Sourcery - Terry Pratchett [22]
Sinister gray mists rolled through the docks of Morpork, dripping from the rigging, coiling around the drunken rooftops, lurking in alleys. The docks at night were thought by some to be even more dangerous than the Shades. Two muggers, a sneak thief and someone who had merely tapped Conina on the shoulder to ask her the time had already found this out.
“Do you mind if I ask you a question?” said Rincewind, stepping over the luckless pedestrian who lay coiled around his private pain.
“Well?”
“I mean, I wouldn’t like to cause offense.”
“Well?”
“It’s just that I can’t help noticing—”
“Hmmm?”
“You have this certain way with strangers.” Rincewind ducked, but nothing happened.
“What are you doing down there?” said Conina, testily.
“Sorry.”
“I know what you’re thinking. I can’t help it, I take after my father.”
“Who was he, then? Cohen the Barbarian?” Rincewind grinned to show it was a joke. At least, his lips moved in a desperate crescent.
“No need to laugh about it, wizard.”
“What?”
“It’s not my fault.”
Rincewind’s lips moved soundlessly. “Sorry,” he said. “Have I got this right? Your father really is Cohen the Barbarian?”
“Yes.” The girl scowled at Rincewind. “Everyone has to have a father,” she added. “Even you, I imagine.”
She peered around a corner.
“All clear. Come on,” she said, and then when they were striding along the damp cobbles she continued: “I expect your father was a wizard, probably.”
“I shouldn’t think so,” said Rincewind. “Wizardry isn’t allowed to run in families.” He paused. He knew Cohen, he’d even been a guest at one of his weddings when he married a girl of Conina’s age; you could say this about Cohen, he crammed every hour full of minutes. “A lot of people would like to take after Cohen, I mean, he was the best fighter, the greatest thief, he—”
“A lot of men would,” Conina snapped. 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