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Wert snorted. 'That didn't work out so well the last two times, did it?'
'That was because we relied on magic, but it is obvious that Rincewind is somehow hidden from magic. But he can't hide his footprints.'
'You've set a tracker?'
'In a manner of speaking.'
'A hero?' Wert managed to pack a lot of meaning into the one word. In such a tone of voice, in another universe, would a Southerner say 'damnyankee'.
The wizards looked at Trymon, open-mouthed.
'Yes,' he said calmly.
'On whose authority?' demanded Wert. Trymon turned his grey eyes on him.
'Mine. I needed no other.'
'It's – it's highly irregular! Since when have wizards needed to hire heroes to do their work for them?'
'Ever since wizards found their magic wouldn't work,' said Trymon.
'A temporary setback, nothing more.'
Trymon shrugged. 'Maybe,' he said, 'but we haven't the time to find out. Prove me wrong. Find Rincewind by scrying or talking to birds. But as for me, I know I'm meant to be wise. And wise men do what the times demand.'
It is a well known fact that warriors and wizards do not get along, because one side considers the other side to be a collection of bloodthirsty idiots who can't walk and think at the same time, while the other side is naturally suspicious of a body of men who mumble a lot and wear long dresses. Oh, say the wizards, if we're going to be like that, then, what about all those studded collars and oiled muscles down at the Young Men's Pagan Association? To which the heroes reply, that's a pretty good allegation coming from a bunch of wimpsoes who won't go near a woman on account, can you believe it, of their mystical power being sort of drained out. Right, say the wizards, that just about does it, you and your leather posing pouches. Oh yeah, say the heroes, why don't you . . .
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.
