Sourcery (Discworld 5)

‘My son,’ he said. ‘I shall call him Coin.’

A NAME AS GOOD AS ANY OTHER, said Death politely. His empty sockets stared down at a small round face wrapped in sleep. Despite rumour, Death isn’t cruel-merely terribly, terribly good at his job.

‘You took his mother,’ said Ipslore. It was a flat statement, without apparent rancour. In the valley behind the cliffs Ipslore’s homestead was a smoking ruin, the rising wind already spreading the fragile ashes across the hissing dunes.

IT WAS A HEART ATTACK AT THE END, said Death. THERE ARE WORSE WAYS TO DIE. TAKE IT FROM ME.

Ipslore looked out to sea. ‘All my magic could not save her,’ he said.

THERE ARE PLACES WHERE EVEN MAGIC MAY NOT GO.

‘And now you have come for the child?’

NO. THE CHILD HAS HIS OWN DESTINY I HAVE COME FOR YOU.

‘Ah.’ The wizard stood up, carefully laid the sleeping baby down on the thin grass, and picked up a long staff that had been lying there. It was made of a black metal, with a meshwork of silver and gold carvings that gave it a rich and sinister tastelessness; the metal was octiron, intrinsically magical.

‘I made this, you know,’ he said. ‘They all said you couldn’t make a staff out of metal, they said they should only be of wood, but they were wrong. I put a lot of myself into it. I shall give it to him.’

He ran his hands lovingly along the staff, which gave off a faint tone.

He repeated, almost to himself, ‘I put a lot of myself into it.’

IT IS A GOOD STAFF, said Death.

Ipslore held it in the air and looked down at his eighth son, who gave a gurgle.

‘She wanted a daughter,’ he said.

Death shrugged. Ipslore gave him a look compounded of bewilderment and rage.

‘What is he?’

THE EIGHTH SON OF AN EIGHTH SON OF AN EIGHTH SON, said Death, unhelpfully. The wind whipped at his robe, driving the black clouds overhead.

‘What does that make him?’

A SOURCERER, AS YOU ARE WELL AWARE.

Thunder rolled, on cue.

‘What is his destiny?’ shouted Ipslore, above the rising gale.

Death shrugged again. He was good at it.

SOURCERERS MAKE THEIR OWN DESTINY. THEY TOUCH THE EARTH LIGHTLY.

Ipslore leaned on the staff, drumming on it with his fingers, apparently lost in the maze of his own thoughts. His left eyebrow twitched.

‘No,’ he said, softly, ‘no. I will make his destiny for him.’

I ADVISE AGAINST IT.

‘Be quiet! And listen when I tell you that they drove me out, with their books and their rituals and their Lore! They called themselves wizards, and they had less magic in their whole fat bodies than I have in my little finger! Banished! Me! For showing that I was human! And what would humans be without love?’

RARE, said Death. NEVERTHELESS

‘Listen! They drove us here, to the ends of the world, and that killed her! They tried to take my staff away!’ Ipslore was screaming above the noise of the wind.