Sourcery - Terry Pratchett [23]
“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 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