tp.lightfantastic-第17节

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　And　so　on。　This　sort　of　thing　has　been　going　on　for　centuries；　and　caused　a　number　of　major　battles　which　have　left　large　tracts　of　land　uninhabitable　because　of　magical　harmonics。
　In　fact；　the　hero　even　at　this　moment　galloping　towards　the　Vortex　Plains　didn't　get　involved　in　this　kind　of　argument；　because　they　didn't　take　it　seriously　W　mainly　because　this　particular　hero　was　a　heroine。　A　redheaded　one。
　Now；　there　is　a　tendency　at　a　point　like　this　to　look　over　one's　shoulder　at　the　cover　artist　and　start　going　on　at　length　about　leather；　thighboots　and　naked　blades。
　Words　like　'full'；　'round'　and　even　'pert'　creep　into　the　narrative；　until　the　writer　has　to　go　and　have　a　cold　hower　and　a　lie　down。
　Which　is　all　rather　silly；　because　any　woman　setting　out　to　make　a　living　by　the　sword　isn't　about　to　go　around　looking　like　something　off　the　cover　of　the　more　advanced　kind　of　lingerie　catalogue　for　the　specialised　buyer。
　Oh　well；　all　right。　The　point　that　must　be　made　is　that　although　Herrena　the　Henna…Haired　Harridan　would　look　quite　stunning　after　a　good　bath；　a　heavy…duty　manicure；　and　the　pick　of　the　leather　racks　in　Woo　Hun　Ling's　Oriental　Exotica　and　Martial　Aids　on　Heroes　Street；　she　was　currently　quite　sensibly　dressed　in　light　chain　mail；　soft　boots；　and　a　short　sword。
　All　right；　maybe　the　boots　were　leather。　But　not　black。
　Riding　with　her　were　a　number　of　swarthy　men　that　will　certainly　be　killed　before　too　long　anyway；　so　a　description　is　probably　not　essential。　There　was　absolutely　nothing　pert　about　any　of　them。
　Look；　they　can　wear　leather　if　you　like。
　Herrena　wasn't　too　happy　about　them；　but　they　were　all　that　was　available　for　hire　in　Morpork。　Many　of　the　citizens　were　moving　out　and　heading　for　the　hills；　out　of　fear　of　the　new　star。
　But　Herrena　was　heading　for　the　hills　for　a　different　reason。　Just　turnwise　and　rimwards　of　the　Plains　were　the　bare　Trollbone　Mountains。　Herrena；　who　had　for　many　years　availed　herself　of　the　uniquely　equal　opportunities　available　to　any　woman　who　could　make　a　sword　sing；　was　trusting　to　her　instincts。
　This　Rincewind；　as　Trymon　had　described　him；　was　a　rat；　and　rats　like　cover。　Anyway；　the　mountains　were　a　long　way　from　Trymon　and；　for　all　that　he　was　currently　her　employer；　Herrena　was　very　happy　about　that。　There　something　about　his　manner　that　made　her　fists　itch。
　

　Rincewind　knew　he　ought　to　be　panicking；　but　that　was　difficult　because；　although　he　wasn't　aware　of　it；　motions　like　panic　and　terror　and　anger　are　all　to　do　with　stuff　sloshing　around　in　glands　and　all　Rincewind's　glands　were　still　in　his　body。
　It　was　difficult　to　be　certain　where　his　real　body　was；　but　when　he　looked　down　he　could　see　a　fine　blue　line　trailing　from　what　for　the　sake　of　sanity　he　would　still　call　his　ankle　into　the　blackness　around　him；　and　it　seemed　reasonable　to　assume　that　his　body　was　on　the　other　end。
