Spellmakers book read online. Spellmakers Spellmakers by Terry Pratchett read online

Terry Pratchett

SPELL CASTERS

Huge thanks to Neil Gaiman for lending us the last surviving copy of Liber Paginarum Fulvarum, and a big hello to all the folks at the Lovecraft Sunday Club.

From the very beginning, I would like to dot the i's. This book is not "hello". "Hello" is only the thick-headed red-haired girls in the comedies of the fifties.

But it's not "funny" either.

This book is about magic, about where it goes and, perhaps more importantly, where it comes from. Although this manuscript does not claim to answer any of these questions.

However, it will probably help explain why Gandalf never married and why Merlin was a man. You see, this book is also about gender—not wood, parquet, or earth, but masculine and feminine. Therefore, the characters can at any moment get out of the control of the author. It happens.

But above all, this book is about the world. Here he comes. Look closely, the special effects are expensive.

The sound of a double bass is heard. A deep, vibrating note that hints that the horn section could kick in at any second, saturating the cosmos with fanfare. The scene is the blackness of outer space, in which a few stars twinkle like dandruff on the shoulders of the Creator.

Then, from somewhere above, she (or he) appears, larger than the largest, most vilely bristling star cruiser, born of the imagination of the director-cosmologist. It's a tortoise, a tortoise ten thousand miles long. This is the Great A "Tuin, one of the rare space reptiles that live in the Universe, where things are the least like what they should be, but rather look like what people imagine them to be. The Great A" Tuin carries on its pitted meteorite craters the shell of four giant elephants, which hold on the gigantic shoulders a huge circle of the Discworld.

The camera pulls back and the entire Disc comes into view, illuminated by the tiny sun orbiting around it. There are continents, archipelagos, seas, deserts, mountain ranges and even a tiny central ice sheet. The inhabitants of this little world are deeply alien to the theory that the earth must have the shape of a ball. Their world, framed by the ocean, which is forever tumbling into space in one giant waterfall, is round and flat, like a geological pizza, although without anchovies.

Such a world, existing only because the gods have a sense of humor, simply must be a magical place. And segregated by gender.

* * *

He walked through the storm and was instantly recognizable as a wizard, partly by his long cloak and carved staff, but mostly by the raindrops that stopped a few feet above his head and turned into steam.

It was a land of severe thunderstorms, the headwaters of the Ovtsepik Mountains, a land of jagged peaks, dense forests and small river valleys so deep that before daylight had time to reach the bottom, it was time for it to return back. Disheveled wisps of fog clung to the lesser cliffs, visible above the mountain path, along which, slipping and stumbling, the wizard trudged. A few goats were watching him with slit-like eyes that shone with slight interest. It doesn't take much to get goats interested.

Periodically, the wizard stopped and tossed the heavy staff into the air. The staff, landing, always pointed in the same direction. The owner lifted it with a sigh and, squelching through the mud, wandered on.

Thunderstorm, roaring and grumbling, went around the hills on lightning legs.

The wizard disappeared around the bend, and the goats began to graze the wet grass again.

But something made them break away from this occupation. Goat's eyes widened, nostrils flared. Although there was nothing on the trail. But the goats still watched this "nothing" until it was out of sight.

* * *

In a narrow valley, sandwiched between steep wooded slopes, nestled a village, very tiny, which you will never find on a mountain map. Barely visible on the map of the village itself.

In fact, it was one of those places that exists only so that people can come from there. The universe is simply strewn with such places - secluded villages, towns open to all winds under the endless sky, lonely huts in the chilly mountains. According to history, something extraordinary usually originates in these incredibly ordinary places. Often only a small sign testifies to this, saying that, contrary to any gynecological probability, it was in this house and in this room (raise your eyes, that window over there) that someone very famous was born.

As the wizard crossed the narrow footbridge over the swollen stream and made his way to the village smithy, mist swirled between the houses. However, these two facts have nothing in common. The fog would have swirled in any case: it was an experienced fog that raised the ability to swirl to the rank of a high art.

The forge, of course, was full of people. The forge is the only place where you can definitely warm up and exchange words with someone. Several villagers were lounging in the warm twilight, but the appearance of the wizard made them sit up expectantly. With little success, they tried to put on a smart face.

The blacksmith did not see fit to display such subservience. He nodded to the wizard, but it was a greeting from equal to equal. Any even slightly knowledgeable blacksmith can claim to have more than just a head start with magic, although some are simply indulging themselves.

The wizard bowed. The white cat sleeping by the forge woke up and looked at him attentively.

What is the name of this village, sir? - inquired the magician.

Bad Ass, - the Blacksmith answered with a shrug.

Bad..?

Ass, - repeated the blacksmith.

"Come on, come on," he sneered. “Just try to drop some joke about it.”

