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

by Terry Pratchett

And he became wise and powerful, or at any rate powerful,

It was made of a black metal, with a meshwork of silver and gold carvings that gave it a rich and sinister tastelessness;

Thunder rolled, on cue.

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.

The storm reached its howling peak overhead. A seagull went past backwards.

was now as alert and jittery as a long-tailed cat in a rocking-chair factory.

and decided that 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.

he was feeling a little bit nervous and hardly touched his second chicken.

In some parts of the city curiosity didn’t just kill the cat, it threw it in the river with lead weights tied to its feet.

Or some such thing. The origins were lost in the depths of time, which was as good a reason as any for retaining the custom.

They looked at one another with mutual, grudging admiration and unlimited mistrust, but at least it was a mistrust each one felt he could rely on. Until afterwards.

The sun dawned on Small Gods’ Day like a badly poached egg.

He was red with anger, except where he was white with rage.

looking for any signs of intelligence in intelligence reports.

was thin, tall and apparently as coldblooded as a dead penguin. Just by looking at him you could tell he was the sort of man you’d expect to keep a white cat, and caress it idly while sentencing people to death in a piranha tank; and you’d hazard for good measure that he probably collected rare thin porcelain, turning it over and over in his blue-white fingers while distant screams echoed from the depths of the dungeons. You wouldn’t put it past him to use the word “exquisite” and have thin lips. He looked the kind of person who, when they blink, you mark it off on the calendar. Practically none of this was in fact the case, although he did have a small and exceedingly elderly wire-haired terrier called Wuffles that smelled badly and wheezed at people. It was said to be the only thing in the entire world he truly cared about. He did of course sometimes have people horribly tortured to death, but this was considered to be perfectly acceptable behavior for a civic ruler and generally approved of by the overwhelming majority of citizens.*

He didn’t administer a reign of terror, just the occasional light shower.

a city once described as resembling an overturned termite heap without the charm.

never got angry until he had time to think about it. But sometimes he thought very quickly.

Around them men did what he was sure were important nautical things, and he hoped they were doing them correctly, because next to heights he hated depths most of all.

“Come on,” he chuckled, with all the humor of a blocked drain.

“Lay a finger on me, and you’ll make me wish you hadn’t. I warn you.”

She disposed of the last of the leader’s bodyguard with a couple of thrusts that made Rincewind’s eyes water and, with a sigh, vaulted the rail on the main deck. To Rincewind’s annoyance the Luggage barrelled after her, cushioning its fall by dropping heavily onto a slaver, and adding to the sudden panic of the invaders because, while it was bad enough to be attacked with deadly and ferocious accuracy by a rather pretty girl in a white dress with flowers on it, it was even worse for the male ego to be tripped up and bitten by a travel accessory; it was pretty bad for all the rest of the male, too.

He raised his hand to the sudden stinging pain, and stared at it in horror before gently passing out. It wasn’t blood in general he couldn’t stand the sight of, it was just his blood in particular that was so upsetting.

surrounded by illuminated fountains. Their dull splashing was the only sound that broke the cholesterol of silence that had the heart of the city in its grip.

felt that he could see his future with the same crystal clarity that a man falling off a cliff sees the ground, and for much the same reason.

walking toward the door at the speed of a dying snail.

was an extremely rare species, and this particular one wasn’t about to do anything to help matters.

There was a long, thick pause caused by a lot of people listening very hard.

There was a respectful silence, as there always is when large sums of money have just passed away.

was one of those people who, if you say “don’t look now,” would immediately swivel his head like an owl on a turntable. These are the same people who, when you point out, say, an unusual crocus just beside them, turn around aimlessly and put their foot down with a sad little squashy noise. If they were lost in a trackless desert you could find them by putting down, somewhere on the sand, something small and fragile like a valuable old mug that had been in your family for generations, and then hurrying back as soon as you heard the crash. Anyway.

what do you call those things you find at the bottom of rivers?” “Frogs.” “Stones.” “Unsuccessful gangsters.”

the trouble with dying in the attempt was that you died in the attempt.

He explained—although “explained” is probably too positive a word, and in this case really means failed to explain but at some length—that

“If failure had no penalty success would not be a prize,”

When one accidentally puts one boot in a swamp it is quite unpleasant. But not as unpleasant as pushing down with the other boot and hearing that, too, disappear with a soft sucking noise.

It was, he thought, time for a few last words. What he said now was likely to be very important. Perhaps they would be words that would be remembered, and handed down, and maybe even carved deeply in slabs of granite. Words without too many curly letters in, therefore. “I really wish I wasn’t here,” he muttered.