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There was a man and he had eight sons. Apart from that, he was nothing more than a comma on the page of History. It's sad, but that's all you can say about some people. But the eighth son grew up and married and had eight sons, and because there is only one suitable profession for the eighth son of an eighth son, he became a wizard. And he became wise and powerful, or at any rate powerful, and wore a pointed hat and there it would have ended ... Should have ended ... But against the Lore of Magic and certainly against all reason-except the reasons of the heart, which are warm and messy and, well, unreasonable - he fled the halls of magic and fell in love and got married, not necessarily in that order. And he had seven sons, each one from the cradle at least as powerful as any wizard in the world. And then he had an eighth son ... A wizard squared. A source of magic. A sourcerer.
'I have come,' said Rincewind thickly, 'to challenge the sourcerer. Which one is he?' He surveyed the prostrate wizardry, hefting the half-brick in one hand.
Hakardly risked a glance upwards and made frantic eyebrow movements at Rincewind who, even at the best of times, wasn't much good at interpreting non-verbal communication. This wasn't the best of times.
'With a sock?' said Coin. 'What good is a sock?'
The arm holding the staff rose. Coin looked down at it in mild astonishment.
'No, stop,' he said. 'I want to talk to this man.'
He stared at Rincewind, who was swaying back and forth under the influence of sleeplessness, horror and the after-effects of an adrenaline overdose.
'Is it magical?' he said, curiously. 'Perhaps it is the sock of an Archchancellor? A sock of force?'
Rincewind focused on it.
'I don't think so,' he said. 'I think I bought it in a shop or something. Um. I've got another one somewhere.'
'But in the end it has something heavy?'
'Um. Yes,' said Rincewind. He added, 'It's a half-brick.'
'But it has great power.'
'Er. You can hold things up with it. If you had another one, you'd have a brick.' Rincewind spoke slowly.
He was assimilating the situation by a kind of awful osmosis, and watching the staff turn ominously in the boy's hand.
'So. It is a brick of ordinariness, within a sock. The whole becoming a weapon.'
'Um. Yes.'
'How does it work?'
'Um. You swing it, and then you. Hit something with it. Or sometimes the back of your hand, sometimes.'
'And then perhaps it destroys a whole city?' said Coin.
Rincewind stared into Coin's golden eyes, and then at his sock. He had pulled it on and off several times a year for years. It had darns he'd grown to know and lo-well, know. Some of them had whole families of darns of their own. There were a number of descriptions that could be applied to the sock, but slayer-of-cities wasn't among them.
'Not really,' he said at last. 'It sort of kills people but leaves buildings standing.'
Rincewind's mind was operating at the speed of continental drift. Parts of it were telling him that he was confronting the sourcerer, but they were in direct conflict with other parts. Rincewind had heard quite a lot about the power of the sourcerer, the staff of the sourcerer, the wickedness of the sourcerer and so on. The only thing no-one had mentioned was the age of the sourcerer. He glanced towards the staff.
'And what does that do?' he said slowly. And the staff said, You must kill this man.
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