Read Online Sourcery by Terry Pratchett - Free Book Online Page B

“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. 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