Sourcery

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 crisps,' volunteered Rincewind, and then added, 'Well, that's a bit strong. It eats crisps.'

'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 University. I am the Lore. I am the symbol of magic under the control of men — and I will not be worn by a sourcerer! There must be no more sourcerers! The world is too worn out for sourcery!