The wizard considered the information brought to his attention.

It looks like there is some story behind this name, which, under different circumstances, I would have listened to with pleasure, ”he said at last. “But I would like to talk to you about your son.

About which? the blacksmith asked, and his henchmen giggled obsequiously.

The wizard smiled.

After all, you have seven sons ... And you yourself were the eighth son.

The blacksmith's face froze. He turned to the others.

Well, the rain is almost over. Get everything from here. Me and ... - raising his eyebrows inquiringly, he looked at the wizard.

Drum Billet, he introduced himself.

Mr. Billet and I need to exchange a few words.

He vaguely waved his hammer, and those present, looking over his shoulder - suddenly the magician will chip off something in the end - one by one dispersed.

The blacksmith pulled out a couple of stools from under the bench, pulled out a bottle from a sideboard standing next to a barrel of water, and poured some kind of transparent liquid into two small glasses.

The wizard and the blacksmith sat and watched the rain. Mist hung over the bridge.

I know which son you mean,” said the blacksmith suddenly. - The old mother is now upstairs, with my wife. The eighth son of the eighth son. It occurred to me, but, to be honest, I somehow did not flatter myself. Oh well. Wizard in the family, huh?

You think fast,” Billet muttered.

The white cat jumped off its couch, leisurely crossed the forge, jumped into his lap and curled up into a ball. The wizard's slender fingers began to caress her back absently.

Well, well, - repeated the blacksmith. - Wizard in the Bad Ass, huh?

Maybe, maybe,” said Billet. “But first he will have to graduate from the University. And it is very possible that things will go well for him.

The blacksmith considered this assumption from all sides and decided that he liked it very much. Suddenly it seemed to dawn on him.

Wait a minute! he exclaimed. “I remember my father once told me… A wizard who knows that his death is near can sort of pass on his, well, sort of magic, kind of like a successor, right?

Right, agreed the wizard. - True, I have never been able to put it in such a short form.

So you're kind of going to die soon?

The wizard's fingers tickled the cat behind the ear, and it purred.

Confusion appeared on the blacksmith's face.

The wizard thought for a moment.

Minutes six.

Don't worry, the wizard said. - To be honest, I'm looking forward to it. I heard it doesn't hurt at all.

The blacksmith considered his words.

And who told you that? he said at last.

Billet pretended to be lost in his own thoughts. He stared at the bridge, trying to make out a telltale swirl in the mist.

Spell Makers

Huge thanks to Neil Gaiman for lending us the last surviving copy of Liber Paginarum Fulvarum, and a big hello to all the guys at the H.F. Lovecraft.

