SON OF AN EIGHTH SON, said Death, unhelpfully. The wind

whipped at his robe, driving the black clouds overhead.

'What does that make him?'

A SOURCERER, AS YOU ARE WELL AWARE.

Thunder rolled, on cue.

'What is his destiny?' shouted Ipslore, above the rising gale.

Death shrugged again. He was good at it.

SOURCERERS MAKE THEIR OWN DESTINY. THEY TOUCH THE EARTH LIGHTLY.

Ipslore leaned on the staff, drumming on it with his fingers, apparently lost in the maze of his

own thoughts. His left eyebrow twitched.

'No,' he said, softly, 'no. I will make his destiny for him.'

I ADVISE AGAINST IT.

'Be quiet! And listen when I tell you that they drove me out, with their books and their rituals and

their Lore! They called themselves wizards, and they had less magic in their whole fat bodies

than I have in my little finger! Banished! Me! For showing that I was human! And what would

humans be without love?'

RARE, said Death. NEVERTHELESS

'Listen! They drove us here, to the ends of the world, and that killed her! They tried to take my

staff away!' Ipslore was screaming above the noise of the wind.

'Well, I still have some power left,' he snarled. 'And I say that my son shall go to Unseen

University and wear the Archchancellor's hat and the wizards of the world shall bow to him! And

he shall show them what lies in their deepest hearts. Their craven, greedy hearts. He'll show the

world its true destiny, and there will be no magic greater than his.'

NO. And the strange thing about the quiet way Death spoke the word was this: it was louder

than the roaring of the storm. It jerked Ipslore back to momentary sanity.

Ipslore rocked back and forth uncertainly. 'What?' he said.

I SAID NO. NOTHING IS FINAL. NOTHING IS ABSOLUTE. EXCEPT ME, OF COURSE. SUCH

TINKERING WITH DESTINY COULD MEAN THE DOWNFALL OF THE WORLD. THERE MUST BE A

CHANCE, HOWEVER SMALL. THE LAWYERS OF FATE DEMAND A LOOPHOLE IN EVERY

PROPHECY.

Ipslore stared at Death's implacable face.

'I must give them a chance?'

YES.

Tap, tap, tap went Ipslore's fingers on the metal of the staff.

'Then they shall have their chance,' he said, 'when hell freezes over.'

NO. I AM NOT ALLOWED TO ENLIGHTEN YOU, EVEN BY DEFAULT, ABOUT CURRENT

TEMPERATURES IN THE NEXT WORLD.

'Then,' Ipslore hesitated, 'then they shall have their chance when my son throws his staff away.'

NO WIZARD WOULD EVER THROW HIS STAFF AWAY, said Death. THE BOND IS TOO GREAT.

'Yet it is possible, you must agree.'

Death appeared to consider this. Must was not a word he was accustomed to hearing, but he

seemed to concede the point.

AGREED, he said.

'Is that a small enough chance for you?'

SUFFICIENTLY MOLECULAR.

Ipslore relaxed a little. In a voice that was nearly normal, he said: 'I don't regret it, you know. I

would do it all again. Children are our hope for the future.'

THERE IS NO HOPE FOR THE FUTURE, said Death.

'What does it contain, then?'

ME.

'Besides you I mean!'

Death gave him a puzzled look. I'M SORRY?

The storm reached its howling peak overhead. A seagull went past backwards.

'I meant,' said Ipslore, bitterly, 'what is there in this world that makes living worth while?'

Death thought about it.

CATS, he said eventually, CATS ARE NICE.

'Curse you!'

MANY HAVE, said Death, evenly.

'How much longer do I have?'

Plik z chomika:

Inne pliki z tego folderu:

Inne foldery tego chomika: