Interesting Times (Discworld, #17; Rincewind, #5)

by Terry Pratchett

Rincewind had always considered that life was no more than a series of temporary measures strung together.

There was a clearing. There was a rushing shape, on hundreds of little le— There was a snap.

“Excuse me, Lord Hong,” said the apparition, “but do you by any chance remember Bes Pelargic? About six years ago? I think you were quarreling with Lord Tang? There was something of a skirmish. A few streets destroyed. Nothing very major.” Lord Hong blinked. “How dare you address me!” he managed. “It doesn’t really matter,” said Twoflower. “But it’s just that I’d have liked you to have remembered. I got … quite angry about it. Er. I want to fight you.”

“He killed your mother,” said Twoflower

“Look, Father—” “If you don’t both do what you’re told I shall get angry.”

FEW PEOPLE EVER EXPECT IT TO BE ANY WAY.

“Where is this?” THE DESERT. It was brilliantly lit, and yet the sky was midnight-black. He stared at the horizon. “How big is it?” FOR SOME, VERY BIG. FOR LORD HONG, FOR INSTANCE, IT CONTAINS A LOT OF IMPATIENT GHOSTS.

The Luggages clustered together in front of the steps. Then the Luggage turned around and, after one or two sad backward glances, or what might have been glances if it had eyes, cantered away. By the time it reached the far side of the square it was a blur.

It looked as though he was living in interesting times— The Luggages sat quietly, and waited.

“Oh, I never play to win.” She smiled. “But I do play not to lose.

It floated in the middle of the sea, a tiny continent by Discworld standards. “‘XXXX,’” Ponder read.

There were three reasons why Rincewind was no racist. He’d ended up in too many places too suddenly to develop that kind of mind. Besides, if he’d thought about it much, most of the really dreadful things that had happened to him had been done by quite pale people with big wardrobes. Those were two of the reasons.

The third was that these men, who were just rising from a half-crouching position, were all holding spears pointing at Rincewind and there is something about the sight of four spears aimed at your throat that causes no end of respect and the word “sir” to arise spontaneously in the mind.