From the very beginning, I would like to dot the i's. This book is not "hello". "Hello" is only the thick-headed red-haired girls in the comedies of the fifties.
But she's not "fun".
This book is about magic, about where it goes and, perhaps more importantly, where it comes from. Although this manuscript does not claim to answer any of these questions.
However, it will probably help explain why Gandalf never married and why Merlin was a man. You see, this book is also about gender—not wood, parquet, or earth, but masculine and feminine. Therefore, the characters can at any moment get out of the control of the author. It happens.
But above all, this book is about the world. Here he comes. Look closely, the special effects are expensive.
The sound of a double bass is heard. A deep, vibrating note that hints that the horn section could kick in at any second, saturating the cosmos with fanfare. The scene is the blackness of outer space, in which a few stars twinkle like dandruff on the shoulders of the Creator.
Then, from somewhere above, she (or he) appears, larger than the largest, most vilely bristling star cruiser, born of the imagination of the director-cosmologist. It's a tortoise, a tortoise ten thousand miles long. This is the Great A "Tuin, one of the rare space reptiles that live in the Universe, where things are the least like what they should be, but rather look like what people imagine them to be. The Great A" Tuin carries on its pitted meteorite craters the shell of four giant elephants, which hold on the gigantic shoulders a huge circle of the Discworld.
The camera pulls back and the entire Disc comes into view, illuminated by the tiny sun orbiting around it. There are continents, archipelagos, seas, deserts, mountain ranges and even a tiny central ice sheet. The inhabitants of this little world are deeply alien to the theory that the earth must have the shape of a ball. Their world, framed by an ocean that is forever tumbling into space in one gigantic waterfall, is round and flat as a geologic pizza, albeit without anchovies.
Such a world, existing only because the gods have a sense of humor, simply must be a magical place. And segregated by gender.
He walked through the storm and was instantly recognizable as a wizard, partly by his long cloak and carved staff, but mostly by the raindrops that stopped a few feet above his head and turned into steam.
It was a land of severe thunderstorms, the headwaters of the Ovtsepik Mountains, a land of jagged peaks, dense forests and small river valleys so deep that before daylight had time to reach the bottom, it was time for it to return back. Disheveled wisps of fog clung to the lesser cliffs, visible above the mountain path, along which, slipping and stumbling, the wizard trudged. A few goats were watching him with slit-like eyes that shone with slight interest. It doesn't take much to get goats interested.
Periodically, the wizard stopped and tossed the heavy staff into the air. The staff, landing, always pointed in the same direction. The owner lifted it with a sigh and, squelching through the mud, wandered on. Thunderstorm, roaring and grumbling, went around the hills on lightning legs. The wizard disappeared around the bend, and the goats began to graze the wet grass again.
But something made them break away from this occupation. Goat's eyes widened, nostrils flared. Although there was nothing on the trail. But the goats still watched this "nothing" until it was out of sight.
In a narrow valley, sandwiched between steep wooded slopes, nestled a village, very tiny, which you will never find on a mountain map. Barely visible on the map of the village itself.
In fact, it was one of those places that exists only so that people can come from there. The universe is simply strewn with such places - secluded villages, towns open to all winds under the endless sky, lonely huts in the chilly mountains. According to history, something extraordinary usually originates in these incredibly ordinary places. Often only a small sign testifies to this, saying that, contrary to any gynecological probability, it was in this house and in this room (raise your eyes, that window over there) that someone very famous was born.
As the wizard crossed the narrow footbridge over the swollen stream and made his way to the village smithy, mist swirled between the houses. However, these two facts have nothing in common. The fog would have swirled in any case: it was an experienced fog that raised the ability to swirl to the rank of a high art.
The forge, of course, was full of people. The forge is the only place where you can definitely warm up and exchange words with someone. Several villagers were lounging in the warm twilight, but the appearance of the wizard made them sit up expectantly. With little success, they tried to put on a smart face.
The blacksmith did not see fit to display such subservience. He nodded to the wizard, but it was a greeting from equal to equal. Any even slightly knowledgeable blacksmith can claim to have more than just a head start with magic, although some are simply indulging themselves.
The wizard bowed. The white cat sleeping by the forge woke up and looked at him attentively.
“What is the name of this village, sir?” the magician inquired.
"Bad Ass," the Blacksmith replied with a shrug.
- Foolish...?
“Back,” repeated the blacksmith.
“Come on, come on,” he sneered. “Just try to make a joke about it.” The wizard considered the information brought to his attention.
“Looks like there’s some story behind that name that, under different circumstances, I’d be happy to hear,” he said at last. “But I would like to talk to you about your son.
- About which? the blacksmith asked, and his minions giggled obsequiously.
The wizard smiled.
– You have seven sons… And you yourself were the eighth son.
The blacksmith's face froze. He turned to the others.
Yes, the rain is almost over. Get everything from here. Me and…” Raising his eyebrows inquiringly, he looked at the wizard.
“Drum Billet,” he introduced himself.
“Mr. Billet and I need to exchange a few words.
