The Colour of Magic

comes to no harm.’ And after that I’ll get a job juggling snowballs through Hell, he added bitterly in the privacy of his own skull.

‘Capital! I gather already that you and Twoflower are on the best of terms. An excellent beginning! When he returns safely to his homeland you will not find me ungrateful. I shall probably even dismiss the charges against you. Thank you, Rincewind. You may go.’

Rincewind decided not to ask for the return of his five remaining rhinu. He backed away, cautiously.

‘Oh, and there is one other thing,’ the Patrician said, as the wizard groped for the door handles.

‘Yes, lord?’ he replied, with a sinking heart.

‘I’m sure you won’t dream of trying to escape from your obligations by fleeing the city. I judge you to be a born city person. But you may be sure that the lords of the other cities will be appraised of these conditions by nightfall.’

‘I assure you the thought never even crossed my mind, lord.’

‘Indeed? Then if I were you I’d sue my face for slander.’

* * *

Rincewind reached the Broken Drum at a dead run, and was just in time to collide with a man who came out backwards, fast. The stranger’s haste was in part accounted for by the spear in his chest. He bubbled noisily and dropped dead at the wizard’s feet.

Rincewind peered around the doorframe and jerked back as a heavy throwing axe whirred past like a partridge.

It was probably a lucky throw, a second cautious glance told him. The dark interior of the Drum was a broil of fighting men, quite a number of them—a third and longer glance confirmed—in bits. Rincewind swayed back as a wildly thrown stool sailed past and smashed on the far side of the street. Then he dived in.

He was wearing a dark robe, made darker by constant wear and irregular washings. In the raging gloom no-one appeared to notice a shadowy shape that shuffled desperately from table to table. At one point a fighter, staggering back, trod on what felt like fingers. A number of what felt like teeth bit his ankle. He yelped shrilly and dropped his guard just sufficiently for a sword, swung by a surprised opponent, to skewer him.

Rincewind reached the stairway, sucking his bruised hand and running with a curious, bent-over gait. A crossbow quarrel thunked into the banister rail above him, and he gave a whimper.

He made the stairs in one breathless rush, expecting at any moment another, more accurate shot.

In the corridor above he stood upright, gasping, and saw the floor in front of him scattered with bodies. A big black-bearded man, with a bloody sword in one hand, was trying a door handle.

‘Hey!’ screamed Rincewind. The man looked around and then, almost absent-mindedly, drew a short throwing knife from his bandolier and hurled it. Rincewind ducked. There was a brief scream behind him as the crossbow man, sighting down his weapon, dropped it and clutched at his throat.

The big man was already reaching for another knife. Rincewind looked around wildly, and then with wild improvisation drew himself up into a wizardly pose.

His hand was flung back. ‘Asoniti! Kyorucha! Beazleblor!’

The man hesitated, his eyes flicking nervously from side to side as he waited for the magic. The conclusion that there was not going to be any hit him at the same time as Rincewind, whirring wildly down the passage, kicked him sharply in the groin.

As he screamed and clutched at himself the wizard dragged open the door, sprang inside, slammed it behind him and threw his body against it, panting.

It was quiet in here. There was Twoflower, sleeping peacefully on the bed. And there, at the foot of the bed, was the Luggage.

Rincewind took a few steps forward, cupidity moving him as easily as if he were on little wheels. The chest was open. There were bags inside, and in one of them he caught the gleam of gold. For a moment greed overcame caution, and he reached out gingerly … but what was the use? He’d never live to enjoy it. Reluctantly he drew his hand back, and was surprised to see a slight tremor in the chest’s open lid. Hadn’t it shifted slightly, as though rocked by the wind?

Rincewind looked at his fingers, and then at the lid. It looked heavy, and was bound with brass bands. It was quite still now.

What wind?

‘Rincewind!’

Twoflower sprang off the bed. The wizard jumped back, wrenching his features into a smile.

‘My dear chap, right on time! We’ll just have lunch, and then I’m sure you’ve got a wonderful programme lined up for this afternoon!’

‘Er—’

‘That’s great!’

Rincewind took a deep breath. ‘Look,’ he said desperately, ‘let’s eat somewhere else. There’s been a bit of a fight down below.’

‘A tavern brawl? Why didn’t you wake me up?’

‘Well, you see, I—what?’

‘I thought I made myself clear this morning, Rincewind. I want to see genuine Morporkian life—the slave market, the Whore Pits, the Temple of Small Gods, the Beggars’ Guild … and a genuine tavern brawl.’ A faint note of suspicion entered Twoflower’s voice. ‘You do have them, don’t you? You know, people swinging on chandeliers, swordfights over the table, the sort of thing Hrun the Barbarian and the Weasel are always getting involved in. You know—excitement.’

Rincewind sat down heavily on the bed.

‘You want to see a fight?’ he said.

‘Yes. What’s wrong with that?’

‘For a start, people get hurt.’

‘Oh, I wasn’t suggesting we get involved. I just want to see one, that’s all. And some of your famous heroes. You do have some, don’t you? It’s not all dockside talk?’ And now, to the wizard’s astonishment, Twoflower was almost pleading.

‘Oh, yeah. We have them all right,’ said Rincewind hurriedly. He pictured them in his mind, and recoiled from the thought.

All the heroes of the Circle Sea passed through the gates of Ankh-Morpork sooner or later. Most of them were from the barbaric tribes nearer the frozen Hub, which had a sort of export trade in heroes. Almost all of them had crude magic swords, whose unsuppressed harmonics on the astral plane played hell with any delicate experiments in applied sorcery for miles around, but Rincewind didn’t object to them on that score. He knew himself to be a magical dropout, so it didn’t bother him that the mere appearance of a hero at the city gates was enough to cause retorts to explode and demons to materialise all through the Magical Quarter. No, what he didn’t like about heroes was that they were usually suicidally gloomy when sober and homicidally insane when drunk. There were too many of them, too. Some of the most notable questing grounds near the city were a veritable hubbub in the season. There was talk of organising a rota.

He rubbed his nose. The only heroes he had much time for were Bravd and the Weasel, who were out of town at the moment, and Hrun the Barbarian, who was practically an academic by Hub standards in that he could think without moving his lips. Hrun was said to be roving somewhere Turnwise.

‘Look,’ he said at last. ‘Have you ever met a barbarian?’

Twoflower shook his head.

‘I was afraid of that,’ said Rincewind. ‘Well. they’re—’

There was a clatter of running feet in the street outside and a fresh uproar from downstairs. It was followed by a commotion on the stairs. The door was flung open before Rincewind could collect himself sufficiently to make a dash for the window.

But instead of the greed-crazed madman he expected, he found himself looking into the round red face of a Sergeant of the Watch. He breathed again. Of course. The Watch were always careful not to intervene too soon in any brawl where the odds were not heavily stacked in their favour. The job carried a pension, and attracted a cautious, thoughtful kind of man.