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'Right,' he said. I'm ready.'
'You're coming with me?'
'As far as the city gates, if you don't mind,' he said. 'You can't blame me, can you?'
'No. But leave the axe behind.'
They stepped out into the afternoon sun and a deserted street. When Cohen opened his mouth little pinpoints of bright light illuminated all the shadows.
'I've got some friends around here to pick up,' he said, nd added, 'I hope they're all right. What's your name?'
'Lackjaw.'
'Is there anywhere around here where I can—' Cohen paused lovingly, savouring the words – 'where I can get a steak?'
The star people have closed all the inns. They said it's wrong to be eating and drinking when —'
'I know, I know,' said Cohen. 'I think I'm beginning to get the hang of it. Don't they approve of anything?'
Lackjaw was lost in thought for a moment. 'Setting fire to things,' he said at last. 'They're quite good at that. Books and stuff. They have these great big bonfires.'
Cohen was shocked.
'Bonfires of books?'
'Yes. Horrible, isn't it?'
'Right,' said Cohen. He thought it was appalling. Someone who spent his life living rough under the sky knew the value of a good thick book, which ought to outlast at least a season of cooking fires if you were careful how you tore the pages out. Many a life had been saved on a snowy night by a handful of sodden kindling and a really dry book. If you felt like a smoke and couldn't find a pipe, a book was your man every time.
Cohen realised people wrote things in books. It had always seemed to him to be a frivolous waste of paper.
I'm afraid if your friends met them they might be in trouble,' said Lackjaw sadly as they walked up the street.
They turned the corner and saw the bonfire. It was in the middle of the street. A couple of star people were feeding it with books from a nearby house, which had its door smashed in and had been daubed with stars.
News of Cohen hadn't spread too far yet. The book burners took no notice as he wandered up and leaned against the wall. Curly flakes of burnt paper bounced in the hot air and floated away over the rooftops.
'What are you doing?' he said.
One of the star people, a woman, pushed her hair out of her eyes with a soot-blackened hand, gazed intently t Cohen's left ear, and said, 'Ridding the disc of wickedness.'
Two men came out of the building and glared at Cohen, or at least at his ear.
Cohen reached out and took the heavy book the woman was carrying. Its cover was crusted with strange red and black stones that spelled out what Cohen was sure was a word. He showed it to Lackjaw.
'The Necrotelecomnicon,' said the dwarf. 'Wizards use it. It's how to contact the dead, I think.'
'That's wizards for you,' said Cohen. He felt a page between finger and thumb; it was thin, and quite soft. The rather unpleasant organic-looking writing didn't worry him at all. Yes, a book like this could be a real friend to a man —
'Yes? You want something?' he said to one of the star men, who had gripped his arm.
'All books of magic must be burned,' said the man, but a little uncertainly, because something about Cohen's teeth was giving him a nasty feeling of sanity.
'Why?' said Cohen.
'It has been revealed to us.' Now Cohen's smile was as wide as all outdoors, and rather more dangerous.
'I think we ought to be getting along,' said Lackjaw nervously. A party of star people had turned into the street behind them.