He waved his hammer vaguely, and those present, glancing over his shoulder to see if the magician might crack something in the end, dispersed one by one.
The blacksmith pulled out a couple of stools from under the bench, pulled out a bottle from a sideboard standing next to a barrel of water, and poured some kind of transparent liquid into two small glasses. The wizard and the blacksmith sat and watched the rain. Mist hung over the bridge.
“I know which son you mean,” said the blacksmith suddenly. - The old mother is upstairs now, with my wife. The eighth son of the eighth son. It occurred to me, but, to be honest, I somehow did not flatter myself. Oh well. Wizard in the family, huh?
“You think fast,” Billett muttered.
The white cat jumped off its couch, leisurely crossed the forge, jumped into his lap and curled up into a ball. The wizard's slender fingers began to caress her back absently.
“Well, well,” repeated the blacksmith. "Wizard in the Bad Ass, huh?"
“Perhaps, perhaps,” said Billet. “But first he will have to graduate from the University. And it is very possible that things will go well for him.
The blacksmith considered this assumption from all sides and decided that he liked it very much. Suddenly it seemed to dawn on him.
- Wait a minute! he exclaimed. “I remember my father once told me… A wizard who knows that his death is near can sort of pass on his, well, kind of magic, kind of like a successor, right?
"Yes," the wizard agreed. “True, I have never been able to put it in such a short form.
"So you're going to die soon?"
- Oh yeah.
The wizard's fingers tickled the cat behind the ear, and it purred. Confusion appeared on the blacksmith's face.
- When?
The wizard thought for a moment.
- Six minutes.
- Oh.
"Don't worry," the wizard said. “To be honest, I'm looking forward to it. I heard it doesn't hurt at all.
The blacksmith considered his words.
- And who told you that? he said at last.
Billet pretended to be lost in his own thoughts. He stared at the bridge, trying to make out a telltale swirl in the mist.
“Listen,” the blacksmith called out to him. "You'd better explain to me how to properly raise a wizard." You see, there were no wizards born in our area and ...
“It will all work itself out,” Billett assured him kindly. “Magic brought me to you, it will take care of everything else. This is how it usually happens. I think I heard a scream?
The blacksmith raised his eyes to the ceiling. Through the sound of the rain they heard the sounds of a pair of brand new lungs working at full capacity.
The wizard smiled.
“Let them bring him here.
The cat sat on his lap and stared with interest at the wide door of the forge, and then, when the blacksmith came to the stairs and called out to those who were upstairs, jumped down to the floor and slowly retired to the opposite corner, purring like a band saw.
A tall, thin woman came down the steps, holding something wrapped in a blanket. The blacksmith hurriedly led her to the wizard.
“But…” she protested.
“This is very important,” the blacksmith interrupted her pompously. What do we do now, sir?
The wizard raised his staff. The staff was as tall as a man and as thick as Billet's wrist. And it was also covered with carvings, which (the blacksmith blinked) changed right before his eyes, as if he did not want outsiders to see what exactly it depicts.
“The child should take it in his hand,” said Drum Billet.
The blacksmith nodded, rummaged through the folds of the blanket, and finding a small pink fist there, carefully guided it towards the staff. Tiny fingers gripped the polished wood tightly.
“But…” the midwife interrupted.
“It's all right, mother, I know what I'm doing. She is a witch, sir, pay no attention to her. So now?
The wizard didn't answer.
“What are we to do about…
The blacksmith, broken off, leaned over and peered into the face of the old wizard. Billet smiled, but only the gods knew what he thought was so funny.
The blacksmith thrust the child into the frantically thrashing woman, extended his thin, pale fingers as respectfully as he could, and released the staff.
The staff felt oddly oily to the touch, like static electricity. The tree itself seemed almost black, but the carving stood out in bright spots on it and hurt the eye, it was worth trying to look at it.
- Well, are you satisfied with yourself? the midwife asked.
- BUT? Oh yeah. In truth, yes. And what?
She pulled back a fold of the blanket. The blacksmith looked down and swallowed.
- Not. He also said...
What could HE know about it? Mother chuckled contemptuously.
“But he said he would have a son!”
“That doesn’t look like a son to me, mate.
The blacksmith slumped heavily on his stool and put his head in his hands.
– What have I done?! he moaned.
“You gave the world the first female wizard,” said the midwife. - And we have a hundred here? One hundred for weaving?
- What?
- I talked to the child.
The white cat purred and arched its back, as if caressing an old friend. The strangest thing was that no one was with her.
“What a fool I am,” said a voice, but no mortal could hear these words. "I thought magic knew what to do."
- MAYBE, IT IS.
"Oh, if I could change anything..."
- NO GOING BACK. THERE IS NO GOING BACK, - boomed a deep, heavy voice, similar to the rumble of the closing doors of the crypt.
The trickle of nothingness that had once been a Drum Billet thought.
"But she's going to have a lot of problems."
- TO THE FAST I KNOW, THIS IS THE MEANING OF LIFE. WHERE SHOULD I KNOW?
"What about reincarnation?"
Death hesitated (don't forget that Death is masculine on the Disc).
- TRUST ME, YOU WON'T LIKE THIS.
"I heard some people do just that."
- HERE IS PREPARATION REQUIRED. YOU NEED TO START FROM THE LOWER LEVEL AND GO UP. YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT IT'S TO BE AN ANT.
"Is it really that scary?"
- AND HOW. AND WITH YOUR KARMA I WOULD NOT HOPE TO BECOME A ANT.
The child was carried back to its mother while the blacksmith sat staring inconsolably at the rain. Drum Billet scratched the cat behind the ear and thought about his life. It was a long one—one of the perks of being a wizard—and he did a lot of things he didn't always like to remember. It's about time...
“YOU KNOW, I DO NOT HAVE SO MUCH TIME,” Death remarked reproachfully.
The wizard looked at the cat, and only then it dawned on him how strange she looked.
The living are unaware of how complicated the world looks from the point of view of the dead, because death, freeing the mind from the straitjacket in which it is held by three dimensions, cuts it off also from Time, which is nothing but another dimension. Although the cat rubbing against Billett's invisible legs was the same cat he had seen a few minutes earlier, it was also a tiny kitten, a fat, half-blind old cat matron, and every stage in between. Simultaneously. The result was a cat that looked like a white catlike carrot, a description that would have to be satisfied until humans invented four-dimensional adjectives.
The bony hand of Death gently tapped Billet on the shoulder.
- GO, MY SON.
"Is there nothing I can do?"
– LIFE IS FOR THE LIVING. ALSO, YOU HAVE GIVEN YOUR STAFF TO THE GIRL.
"Yes. What is, cannot be taken away."
The midwife's name was Granny Weatherwax. She was a witch. In the Ovtsepiks mountains, this type of activity was considered quite acceptable occupation, and no one could say a bad word about witches. If you wanted to wake up in the morning in the same guise in which you went to bed.
The blacksmith was still sitting gloomily contemplating the rain when my mother came down the stairs again and patted him on the shoulder with a warty hand. He looked up.
"What should I do now, mother?"
No matter how hard he tried, his voice involuntarily sounded a plea.
- Where are you doing wizard?
“I took it outside and put it in the woodshed. Did I do the right thing?
"That's enough for now," she replied cheerfully. “Now you must burn the staff.
They both turned and looked at the heavy wand that the blacksmith had placed in the darkest corner of the forge. A little more and they would have had the impression that the staff was looking back at them.
"But he's magical," whispered the blacksmith.
- So what?
- Will it burn?
I have never seen a tree that didn't burn.
- It doesn't feel right to me!
Granny Weatherwax slammed the doors leading into the forge and turned angrily at him.
“Listen to me, blacksmith Gordo! A female wizard is also wrong! Such magic is not suitable for a woman, the magic of wizards is solid books, stars and symmetry. There's no way she can handle this. Have you ever heard of female wizards?
“But witches do exist,” the blacksmith replied uncertainly. “And sorceresses, too.
“Witches are a different matter,” said Granny Weatherwax. “This is magic that comes from the earth, not from the sky, and men can never master it. And it’s better not to talk about sorceresses at all. Take my advice, burn the staff, bury the body, and pretend you don't know anything.
The blacksmith nodded reluctantly, walked over to the anvil and began to work with the bellows. When bright sparks flew from the forge, he returned for the staff. The blacksmith was unable to move him.
- He seems to be stuck!
The blacksmith tugged at the stubborn stick until sweat broke out on his forehead. The stick stubbornly refused to succumb to his efforts.
“Let me try,” my mother suggested, and reached for the staff.
Something clicked, and the air smelled of red-hot tin.
The blacksmith, whimpering slightly, hurriedly rushed to the mother, who landed upside down against the opposite wall.
- You're not hurt?
She opened her eyes, like angry sparkling diamonds.
- Understood. So that's how you are, right?
- How? - asked the completely stunned blacksmith.
“Help me up, idiot.” And bring an axe.
Her tone made it clear that the blacksmith would be very sensible if he obeyed immediately. He unearthed a heap of old junk at the back of the forge and brought out an old double-edged axe.
- Fine. Now take off your apron.
- Why? What did you think? – the blacksmith was surprised, obviously losing control over the situation.
Mother sighed in exasperation.
“It's leather, you idiot. I'll wrap it around the handle. I won't fall for the same trick twice!
The blacksmith somehow pulled off a heavy leather apron and carefully handed it to the witch. She wrapped the ax around and made a couple of trial swings. Looking rather like a spider in the light of the almost white-hot anvil, Granny Weatherwax crossed the forge and grunted triumphantly as she swung the heavy blade down to the center of the staff. Something clicked. Something squawked like a partridge. Something thudded loudly. There was silence.
The blacksmith, frozen in place, slowly raised his hand and touched the sharp steel. The ax handle was missing, and the ax itself dug into the door next to the blacksmith's head, snatching off a tiny piece of his ear.
Mother, who looked a little blurry due to the fact that her blow landed on a completely immovable object, stared at the piece of wood that was left in her hands.
“B-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-but,” she stuttered. - T-t-t-t-t-so-to-com s-l-beam ...
“No,” the blacksmith said firmly, rubbing his ear. Whatever you're going to suggest, no. Leave the staff alone. I'll fill him with something. Nobody will notice. Don't touch him again. This is an ordinary stick.
- STICK?
- Can you think of something better? So that I'm not left without a head at all?
Granny Weatherwax glared at the staff, which seemed to be completely ignoring her, and confessed:
- I can't right now. But if you give me some time...
- Good good. In the meantime, excuse me, I have a lot of work to do, all sorts of unburied wizards, and so on ...
The blacksmith took a shovel, which was standing at the back door, but suddenly, having doubts, stopped.
- Mother...
- What?
“Do you happen to know how wizards prefer to be buried?”
- I know!
- So how is it?
Granny Weatherwax paused at the foot of the stairs.
- Reluctantly.
The last lingering ray left the valley, and night gently fell on the village, and a pale, rain-washed moon shone in the star-studded night sky. In the dark garden behind the forge, the sound of a shovel on stone and muffled curses resounded intermittently.
