Sourcery (Discworld 5)

But I belong here.

You mean you’re me?

Your conscience.

Oh.

You can’t let the hat be destroyed. It’s the symbol …

… all right, I know …

… the symbol of magic under the Lore. Magic under the control of mankind. You don’t want to go back to those dark Ians …

… What? …

Ians …

Do I mean aeons?

Right. Aeons. Go back aeons to the time when raw magic ruled. The whole framework of reality trembled daily. It was pretty terrible, I can tell me.

How do I know?

Racial memory.

Gosh. Have I got one of those?

Well. A part of one.

Yes, all right, but why me?

In your soul you know you are a true wizard. The word ‘Wizard’ is engraved on your heart.

‘Yes, but the trouble is I keep meeting people who might try to find out,’ said Rincewind miserably.

‘What did you say?’ said Conina.

Rincewind stared at the smudge on the horizon and sighed.

‘Just talking to myself,’ he said.

Carding surveyed the hat critically. He walked around the table and stared at it from a new angle. At last he said: ‘It’s pretty good. Where did you get the octarines?’

‘They’re just very good Ankhstones,’ said Spelter. ‘They fooled you, did they?’

It was a magnificent hat. In fact, Spelter had to admit, it looked a lot better than the real thing. The old Archchancellor’s hat had looked rather battered, its gold thread tarnished and unravelling. The replica was a considerable improvement. It had style.

‘I especially like the lace,’ said Carding.

‘It took ages.’

‘Why didn’t you try magic?’ Carding waggled his fingers, and grasped the tall cool glass that appeared in mid-air. Under its paper umbrella and fruit salad it contained some sticky and expensive alcohol.

‘Didn’t work,’ said Spelter. ‘Just couldn’t seem, um, to get it right. I had to sew every sequin on by hand.’ He picked up the hatbox.

Carding coughed into his drink. ‘Don’t put it away just yet,’ he said, and took it out of the bursar’s hands. ‘I’ve always wanted to try this-’

He turned to the big mirror on the bursar’s wall and reverently lowered the hat on his rather grubby locks.