　It　was　not　a　particularly　good　body；　he'd　be　the　first　to　admit；　but　one　or　two　bits　of　it　had　sentimental　value　and　it　dawned　on　him　that　if　the　little　blue　line　snapped　he'd　have　to　spend　the　rest　of　his　li　…　his　existence　hanging　around　ouija　boards　pretending　to　be　people's　dead　aunties　and　all　the　other　things　lost　souls　do　to　pass　the　time。
　The　sheer　horror　of　this　so　appalled　him　he　hardly　felt　his　feet　touch　the　ground。　Some　ground；　anyway；　he　decided　that　it　almost　certainly　wasn't　the　ground；　which　as　far　as　he　could　remember　wasn't　black　and　didn't　swirl　in　such　a　disconcerting　way。
　He　took　a　look　around。
　Sheer　sharp　mountains　speared　up　around　him　into　a　frosty　sky　hung　with　cruel　stars；　stars　which　appeared　on　no　celestial　chart　in　the　multiverse；　but　right　in　there　amongst　them　was　a　malevolent　red　disc。　Rincewind　shivered；　and　looked　away。　The　land　ahead　of　him　sloped　down　sharply；　and　a　dry　wind　whispered　across　the　frost…cracked　rocks。
　It　really　did　whisper。　As　grey　eddies　caught　at　his　robe　and　tugged　at　his　hair　Rincewind　thought　he　could　hear　voices；　faint　and　far　off；　saying　things　like　'Are　you　sure　those　were　mushrooms　in　the　stew？　I　feel　a　bit　…；'　and　There's　a　lovely　view　if　you　lean　over　this　…；'　and　'Don't　fuss；　it's　only　a　scratch　…；'　and　Watch　where　you're　pointing　that　bow；　you　nearly…'　and　so　on。
　He　stumbled　down　the　slope；　with　his　fingers　in　his　ears；　until　he　saw　a　sight　seen　by　very　few　living　men。
　The　ground　dipped　sharply　until　it　became　a　vast　funnel；　ully　a　mile　across；　into　which　the　whispering　wind　of　the　souls　of　the　dead　blew　with　a　vast；　echoing　susurration；　as　though　the　Disc　itself　was　breathing。　But　a　narrow　spur　of　rock　arched　out　and　over　the　hole；　ending　in　an　outcrop　perhaps　a　hundred　feet　across。
　There　was　a　garden　up　there；　with　orchards　and　flowerbeds；　and　a　quite　small　black　cottage。
　A　little　path　led　up　to　it。
　Rincewind　looked　behind　him。　The　shiny　blue　line　was　still　there。
　So　was　the　Luggage。
　It　squatted　on　the　path；　watching　him。
　Rincewind　had　never　got　on　with　the　Luggage；　it　had　always　given　him　the　impression　that　it　thoroughly　disapproved　of　him。　But　just　for　once　it　wasn't　glaring　at　him。　It　had　a　rather　pathetic　look；　like　a　dog　that's　just　e　home　after　a　pleasant　roll　in　the　cowpats　to　find　that　the　family　has　moved　to　the　next　continent。
　'All　right；'　said　Rincewind。　'e　on。'
　It　extended　its　legs　and　followed　him　up　the　path。
　Somehow　Rincewind　had　expected　the　garden　on　the　outcrop　to　be　full　of　dead　flowers；　but　it　was　in　fact　well　kept　and　had　obviously　been　planted　by　someone　with　an　eye　for　colour；　always　provided　the　colour　was　deep　purple；　night　black　or　shroud　white。　Huge　lilies　perfumed　the　air。　There　was　a　sundial　without　a　gnomon　in　the　middle　of　a　freshly…scythed　lawn。
　With　the　Luggage　trailing　behind　him　Rincewind　crept　along　a　path　of　marble　chippings　until　he　was　at　the　rear　of　the　cottage；　and　pushed　open　a　door。
　Four　horses　looked　at　him　over　the　top　of　their　nosebags。　They　were　warm　and　alive；　and　some　of　the　best　kept　beasts　Rincewind　had　ever　seen。　A　big　white　one　had　a　stall　all　to　itself；　and　a　silver　and　black　harness　hung　over　the　door。　The　other　three　were　tethered　in　front　of　a　hay　rack　on　the　opposite　wall；　as　if　visitors　had　just　dropped　by。　They　regarded　Rincewind　with　vague　animal　curiosity。