In the cradle on the second floor, Discworld's first female wizard slept and dreamed of nothing out of the ordinary.
The white cat was dozing on a personal shelf next to the forge. The only sound in the warm forge was the crackle of coals cooling under the ash.
The staff stood in the corner where it wanted to be, shrouded in shadows that were a little more black than usual. Time passed, which, in fact, was his main work.
Something faintly rang in the forge, a gust of air swept past. Some time later, the white cat sat down on its couch and began to watch with interest what was happening.
Dawn has come. Here, in the Ovtsepiks mountains, sunrises look very impressive, especially if a thunderstorm clears the air. The valley occupied by Bad Ass overlooked the lesser mountains and foothills, illuminated by the early morning light that slowly poured down their slopes (for in the powerful magical field of the Disc, light never rushes anywhere) in purple and orange colors. Beyond lay vast plains, still in shadow. Farther away, the sea glimmered occasionally. In fact, from here you could see the entire Discworld all the way to the Edge.
Moreover, this is not a poetic image, but a simple and indisputable fact, since the Disc has a flat surface. Moreover, everyone knows that the Discworld moves on the backs of four elephants, which, in turn, stand on the shell of A "Tuin, the Great Celestial Turtle.
Down in the valley Bad Ass is beginning to wake up. The blacksmith had just entered the forge and was surprised to find that there was an order in it that had not been observed here even once in the last hundred years. All the tools are in place, the floor is swept, and the forge is ready to kindle a fire in it. The blacksmith sits on the anvil, which turned out to be moved to the other end of the forge, looks at the staff and tries to think.
For seven years, nothing important happened, except for the fact that one of the apple trees in the blacksmith's garden noticeably outstripped its sisters in growth. She was frequently attacked by a little girl with brown hair, a hole between her front teeth, and features that promised to be, if not beautiful, then at least interesting.
They called her Escarina for no particular reason, her own mother just liked the sound of that name. Although Granny Weatherwax never stopped looking closely at the girl, she could not detect any signs of magic. Well, yes, Escarina, unlike ordinary little girls, spent much more time climbing trees and running screaming around the yard, but a girl whose four older brothers still live at home can be forgiven a lot. So the witch gradually calmed down and began to think that magic hadn’t taken root after all. But magic has a habit of hiding like a rake in the grass.
Winter came again, which this time was harsh. Clouds hung over the Ovtsepik Mountains like big fat sheep, filling the hollows with snow and turning the forests into silent gloomy caves. The passes were blocked, and the next caravan was expected only in the spring. Bad Ass turned into a small island of warmth and light.
“I'm worried about Granny Weatherwax,” Escarina's mother said at breakfast one day. - Something has not been seen lately.
The blacksmith looked at his wife grimly over the spoonful of oatmeal.
- And I'm not complaining. She has…
“The nose is too long,” Esk put in.
The parents glared at the girl with fierce eyes.
“You have no basis for such accusations,” the mother said sternly.
“But daddy said she was always putting her…
- Escarina!
- But he…
- I said…
“Yes, but he did say that she had—”
The blacksmith reached out to his daughter and slapped her on the pope. The slap was not very strong, but the blacksmith still regretted what he had done. The boys got it from his palm, and - when they deserved it - from his belt. However, the trouble with the daughter was not in the usual disobedience, but in the annoying habit of continuing the argument when it should have been ended long ago. This always brought the blacksmith into disarray.
Escarina burst into tears. The blacksmith, angry and embarrassed by his behavior, got up from the table and, stomping loudly, retired to the forge. From there came a loud crack, followed by a dull thump.
The blacksmith was found lying unconscious on the floor. Subsequently, he claimed that he hit his forehead on the lintel. True, he was not tall and used to pass through the door without difficulty ... In any case, in his opinion, the incident had nothing to do with the smeared spot that flashed in the darkest corner of the forge.
Somehow these events left their mark on the whole day, which became the day of broken dishes, the day when everyone got in the way of each other and got annoyed for no reason. Escarina's mother broke a jug that belonged to her grandmother, and a whole box of apples was moldy in the attic. The forge in the forge became stubborn and flatly refused to flare up. James, the eldest son, slipped on the rolled ice on the road and sprained his arm. The white cat, or perhaps one of its descendants - the cats led their own secluded and complicated life in the hayloft next to the forge - for no reason climbed into the chimney and flatly refused to come down. Even the sky hanging over the village became like an old mattress, and the air, despite the freshly fallen snow, seemed somehow stale.
Tormented nerves, boredom and bad mood made the atmosphere buzz, as if before a thunderstorm.
- Okay! Everything. I'm over it! Escarina's mother called out. - Cern, take Galta and Esk, visit your mother ... And where is Esk?
The two younger brothers, who had started an unenthusiastic fight under the table, looked up.
“She went into the garden,” said Galta. - Again.
- Well, bring her - and go.
But it's cold out there!
- And it's going to snow!
“It’s only a mile to Mother’s house, and the road has been cleared. Besides, who was itching to jump outside the first time it snowed? March out of here, and don't come back until you're in a better mood.

