tp.lightfantastic-第15节

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　The　old　man　had　a　large　white　horse　tethered　to　a　withered　tree　in　a　snow…filled　gully　some　way　from　the　circles。　It　was　sleek；　glossy　and　the　general　effect　of　a　superb　battle　charger　was　only　very　slightly　spoiled　by　the　haemorrhoid　ring　tied　to　the　saddle。
　'Okay；　put　me　down。　There'sh　a　bottle　of　shome　linament　shtuff　in　the　shaddle　bag；　if　you　wouldn't　mind　。　。　。'　Rincewind　propped　Twoflower　as　nicely　as　possible　against　the　tree；　and　by　moonlight　…　and；　he　realised；　by　the　faint　red　light　of　the　menacing　new　star　…　took　the　first　real　look　at　his　rescuer。
　The　man　had　only　one　eye；　the　other　was　covered　by　a　black　patch。　His　thin　body　was　a　network　of　scars　and；　currently；　twanging　white…hot　with　tendonitis。　His　teeth　had　obviously　decided　to　quit　long　ago。
　'Who　are　you？'　he　said。
　'Bethan；'　said　the　girl；　rubbing　a　handful　of　nasty…smelling　green　ointment　into　the　old　man's　back。　She　wore　the　air　of　one　who；　if　asked　to　consider　what　sort　of　events　might　occur　after　being　rescued　from　virgin　sacrifice　by　a　hero　with　a　white　charger；　would　probably　not　have　mentioned　linament；　but　who；　now　linament　was　apparently　what　did　happen　to　you　after　all；　was　determined　to　be　good　at　it。
　'I　meant　him；'　said　Rincewind。
　One　star…bright　eye　looked　up　at　him。
　'Cohen　ish　my　name；　boy。'　Bethan's　hands　stopped　moving。
　'Cohen？'　she　said。　'Cohen　the　Barbarian？'
　'The　very　shame。'
　'Hang　on；　hang　on；'　said　Rincewind。　'Cohen's　a　great　big　chap；　neck　like　a　bull；　got　chest　muscles　like　a　sack　of　footballs。　I　mean；　he's　the　Disc's　greatest　warrior；　a　legend　in　his　own　lifetime。　I　remember　my　grandad　telling　me　he　saw　him　。　。　。　my　grandad　telling　me　he　。　。　。　my　grandad　。　。　。'
　He　faltered　under　the　gimlet　gaze。
　'Oh；'　he　said。　'Oh。　Of　course。　Sorry。'
　'Yesh；'　said　Cohen；　and　sighed。　Thatsh　right；　boy。　I'm　a　lifetime　in　my　own　legend。'
　'Gosh；'　said　Rincewind。　'How　old　are　you；　exactly？'
　'Eighty…sheven。'
　'But　you　were　the　greatest！'　said　Bethan。　'Bards　still　sing　songs　about　you。'
　Cohen　shrugged；　and　gave　a　little　yelp　of　pain。
　'I　never　get　any　royaltiesh；'　he　said。　He　looked　moodily　at　the　snow。　That'sh　the　shaga　of　my　life。　Eighty　yearsh　in　the　bushiness　and　what　have　I　got　to　show　for　it？　Backache；　pilesh；　bad　digeshtion　and　a　hundred　different　recipesh　for　shoop。　Shoop！　I　hate　shoop！'
　Bethan's　forehead　wrinkled。　'Shoop？'
　'Soup；'　explained　Rincewind。
　Yeah；　shoop；'　said　Cohen；　miserably。　'It'sh　my　teeths；　you　shee。　No…one　takes　you　sheriously　when　you've　got　no　teeths；　they　shay　〃Shit　down　by　the　fire；　grandad；　and　have　shome　shoo…〃　Cohen　looked　sharply　at　Rincewind。　That'sh　a　nashty　cough　you　have　there；　boy。'
　Rincewind　looked　away；　unable　to　look　Bethan　in　the　face。　Then　his　heart　sank。　Twoflower　was　still　leaning　against　the　tree；　peacefully　unconscious；　and　looking　as　reproachful　as　was　possible　in　the　circumstances。
　Cohen　appeared　to　remember　him；　too。　He　got　unsteadily　to　his　feet　and　shuffled　over　to　the　tourist。　He　humbed　both　eyes　open；　examined　the　graze；　felt　the　pulse。
　'He'sh　gone；'　he　said。
　'Dead？'　said　Rincewind；　In　the　debating　chamber　of　his　mind　a　dozen　emotions　got　to　their　feet　and　started　shouting。　Relief　was　in　full　spate　when　Shock　cut　in　on　a　point　of　order　and　then　Bewilderment；　Terror　and　Loss　started　a　fight　which　was　ended　only　when　Shame　slunk　in　from　next　door　to　see　what　all　the　row　was　about。
　'No；'　said　Cohen　thoughtfully；　'not　exshactly。　Just　…　gone。'
　'Gone　where？'
　'I　don't　know；'　said　Cohen；　'but　I　think　I　know　shomeone　who　might　have　a　map。'
　