　The　Luggage　bumped　into　his　ankle。　He　spun　around　nd　hissed；　'Push　off；　you！'
　The　Luggage　backed　away。　It　looked　abashed。
　Rincewind　tiptoed　to　the　far　door　and　cautiously　pushed　it　open。　It　gave　onto　a　stone…flagged　passageway；　which　in　turn　opened　onto　a　wide　entrance　hall。
　He　crept　forward　with　his　back　pressed　tightly　against　a　wall。　Behind　him　the　Luggage　rose　up　on　tiptoes　and　skittered　along　nervously。
　The　hall　itself　。　。　。
　Well；　it　wasn't　the　fact　that　it　was　considerably　bigger　than　the　whole　cottage　had　appeared　from　the　outside　that　worried　Rincewind；　the　way　things　were　these　days；　he'd　have　laughed　sarcastically　if　anyone　had　said　you　couldn't　get　a　quart　into　a　pint　pot。　And　it　wasn't　the　decor；　which　was　Early　Crypt　and　ran　heavily　to　black　drapes。
　It　was　the　clock。　It　was　very　big；　and　occupied　a　space　between　two　curving　wooden　staircases　covered　with　carvings　of　things　that　normal　men　only　see　after　a　heavy　session　on　something　illegal。
　It　had　a　very　long　pendulum；　and　the　pendulum　swung　with　a　slow　tick…tock　that　set　his　teeth　on　edge；　because　it　was　the　kind　of　deliberate；　annoying　ticking　that　wanted　to　make　it　abundantly　clear　that　every　tick　and　every　tock　was　stripping　another　second　off　your　life。　It　was　the　kind　of　sound　that　suggested　very　pointedly　that　in　some　hypothetical　hourglass；　somewhere；　another　few　grains　of　sand　had　dropped　out　from　under　you。
　Needless　to　say；　the　weight　on　the　pendulum　was　knife…edged　and　razor　sharp。
　Something　tapped　him　in　the　small　of　the　back。　He　turned　angrily。
　'Look；　you　son　of　a　suitcase；　I　told　you　…'
　It　wasn't　the　Luggage。　It　was　a　young　woman　…　silver　haired；　silver　eyed；　rather　taken　aback。
　'Oh；'　said　Rincewind。　'Um。　Hallo？'
　'Are　you　alive？'　she　said。　It　was　the　kind　of　voice　associated　with　beach　umbrellas；　suntan　oil　and　long　cool　drinks。
　'Well；　I　hope　so；'　said　Rincewind；　wondering　if　his　glands　were　having　a　good　time　wherever　they　were。　'Sometimes　I'm　not　so　sure。　What　is　this　place？'
　'This　is　the　house　of　Death；'　she　said。
　'Ah；'　said　Rincewind。　He　ran　a　tongue　over　his　dry　lips。　Well；　nice　to　meet　you；　I　think　I　ought　to　be　getting　along　…'
　She　clapped　her　hands。　'Oh；　you　mustn't　go！'　she　said。　We　don't　often　have　living　people　here。　Dead　people　are　so　boring；　don't　you　think？'
　'Uh；　yes；'　Rincewind　agreed　fervently；　eyeing　the　doorway。　'Not　much　conversation；　I　imagine。'
　'It's　always　〃When　I　was　alive　…　〃　and　〃We　really　knew　how　to　breathe　in　my　day　…　〃；'　she　said；　laying　a　small　white　hand　on　his　arm　and　smiling　at　him。　They're　always　so　set　in　their　ways；　too。　No　fun　at　all。　So　formal。'
　'Stiff？'　suggested　Rincewind。　She　was　propelling　him　towards　an　archway。
　'Absolutely。　What's　your　name？　My　name　is　Ysabell。'
　'Um；　Rincewind。　Excuse　me；　but　if　this　is　the　house　of　Death；　what　are　you　doing　here？　You　don't　look　dead　to　me。'
　'Oh；　I　live　here。'　She　looked　intently　at　him。　'I　say；　you　haven't