Sourcery (Discworld, #5; Rincewind, #3)

by Terry Pratchett

Despite rumor, Death isn’t cruel—merely terribly, terribly good at his job.

SOURCERERS MAKE THEIR OWN DESTINY. THEY TOUCH THE EARTH LIGHTLY.

And what would humans be without love?” RARE,

I SAID NO. NOTHING IS FINAL. NOTHING IS ABSOLUTE. EXCEPT ME, OF COURSE. SUCH TINKERING WITH DESTINY COULD MEAN THE DOWNFALL OF THE WORLD. THERE MUST BE A CHANCE, HOWEVER SMALL. THE LAWYERS OF FATE DEMAND A LOOPHOLE IN EVERY PROPHECY.

“Is that a small enough chance for you?” SUFFICIENTLY MOLECULAR.

“I meant,” said Ipslore, bitterly, “what is there in this world that makes living worthwhile?” Death thought about it. CATS, he said eventually, CATS ARE NICE.

WHERE ARE YOU? In the staff.

YOU’RE ONLY PUTTING OFF THE INEVITABLE, he said. That’s what being alive is all about.

wizards didn’t have any truck with all this undignified voting business, and it was well known that Archchancellors were selected by the will of the gods, and this year it was a pretty good bet that the gods would see their way clear to selecting old Virrid Wayzygoose, who was a decent old boy and had been patiently waiting his turn for years.

senior wizards tended to look upon actual magic as a bit beneath them. They tended to prefer administration, which was safer and nearly as much fun, and also big dinners.

Something horrible was about to happen. You can tell, can’t you?

Ge Fordge’s Compenydyum of Sex Majick is kept in a vat of ice in a room all by itself and there’s a strict rule that it can only be read by wizards who are over eighty and, if possible, dead.

There’s probably a natural explanation, he thought. Or a perfectly normal unnatural one, anyway.

It was quite possible that it was a secret doorway to fabulous worlds, but no one had ever tried to find out because of the distressing smell of mothballs.

if a few quiet beers wouldn’t allow him to see things in a different light, then a few more probably would. It was certainly worth a try.

The only possible excuse for this sort of thing is that wizards are celibate, and have to find their amusement where they can.

And found that there are things worse than making speeches, after all.

The voice from inside sounded as though it was talking through several layers of carpet when it said, At last. What kept you?

He objected to the fact that you had to be good at magic to be a wizard. He knew he was a wizard, deep in his head. Being good at magic didn’t have anything to do with it. That was just an extra, it didn’t actually define somebody.

What we need is real wizardry.” That last remark would have earned the prize for the day’s most erroneous statement if Rincewind hadn’t then said: “It’s a pity there aren’t any of them around anymore.”

Spelter’s voice would have made a sheet of glass look like a plowed field, it made honey look like gravel.

The bursar disliked him intensely. He had considerable doubt about the man’s intelligence. He suspected it might be quite high, and that behind those vein-crazed jowls was a mind full of brightly polished little wheels, spinning like mad.

Something about their genetics or their training left them with an attitude toward mutual co-operation that made an old bull elephant with terminal toothache look like a worker ant.

The boy sleeps, and in that at least he is showing us the way. This will look better in the light.”

who didn’t trust Youth. He held that no good ever came of it.

you blush when you inadvertently tell the truth.”

Of course, no wizard would normally dream of giving a colleague a leg up unless it was in order to catch them on the hop.

“That wasn’t wizardry. That was sourcery,” said Carding, leaning back in his chair. Spelter stared at him across the bubbling varnish. “Sourcery?” “The eighth son of a wizard would be a sourcerer.”

“Sourcerers could do everything,” he went on. “They were nearly as powerful as the gods. Um. There was no end of trouble. The gods simply wouldn’t allow that sort of thing anymore, depend upon it.”

“But one sourcerer wouldn’t be any trouble. One sourcerer correctly advised, that is. By older and wiser minds.”

“It’s just a symbol,” said Carding. “It’s nothing special. If he wants it, he can have it. It’s a small enough thing. Just a symbol, nothing more. A figurehat.” “Figurehat?” “Worn by a figurehead.”

This was the type of thief that could steal the initiative, the moment and the words right out of your mouth. However, it was the first time it had stolen something that not only asked it to, in a low but authoritative voice, but gave precise and somehow unarguable instructions about how it was to be disposed of.

The day had, in fact, reached that gentle point when it was too late for housebreaking and too early for burglary.

“I’d help you myself, only I’m not going to.”

if wizards were allowed to go around breeding all the time, there was a risk of sourcery.

These were walking slabs of muscle and they were absolutely unbribable, if only because the Patrician could outbid anyone else.

The Patrician’s personal guard was not known for its responsive approach to community policing, preferring to cut bits off instead. Among the things they took a dim view of was, well, basically, people being in the same universe.

It’s the Archchancellor’s hat, don’t you understand? It’s worn by the head of all wizards, well, on the head of the head of all wizards, no, metaphorically it’s worn by all wizards, potentially, anyway, and it’s what every wizard aspires to, it’s the symbol of organized magic, it’s the pointy tip of the profession, it’s a symbol, it’s what it means to all wizards…

Down these mean streets a man must walk, he thought. And along some of them he will break into a run.

It might be thought that the Mended Drum, scene of unseemly scuffles only an hour ago, was a seedy disreputable tavern. In fact it was a reputable disreputable tavern. Its customers had a certain rough-hewn respectability—they might murder each other in an easygoing way, as between equals, but they didn’t do it vindictively.

The Troll’s Head was a cesspit of a different odor. Its customers, if they reformed, tidied themselves up and generally improved their image out of all recognition might, just might, aspire to be considered the utter dregs of humanity.

The silence tightened like a tourniquet.

“Looking for a man, little lady?” he said. She looked up at him. “Please keep away.”

Ask anyone. I’m an addict.” “Addicted to what?” “Life. I got hooked on it at an early age and I don’t want to give it up and take it from me,

What have you wizards got against women, then?” Rincewind’s brow wrinkled. “We’re not supposed to put anything against women,”

you could say this about Cohen, he crammed every hour full of minutes.

For most of the wizards, it was like being an elderly man who, suddenly faced with a beautiful young woman, finds to his horror and delight and astonishment that the flesh is suddenly as willing as the spirit.

there are people who can’t quite believe that children are fully human, and think that the operation of normal good manners doesn’t apply to them.

If wizards weren’t attracted to power they wouldn’t be wizards,

in some unaccountable way the dryness of his endeavours had left him with the ability to pronounce punctuation.