First published by Victor Gollancz Ltd, London, in association with Colin Smythe Ltd.

First published by Victor Gollancz Ltd, London

This edition published by arrangement with Orion Publishing Group and Synopsis Literary Agency

Spell Makers

Huge thanks to Neil Gaiman for lending us the last surviving copy of Liber Paginarum Fulvarum, and a big hello to all the folks at the Lovecraft Sunday Club.

From the very beginning, I would like to dot the i's. This book is not "hello". "Hello" is only the thick-headed red-haired girls in the comedies of the fifties. But she's not funny either.

This book is about magic, about where it goes and, perhaps more importantly, where it comes from. Although this manuscript does not claim to answer any of the above questions.

But above all, this book is about the world. Here he comes. Look closely, the special effects are expensive.

Then, from somewhere above, she (or he) appears, larger than the most huge, vilely bristling star cruiser, born of the imagination of a film director-cosmologist. It is a tortoise, a tortoise ten thousand miles long. This is the Great A'Tuin, one of the rare cosmic reptiles that lives in a universe where things look less like what they should be, but more like what people imagine them to be. The great A'Tuin carries four gigantic elephants on his meteorite-cratered shell, which hold a huge circle of the Discworld on gigantic shoulders.

The camera pulls back and the entire Disc comes into view, illuminated by the tiny sun orbiting around it. Here there are continents, archipelagos, seas, deserts, mountain ranges. There is even a tiny central ice sheet. The inhabitants of this little world are deeply alien to the theory that the earth must have the shape of a ball. Their world, framed by an ocean that is forever tumbling into space in one giant waterfall, is round and flat, like a geologic pizza, albeit without anchovies.

Such a world can only exist because even the gods have a sense of humor. And it just has to be a magical place. And segregated by gender.

He walked through the storm and was instantly recognizable as a wizard, partly by the long cloak and carved staff, but mostly by the raindrops that hung a few feet above his head and turned into steam.

It was a land of severe thunderstorms, the headwaters of the Ovtsepik Mountains, a land of jagged peaks, dense forests and small river valleys so deep that before daylight had time to reach the bottom, it was already time for it to return. Disheveled wisps of fog clung to the lesser cliffs, visible above the mountain path, along which, slipping and stumbling, the wizard trudged. A few goats were watching him with slit-like eyes that shone with slight interest. Yes, just to interest the goats, you don’t need much.

Thunderstorm, roaring and grumbling, went around the hills on lightning legs.

The wizard disappeared around the bend, and the goats began to graze the wet grass again.

But something made them break away from this occupation. Goat's eyes widened, nostrils flared. Although there was nothing on the trail. But the goats still watched this “nothing” with their eyes until it was out of sight.

In a narrow valley, sandwiched between steep wooded slopes, nestled a village, quite tiny, you will never find it on a mountain map. It is barely visible even on the map of the village itself.

In fact, it was one of the places that exists only so that people can come from here. The universe is teeming with such places: secluded villages, towns open to all winds under the endless sky, lonely huts in the chilly mountains. According to history, in these incredibly ordinary places, something extraordinary often originates. As a rule, only a small tablet testifies to this, saying that, contrary to any gynecological probability, it was in this house and in this room (raise your eyes, that window over there) that someone very, very famous was born.

As the wizard crossed the narrow footbridge over the swollen stream and made his way to the village forge, mist swirled between the houses. However, these two facts have nothing in common with each other. The fog would have swirled in any case: it was an experienced fog that raised the ability to swirl to the rank of a high art.

However, the blacksmith did not consider it necessary to show such subservience. He nodded to the wizard, but it was a greeting from equal to equal. Any more or less knowledgeable blacksmith knows what magic is and how to handle it, although some only amuse themselves.

The wizard bowed. The white cat sleeping by the forge woke up and looked at him attentively.

“What is the name of this village, sir?” the magician inquired.

“Bad Ass,” the blacksmith replied with a shrug.

- Foolish?

“Back,” repeated the blacksmith.

“Well, come on, come on,” he swaggered. “Just try to crack a joke.”

The wizard considered the information brought to his attention.

“There must be some story behind this title that, under different circumstances, I would have loved to hear,” he said at last. “But I would like to talk to you about your son.

- About which? the blacksmith asked, and his minions giggled obsequiously.

The wizard smiled.

– You have seven sons… And you yourself were the eighth son.

The blacksmith's face froze. He turned to the others.

Yes, the rain is almost over. Get everything from here. Me and…” Raising his eyebrows questioningly, he looked at the wizard.

“Drum Billet,” he introduced himself.

“Mr. Billet and I need to exchange a few words.

He waved his hammer vaguely, and those present, glancing over his shoulder to see if the magician might crack something in the end, dispersed one by one.

