tp.lightfantastic-第13章

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　'Necromancy。　Talking　to　the　dead；'　he　explained。
　'Oh；'　she　said；　vaguely　disappointed。
　They　had　dined　on　horse　meat；　horse　cheese；　horse　black　pudding；　horse　d'oeuvres　and　a　thin　beer　that　Rincewind　didn't　want　to　speculate　about。　Cohen　（who'd　ad　horse　soup）　explained　that　the　Horse　Tribes　of　the　Hubland　steppes　were　born　in　the　saddle；　which　Rincewind　considered　was　a　gynaecological　impossibility；　and　they　were　particularly　adept　at　natural　magic；　since　life　on　the　open　steppe　makes　you　realise　how　neatly　the　sky　fits　the　land　all　around　the　edges　and　this　naturally　inspires　the　mind　to　deep　thoughts　like　'Why？'；　'When？'　and　'Why　don't　we　try　beef　for　a　change？'
　The　chieftain's　grandmother　nodded　at　Rincewind　and　spread　the　cards　in　front　of　her。
　Rincewind；　as　it　has　already　been　noted；　was　the　worst　wizard　on　the　Disc：　no　other　spells　would　stay　in　his　mind　once　the　Spell　had　lodged　in　there；　in　much　the　same　way　that　fish　don't　hang　around　in　a　pike　pool。　But　he　still　had　his　pride；　and　wizards　don't　like　to　see　women　perform　even　simple　magic。　Unseen　University　had　never　admitted　women；　muttering　something　about　problems　with　the　plumbing；　but　the　real　reason　was　an　unspoken　dread　that　if　women　were　allowed　to　mess　around　with　magic　they　would　probably　be　embarrassingly　good　at　it　。　。　。
　'Anyway；　I　don't　believe　in　Caroc　cards；'　he　muttered；　'All　that　stuff　about　it　being　the　distilled　wisdom　of　the　universe　is　a　load　of　rubbish。'
　The　first　card；　smoke…yellowed　and　age…crinkled；　was　。　。　。
　It　should　have　been　The　Star。　But　instead　of　the　familiar　round　disc　with　crude　little　rays；　it　had　bee　a　tiny　red　dot。　The　old　woman　muttered　and　scratched　at　the　card　with　a　fingernail；　then　looked　sharply　at　Rincewind。
　'Nothing　to　do　with　me；'　he　said。
　She　turned　up　the　Importance　of　Washing　the　Hands；　the　Eight　of　Octograms；　the　Dome　of　the　Sky；　the　Pool　of　Night；　the　Four　of　Elephants；　the　Ace　of　Turtles；　and　…　Rincewind　had　been　expecting　it　…　Death。
　And　something　was　wrong　with　Death；　too。　It　should　have　been　a　fairly　realistic　drawing　of　Death　on　his　white　horse；　and　indeed　He　was　still　there。　But　the　sky　was　red　lit；　and　ing　over　a　distant　hill　was　a　tiny　figure。　barely　visible　by　the　light　of　the　horsefat　lamps。
　Rincewind　didn't　have　to　identify　it；　because　behind　it　was　a　box　on　hundreds　of　little　legs。
　The　Luggage　would　follow　its　owner　anywhere。
　Rincewind　looked　across　the　tent　to　Twoflower；　a　pale　shape　on　a　pile　of　horsehides。
　'He's　really　dead？'　he　said。　Cohen　translated　for　the　old　woman；　who　shook　her　head。　She　reached　down　to　a　small　wooden　chest　beside　her　and　rummaged　around　in　a　collection　of　bags　and　bottles　until　she　found　a　tiny　green　bottle　which　she　tipped　into　Rincewind's　beer。　He　looked　at　it　suspiciously。
　'She　shays　it's　sort　of　medicine；'　said　Cohen。　'I　should　drink　it　if　I　were　you；　theshe　people　get　a　bit　upshet　if　you　don't　accshept　hoshpitality。'
　'It's　not　going　to　blow　my　head　off？'　said　Rincewind。
　'She　shays　it's　esshential　you　drink　it。'
　'Well；　if　you're　sure　it's　okay。　It　can't　make　the　beer　taste　any　worse。'
　He　took　a　swig；　aware　of　all　eyes　on　him。
　'Um；'　he　said。　'Actually；　it's　not　at　all　ba…'
　

　Something　picked　him　up　and　threw　him　into　the　air。　Except　that　in　another　。sense　he　was　still　sitting　by　the　fire　…　he　could　see　himself　there；　a　dwindling　figure　in　the　circle　of　firelight　that　was　rapidly　getting　smaller。　The　toy　figures　around　it　were　looking　intently　at　his　body。　Except　for　the　old　woman。　She　was　looking　right　up　at　；　him；　and　grinning。
　

　The　Circle　Sea's　senior　wizards　were　not　grinning　at　all。　They　were　being　aware　that　they　were　confronted　with　something　entirely　new　and　fearsome：　a　young　man　on　the　make。
