master.'
'And your advice?' said the Patrician.
Gorphal shrugged.
'Merely that you should do nothing. Matters will undoubtedly resolve themselves. However,' he scratched an ear thoughtfully, 'perhaps the Assassins' Guild . . .?'
'Ah yes,' said the Patrician. 'The Assassins' Guild. Who is their president at the moment?'
'Zlorf Flannelfoot, master.'
'Have a word with him, will you?'
'Quite so, master.'
The Patrician nodded. It was all rather a relief. He agreed with Nine Turning Mirrors â life was difficult enough. People ought to stay where they were put.
Brilliant constellations shone down on the discworld. One by one the traders shuttered their shops. One by one the gonophs, thieves, finewirers, whores, illusionists, backsliders and second-storey men awoke and breakfasted. Wizards went about their poly-dimensional affairs. Tonight saw the conjunction of two powerful planets, and already the air over the Magical Quarter was hazy with early spells.
'Look,' said Rincewind, 'this isn't getting us anywhere.' He inched sideways. The Luggage followed faithfully, lid half open and menacing. Rincewind briefly considered making a desperate leap to safety. The lid smacked in anticipation.
In any case, he told himself with sinking heart, the damn thing would only follow him again. It had that dogged look about it. Even if he managed to get to a horse, he had a nasty suspicion that it would follow him at its own pace. Endlessly. Swimming rivers and oceans. Gaining slowly every night, while he had to stop to sleep. And then one day, in some exotic city and years hence, he'd hear the sound of hundreds of tiny feet accelerating down the road behind him . . .
'You've got the wrong man!' he moaned. 'It's not my fault! I didn't kidnap him!'
The box moved forward slightly. Now there was just a narrow strip of greasy jetty between Rincewind's heels and the river. A flash of precognition told him that the box would be able to swim faster than he could. He tried not to imagine what it would be like to drown in the Ankh.
'It won't stop until you give in, you know,' said a small voice conversationally.
Rincewind looked down at the iconograph, still hanging around his neck. Its trapdoor was open and the homunculus was leaning against the frame, smoking a pipe and watching the proceedings with amusement.
'I'll take you in with me, at least,' said Rincewind through gritted teeth.
The imp took the pipe out of his mouth. 'What did you say?' he said.
'I said I'll take you in with me, dammit!'
'Suit yourself.' The imp tapped the side of the box meaningfully. 'We'll see who sinks first.'
The Luggage yawned, and moved forward a fraction of an inch.
'Oh all right,' said Rincewind irritably. 'But you'll have to give me time to think.'
The Luggage backed off slowly. Rincewind edged his way back onto reasonably safe land and sat down with his back against a wall. Across the river the lights of Ankh city glowed.
'You're a wizard,' said the picture imp. 'You'll think of some way to find him.'
'Not much of a wizard, I'm afraid.'
'You can just jump down on everyone and turn them into worms,' the imp added encouragingly, ignoring his last remark.
'No. Turning to Animals is an Eighth Level spell. I never even completed my training. I only know one spell.'
'Well, that'll do.'
'I doubt it,' said Rincewind hopelessly.
'What does it do, then?'
'Can't tell you. Don't really want to talk about it. But frankly,' he sighed, 'no spells are much good. It takes three months to commit even a simple one to memory, and then once you've used it, pouf! it's gone. That's what's so stupid about the whole magic thing, you know. You spend twenty years learning the spell that makes nude virgins appear in your bedroom, and then you're so poisoned by quicksilver fumes and half-blind from reading old grimoires that you can't remember what happens next.'
'I never thought of it like that,' said the imp.
'Hey, look â this is all wrong. When Twoflower