The blacksmith took out a couple of stools from under the workbench, pulled out a bottle from a sideboard standing next to a barrel of water, and poured some kind of transparent liquid into two small glasses.

The wizard and the blacksmith sat and watched the rain. Mist hung over the bridge.

“I can guess which son you mean,” said the blacksmith suddenly. - The old mother is upstairs now, with my wife. The eighth son of the eighth son. It occurred to me, but, to be honest, I somehow did not flatter myself. Oh well. Wizard in the family, huh?

Spellmakers (compilation) Terry Pratchett

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Title: Spellmakers (compilation)
Author: Terry Pratchett
Year: 1987, 1988
Genre: Humorous Fantasy, Foreign Fantasy, Foreign Fantasy, Wizard Books

About Spellmakers (compilation) by Terry Pratchett

The book "Spellmakers" is the first part of a series called "Witches", which is part of an extensive cycle about the Discworld. Terry Pratchett wrote an amazing fantasy tale, telling about the origins of magic and sorcery. Reading this work will be interesting for an audience of any age, from teenagers to more mature readers who miss action-packed stories with philosophical inclusions.

The Flat World is an amazing dimension in which everything is subject to magic. Terry Pratchett took the idea of its creation from antiquity, when it was believed that the earth rests on a giant tortoise and four elephants. On this flat "plate" there was a place for everyone - gods and people, witches and wizards, gnomes, trolls and other fabulous creatures. In this organic interweaving of reality and fantasy, the small town of Ankh-Morpork is lost, where passions boil and the future is decided ...

The Discworld has its own rules that have not been violated since time immemorial. For example, the concepts of “magic” and “magic” are clearly separated here. The male wizards who study at the Unseen University are responsible for magic, and the witches are responsible for magic. What will happen if this law is suddenly violated, and a woman enters the world of magic?

The main character of the book Eskarina Smith was born in the family of a simple blacksmith. One of the wizards, sensing the approach of death, gave her his staff when she was still a baby. It so happened that he did not check the gender of the successor and thought that he had passed the "baton" to the boy. However, when the staff, which gives strength and power, was in the hands of Eskarina, nothing could be changed - the girl practically "merged" with magic, demonstrating magical abilities from an early age. The local witch began to teach her magic, but in order to unlock the full potential of the young sorceress, she had to be sent to study at the Invisible University, where no woman had yet set foot. So, traditions and stereotypes have been destroyed, and these are cardinal changes for the entire Discworld.

Terry Pratchett probes magic from all sides, revealing its most unexpected details. Every item of a witch, starting with her elements of clothing, carries a certain energy message. The relationship between two witches and wizards is described in an interesting way. On the one hand, they compete for spheres of influence, on the other hand, they complement each other. And yet, the symbiosis of these two forces will eventually become the only true solution when the Discworld is in danger.

The book "Spellmakers" captures the atmosphere and beauty of the author's style, lively humor and depth of philosophical ideas, heartfelt and colorful images of the main characters. Men and women must learn to understand and support each other - and then the Magic of Love and Creation will play with all its colors.

On our site about books, you can download the site for free without registration or read online the book "Spellmakers (collection)" by Terry Pratchett in epub, fb2, txt, rtf, pdf formats for iPad, iPhone, Android and Kindle. The book will give you a lot of pleasant moments and a real pleasure to read. You can buy the full version from our partner. Also, here you will find the latest news from the literary world, learn the biography of your favorite authors. For novice writers, there is a separate section with useful tips and tricks, interesting articles, thanks to which you can try your hand at writing.

Quotes from Spellmakers (compilation) by Terry Pratchett

How stupid very smart people can be.

No one likes magic - especially magic that is in the hands of a woman. You never know what will hit these women in the next minute.

Simon did everything clumsily, and he did it really well.

He was too stupid to be truly cruel, and too lazy to be truly vicious.

But magic has a habit of hiding like a rake in the grass.

Intuitively, the boys realized that the inalienable right of every brother to gently torture his little sister ends at the trunk of this apple tree.

Escarina burst into tears. The blacksmith, angry and embarrassed by his behavior, got up from the table and, stomping loudly, retired to the forge.
From there came a loud crack, followed by a dull thud.
The blacksmith was found lying unconscious on the floor. Subsequently, he claimed that he hit his forehead on the lintel. True, he was short in stature and used to pass through the door without difficulty ... In any case, the incident had nothing to do with the smeared spot that flashed in the darkest corner of the forge - the blacksmith really wanted to think so.
Somehow these events left their mark on the whole day, which became the day of broken dishes, the day when everyone got in the way of each other and got annoyed for no reason.

Drum Billet scratched the cat behind the ear and thought about his life. It had been a long one—one of the perks of being a wizard—and he had done many things that were not always pleasant to remember. It's about time...

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