　Actually　none　of　them　were　quite　sure　how　old　Trymion　really　was；　but　his　sparse　hair　was　still　black　and　his　skin　had　a　waxy　look　to　it　that　could　be　taken；　in　a　poor　light；　to　be　the　bloom　of　youth。
　The　six　surviving　heads　of　the　Eight　Orders　sat　at　the　long；　shiny　and　new　table　in　what　had　been　Galder　Weatherwax's　study　and　each　one　wondered　precisely　what　it　was　about　Trymon　that　made　them　want　to　kick　him。
　It　wasn't　that　he　was　ambitious　and　cruel。　Cruel　men　were　stupid；　they　all　knew　how　to　use　cruel　men；　and　they　certainly　knew　how　to　bend　other　men's　ambitions。　You　didn't　stay　an　Eighth　Level　magus　for　long　unless　you　were　adept　at　a　kind　of　mental　judo。
　It　wasn't　that　he　was　bloodthirsty；　power…hungry　or　especially　wicked。　These　things　were　not　necessarily　drawbacks　in　a　wizard。　The　wizards　were；　on　the　whole；　no　more　wicked　than；　say；　the　mittee　of　the　average　Rotary　Club；　and　each　had　risen　to　pre…eminence　in　his　chosen　profession　not　so　much　by　skill　at　magic　but　by　never　neglecting　to　capitalise　on　the　weaknesses　of　opponents。
　It　wasn't　that　he　was　particularly　wise。　Every　wizard　considered　himself　a　fairly　hot　property；　wisewise；　it　went　with　the　job。
　It　wasn't　even　that　he　had　charisma。　They　all　knew　charisma　when　they　encountered　it；　and　Trymon　had　all　the　charisma　of　a　duck　egg。
　That　was　it；　in　fact　。　。　。
　He　wasn't　good　or　evil　or　cruel　or　extreme　in　any　way　but　one；　which　was　that　he　had　elevated　greyness　to　the　status　of　a　fine　art　and　cultivated　a　mind　that　was　as　bleak　and　pitiless　and　logical　as　the　slopes　of　Hell。
　And　what　was　so　strange　was　that　each　of　the　wizards；　who　had　in　the　course　of　their　work　encountered　many　a　fire…spitting；　bat…winged；　tiger…taloned　entity　in　the　privacy　of　a　magical　octogram；　had　never　before　had　quite　the　same　unfortable　feeling　as　they　had　when；　ten　minutes　late；　Trymon　strode　into　the　room。
　'Sorry　I'm　late；　gentlemen；'　he　lied；　rubbing　his　hands　briskly。　'So　many　things　to　do；　so　much　to　organise；　I'm　ure　you　know　how　it　is。'
　The　wizards　looked　sidelong　at　one　another　as　Trymon　sat　down　at　the　head　of　the　table　and　shuffled　busily　through　some　papers。
　What　happened　to　old　Galder's　chair；　the　one　with　the　lion　arms　and　the　chicken　feet？'　said　Jiglad　Wert。　It　had　gone；　along　with　most　of　the　other　familiar　furniture；　and　in　its　place　were　a　number　of　low　leather　chairs　that　appeared　to　be　incredibly　fortable　until　you'd　sat　in　them　for　five　minutes。
　'That？　Oh；　I　had　it　burnt；'　said　Trymon；　not　looking　up。
　'Burnt？　But　it　was　a　priceless　magical　artifact；　a　genuine…'
　'Just　a　piece　of　junk；　I'm　afraid；'　said　Trymon；　treating　him　to　a　fleeting　smile。　'I'm　sure　real　wizards　don't　really　need　that　sort　of　thing；　now　if　I　may　draw　your　attention　to　the　business　of　the　day…'
　'What's　this　paper？'　said　Jiglad　Wert；　of　the　Hood…winkers；　waving　the　document　that　had　been　left　in　front　of　him；　and　waving　it　all　the　more　forcefully　because　his　own　chair；　back　in　his　cluttered　and　fortable　tower；　was　if　anything　more　ornate　than　Galder's　had　been。
　'It's　an　agenda；　Jiglad；'　said　Trymon；　patiently。
　'And　what　does　a　gender　do？'
　'It's　just　a　list　of　the　things　we've　got　to　discuss。　It's　very　simple；　I'm　sorry　if　you　feel　that…'
　'We've　never　needed　one　before！'
　'I　think　perhaps　you　have　needed　one；　you　just　haven't　used　one；'　said　Trymon；　his　voice　resonant　with　reasonableness。
　Wert　hesitated。　'Well；　all　right；'　he　said　sullenly；　looking　around　the　table　for　support；　'but　what's　this　here　where　it　says…'　he　peered　closely　at　the　writing　…　'　〃Successor　to　Greyhald　Spold〃。　It's　going　to　be　old　Rhunlet　Yard；　isn't　it？　He's　been　waiting　for　years。'