　Far　out　on　the　snowfield　half　a　dozen　pinpoints　of　red　light　glowed　in　the　shadows。
　'He's　not　far　away；'　said　the　leading　wizard；　peering　into　a　small　crystal　sphere。
　There　was　general　mutter　from　the　ranks　behind　him　which　roughly　meant　that　however　far　away　Rincewind　was　he　couldn't　be　further　than　a　nice　hot　bath；　a　good　meal　and　a　warm　bed。
　Then　the　wizard　who　was　tramping　along　in　the　rear　stopped　and　said；　'Listen！'
　They　listened。　There　were　the　subtle　sounds　of　winter　beginning　to　close　its　grip　on　the　land；　the　creak　of　rocks；　the　muted　scuffling　of　small　creatures　in　their　tunnels　under　the　blanket　of　snow。　In　a　distant　forest　a　wolf　howled；　felt　embarrassed　when　no…one　joined　in；　and　stopped。　There　was　the　silver　sleeting　sound　of　moonlight。　There　was　also　the　wheezing　noise　of　half　a　dozen　wizards　trying　to　breathe　quietly。
　'I　can't　hear　a　thing…'　one　began。
　'Ssshh！'
　'All　right；　all　right…'
　Then　they　all　heard　it；　a　tiny　distant　crunching；　like　omething　moving　very　quickly　over　the　snow　crust。
　'Wolves？'　said　a　wizard。　They　all　thought　about　hundreds　of　lean；　hungry　bodies　leaping　through　the　night。
　'N…no；'　said　the　leader。　'It's　too　regular。　Perhaps　it's　a　messenger？'
　It　was　louder　now；　a　crisp　rhythm　like　someone　eating　celery　very　fast。
　'I'll　send　up　a　flare；'　said　the　leader。　He　picked　up　a　handful　of　snow；　rolled　it　into　a　ball；　threw　it　up　into　the　air　and　ignited　it　with　a　stream　of　octarine　fire　from　his　fingertips。　There　was　a　brief；　fierce　blue　glare。
　There　was　silence。　Then　another　wizard　said；　'You　daft　bugger；　I　can't　see　a　thing　now。'
　That　was　the　last　thing　they　heard　before　something　fast；　hard　and　noisy　cannoned　into　them　out　of　the　darkness　and　vanished　into　the　night。
　When　they　dug　one　another　out　of　the　snow　all　they　could　find　was　a　tight　pressed　trail　of　little　footprints。　Hundreds　of　little　footprints；　all　very　close　together　and　heading　across　the　snow　as　straight　as　a　searchlight。
　

　'A　necromancer！'　said　Rincewind。
　The　old　woman　across　the　fire　shrugged　and　pulled　a　pack　of　greasy　cards　from　some　unseen　pocket。
　Despite　the　deep　frost　outside；　the　atmosphere　inside　the　yurt　was　like　a　blacksmith's　armpit　and　the　wizard　was　already　sweating　heavily。　Horse　dung　made　a　good　fuel；　but　the　Horse　People　had　a　lot　to　learn　about　air　conditioning；　starting　with　what　it　meant。
　Bethan　leaned　sideways。
　'What's　neck　romance？'　she　whispered。
　'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