The Light Fantastic by Terry Pratchett Page B

speaks!”
    A figure had stepped up on the platform, a tall thin man with hair like a dandelion. There was no cheer from the crowd, just a collective sigh. He began to speak.
    Rincewind listened in mounting horror. Where were the gods? said the man. They had gone. Perhaps they had never been. Who, actually, could remember seeing them? And now the star had been sent—
    It went on and on, a quiet, clear voice that used words like “cleanse” and “scouring” and “purify” and drilled into the brain like a hot sword. Where were the wizards? Where was magic? Had it ever really worked, or had it all been a dream?
    Rincewind began to be really afraid that the gods might get to hear about this and be so angry that they’d take it out on anyone who happened to have been around at the time.
    But somehow even the wrath of the gods would have been better than the sound of that voice. The star was coming, it seemed to say, and its fearful fire could only be averted by—by—Rincewind couldn’t be certain, but he had visions of swords and banners and blank-eyed warriors. The voice didn’t believe in gods, which in Rincewind’s book was fair enough, but it didn’t believe in people either.
    A tall, hooded stranger on Rincewind’s left jostled him. He turned—and looked up into a grinning skull under a black hood.
    Wizards, like cats, can see Death.
    Compared to the sound of that voice, Death seemed almost pleasant. He leaned against a wall, his scythe propped up beside him. He nodded at Rincewind.
    “Come to gloat?” whispered Rincewind. Death shrugged.
    I HAVE COME TO SEE THE FUTURE , he said.
    “This is the future?”
    A FUTURE , said Death.
    “It’s horrible,” said Rincewind.
    I’ M INCLINED TO AGREE , said Death.
    “I would have thought you’d be all for it!”
    N OT LIKE THIS . T HE DEATH OF THE WARRIOR OR THE OLD MAN OR THE LITTLE CHILD, THIS I UNDERSTAND, AND I TAKE AWAY THE PAIN AND END THE SUFFERING . I DO NOT UNDERSTAND THIS DEATH-OF-THE-MIND .
    “Who are you talking to?” said Twoflower. Several members of the congregation had turned around and were looking suspiciously at Rincewind.
    “Nobody,” said Rincewind. “Can we go away? I’ve got a headache.”
    Now a group of people at the edge of the crowd were muttering and pointing to them. Rincewind grabbed the other two and hurried them around the corner.
    “Mount up and let’s go,” he said. “I’ve got a bad feeling that—”
    A hand landed on his shoulder. He turned around. A pair of cloudy gray eyes set in a round bald head on top of a large muscular body were staring hard at his left ear. The man had a star painted on his forehead.
    “You look like a wizard,” he said, in a tone of voice that suggested this was very unwise and quite possibly fatal.
    “Who, me? No, I’m—a clerk. Yes. A clerk. That’s right,” said Rincewind.
    He gave a little laugh.
    The man paused, his lips moving soundlessly, as though he was listening to a voice in his head. Several other star people had joined him. Rincewind’s left ear began to be widely regarded.
    “I think you’re a wizard,” said the man.
    “Look,” said Rincewind, “if I was a wizard I’d be able to do magic, right? I’d just turn you into something, and I haven’t, so I’m not.”
    “We killed all our wizards,” said one of the men. “Some ran away, but we killed quite a lot. They waved their hands and nothing came out.”
    Rincewind stared at him.
    “And we think you’re a wizard too,” said the man holding Rincewind in an ever-tightening grip. “You’ve got the box on legs and you look like a wizard.”
    Rincewind became aware that the three of them and the Luggage had somehow become separated from their horses, and that they were now in a contracting circle of gray-faced, solemn people.
    Bethan had gone pale. Even Twoflower, whose ability to recognize danger was as good as Rincewind’s ability to fly, was looking worried.
    Rincewind took a deep breath.
    He raised