　'Yes；　but　is　he　sound？'　said　Trymon。
　'What？'
　I'm　sure　we　all　realise　the　importance　of　proper　leadership；'　said　Trymon。　'Now；　Vard　is　…　well；　worthy；　of　course；　in　his　way；　but　…'
　'It's　not　our　business；'　said　one　of　the　other　wizards。
　'No；　but　it　could　be；'　said　Trymon。
　There　was　silence。
　'Interfere　with　the　affairs　of　another　order？'　said　Wert。
　'Of　course　not；'　said　Trymon。　'I　merely　suggest　that　we　could　offer　。　。　。　advice。　But　let　us　discuss　this　later　。　。　。'
　The　wizards　had　never　heard　of　the　words　'power　base'；　otherwise　Trymon　would　never　have　been　able　to　get　away　with　all　this。　But　the　plain　fact　was　that　helping　others　to　achieve　power；　even　to　strengthen　your　own　hand；　was　quite　alien　to　them。　As　far　as　they　were　concerned；　every　wizard　stood　alone。　Never　mind　about　hostile　paranormal　entities；　an　ambitious　wizard　had　quite　enough　to　do　fighting　his　enemies　in　his　own　Order。
　'I　think　we　should　now　consider　the　matter　of　Rincewind；'　said　Trymon。
　'And　the　star；'　said　Wert。　'People　are　noticing；　you　know。'
　'Yes；　they　say　we　should　be　doing　something；'　said　Lumuel　Panter；　of　the　Order　of　Midnight。　'What；　I　should　like　to　know？'
　'Oh；　that's　easy；'　said　Wert。　They　say　we　should　read　the　Octavo。　That's　what　they　always　say。　Crops　bad？　Read　the　Octavo。　Cows　ill？　Read　the　Octavo。　The　Spells　will　make　everything　all　right。'
　'There　could　be　something　in　that；'　said　Trymon。　'My；　er；　late　predecessor　made　quite　study　of　the　Octavo。'
　'We　all　have；'　said　Panter；　sharply；　'but　what's　the　use？　The　Eight　Spells　have　to　work　together。　Oh；　I　agree；　if　all　else　fails　maybe　we　should　risk　it；　but　the　Eight　have　to　be　said　together　or　not　at　all　…　and　one　of　them　is　inside　this　Rincewind's　head。'
　'And　we　cannot　find　him；'　said　Trymon。　That　is　the　case；　isn't　it？　I'm　sure　we've　all　tried；　privately。'
　The　wizards　looked　at　one　another；　embarrassed。　Eventually　Wert　said。　'Yes。　All　right。　Cards　on　the　table。　I　an't　seem　to　locate　him。'
　'I've　tried　scrying；'　said　another。　'Nothing。'
　'I've　sent　familiars；'　said　a　third。　The　others　sat　up。　If　confessing　failure　was　the　order　of　the　day；　then　they　were　damn　well　going　to　make　it　clear　that　they　had　failed　heroically。
　'Is　that　all？　I've　sent　demons。'
　'I've　looked　into　the　Mirror　of　Oversight。'
　'Last　night　I　sought　him　out　in　the　Runes　of　M'haw。'
　'I'd　like　to　make　it　clear　that　I　tried　both　the　Runes　and　the　Mirror　and　the　entrails　of　a　manicreach。'
　'I've　spoken　to　the　beasts　of　the　field　and　the　birds　of　the　Air。'
　'Any　good？'
　'Nah。'
　Well；　I've　questioned　the　very　bones　of　the　country；　yea；　and　the　deep　stones　and　the　mountains　thereof。'
　There　was　a　sudden　chilly　silence。　Everyone　looked　at　the　wizard　who　had　spoken。　It　was　Ganmack　Treehallet；　of　the　Venerable　Seers；　who　shifted　uneasily　in　his　seat。
　'Yes；　with　bells　on；　I　expect；'　said　someone。
　'I　never　said　they　answered；　did　I？'
　Trymon　looked　along　the　table。
　'I've　sent　someone　to　find　him；'　he　said。
　Wert　snorted。　'That　didn't　work　out　so　well　the　last　two　times；　did　it？'
　'That　was　because　we　relied　on　magic；　but　it　is　obvious　that　Rincewind　is　somehow　hidden　from　magic。　But　he　can't　hide　his　footprints。'
　'You've　set　a　tracker？'
　'In　a　manner　of　speaking。'
　'A　hero？'　Wert　managed　to　pack　a　lot　of　meaning　into　the　one　word。　In　such　a　tone　of　voice；　in　another　universe；　would　a　Southerner　say　'damnyankee'。
　The　wizards　looked　at　Trymon；　open…mouthed。
　'Yes；'　he　said　calmly。
　'On　whose　authority？'　demanded　Wert。　Trymon　turned　his　grey　eyes　on　him。
　'Mine。　I　needed　no　other。'
　'It's　…　it's　highly　irregular！　Since　when　have　wizards　needed　to　hire　heroes　to　do　their　work　for　them？'
　'Ever　since　wizards　found　their　magic　wouldn't　work；'　said　Trymon。
　'A　temporary　setback；　nothing　more。'
　Try