Sourcery - Terry Pratchett [62]
There was a metallic chord as four men drew their swords in perfect harmony.
Nijel’s sword became a blur. It made a complicated figure eight in the air in front of him, spun over his arm, flicked from hand to hand behind his back, seemed to orbit his chest twice, and leapt like a salmon.
One or two of the harem ladies broke into spontaneous applause. Even the guards looked impressed. “That’s a Triple Orcthrust with Extra Flip,” said Nijel proudly. “I broke a lot of mirrors learning that. Look, they’re stopping.”
“They’ve never seen anything like it, I imagine,” said Rincewind weakly, judging the distance to the doorway.
“I should think not.”
“Especially the last bit, where it stuck in the ceiling.”
Nijel looked upwards.
“Funny,” he said, “it always did that at home, too. I wonder what I’m doing wrong.”
“Search me.”
“Gosh, I’m sorry,” said Nijel, as the guards seemed to realize that the entertainment was over and closed in for the kill.
“Don’t blame yourself—” said Rincewind, as Nijel reached up and tried unsuccessfully to free the blade.
“Thank you.”
“—I’ll do it for you.”
Rincewind considered his next step. In fact, he considered several steps. But the door was too far away and anyway, by the sound of it, things were not a lot healthier out there.
There was only one thing for it. He’d have to try magic.
He raised his hand and two of the men fell over. He raised his other hand and the other two fell over.
Just as he was beginning to wonder about this, Conina stepped daintily over the prone bodies, idly rubbing the sides of her hands.
“I thought you’d never turn up,” she said. “Who’s your friend?”
As has already been indicated, the Luggage seldom shows any sign of emotion, or at least any emotion less extreme than blind rage and hatred, and therefore it is hard to gauge its feelings when it woke up, a few miles outside Al Khali, on its lid in a dried-up wadi with its legs in the air.
Even a few minutes after dawn the air was like the breath of a furnace. After a certain amount of rocking the Luggage managed to get most of its feet pointing the right way, and stood doing a complicated slow-motion jig to keep as few of them on the burning sand as possible.
It wasn’t lost. It always knew exactly where it was. It was always here.
It was just that everywhere else seemed to have been temporarily mislaid.
After some deliberation the Luggage turned and walked very slowly, into a boulder.
It backed away and sat down, rather puzzled. It felt as though it had been stuffed with hot feathers, and it was dimly aware of the benefits of shade and a nice cool drink.
After a few false starts it walked to the top of a nearby sand dune, which gave it an unrivalled view of hundreds of other dunes.
Deep in its heartwood the Luggage was troubled. It had been spurned. It had been told to go away. It had been rejected. It had also drunk enough orakh to poison a small country.
If there is one thing a travel accessory needs more than anything else, it is someone to belong to. The Luggage set off unsteadily across the scorching sand, full of hope.
“I don’t think we’ve got time for introductions,” said Rincewind, as a distant part of the palace collapsed with a thump that vibrated the floor. “It’s time we were—”
He realized he was talking to himself.
Nijel let go of the sword.
Conina stepped forward.
“Oh, no,” said Rincewind, but it was far too late. The world had suddenly separated into two parts—the bit which contained Nijel and Conina, and the bit which contained everything else. The air between them crackled. Probably, in their half, a distant orchestra was playing, bluebirds were tweeting, little pink clouds were barrelling through the sky, and all the other things that happen at times like this.