The Colour of Magic

by Terry Pratchett

  “No guards?” murmured Rincewind.

  “No. Why? What have I got that’s worth stealing?”

  Rincewind coughed. “You have, uh, gold,” he said.

  “Barely two thousand rhinu. Hardly enough to keep a man alive for more than a month or two. At home, that is. I imagine they might stretch a bit further here.”

  “Would a rhinu be one of those big gold coins?” said Rincewind.

  “Yes.” Twoflower looked worriedly at the wizard over the top of his strange seeing lenses. “Will two thousand be sufficient, do you think?”

  “Yarrrt,” croaked Rincewind. “I mean, yes—sufficient.”

  “Good.”

  “Um. Is everyone in the Agatean Empire as rich as you?”

  “Me? Rich? Bless you, whatever put that idea into your head? I am but a poor clerk! Did I pay the innkeeper too much, do you think?” Twoflower added.

  “Uh. He might have settled for less,” Rincewind conceded.

  “Ah. I shall know better next time. I can see I have a lot to learn. An idea occurs to me. Rincewind, would you perhaps consent to be employed as a, I don’t know, perhaps the word ‘guide’ would fit the circumstances? I think I could afford to pay you a rhinu a day.”

  Rincewind opened his mouth to reply but felt the words huddle together in his throat, reluctant to emerge in a world that was rapidly going mad. Twoflower blushed.

  “I have offended you,” he said. “It was an impertinent request to make of a professional man such as yourself. Doubtless you have many projects you wish to return to—some works of high magic, no doubt…”

  “No,” said Rincewind faintly. “Not just at present. A rhinu, you say? One a day. Every day?”

  “I think perhaps in the circumstances I should make it one and one half rhinu per day. Plus any out-of-pocket expenses, of course.”

  The wizard rallied magnificently. “That will be fine,” he said. “Great.”

  Twoflower reached into his pouch and took out a large round gold object, glanced at it for a moment, and slipped it back. Rincewind didn’t get a chance to see it properly.

  “I think,” said the tourist, “that I would like a little rest now. It was a long crossing. And then perhaps you would care to call back at noon and we can take a look at the city.”

  “Sure.”

  “Then please be good enough to ask the innkeeper to show me to my room.”

  Rincewind did so, and watched the nervous Broadman, who had arrived at a gallop from some back room, lead the way up the wooden steps behind the bar. After a few seconds the Luggage got up and pattered across the floor after them.

  Then the wizard looked down at the six big coins in his hand. Twoflower had insisted on paying his first four days’ wages in advance.

  Hugh nodded and smiled encouragingly. Rincewind snarled at him.

  As a student wizard Rincewind had never achieved high marks in precognition, but now unused circuits in his brain were throbbing and the future might as well have been engraved in bright colors on his eyeballs. The space between his shoulder blades began to itch. The sensible thing to do, he knew, was to buy a horse. It would have to be a fast one, and expensive—offhand, Rincewind couldn’t think of any horse dealer he knew who was rich enough to give change out of almost a whole ounce of gold.

  And then, of course, the other five coins would help him set up a useful practice at some safe distance, say two hundred miles. That would be the sensible thing.

  But what would happen to Twoflower, all alone in a city where even the cockroaches had an unerring instinct for gold? A man would have to be a real heel to leave him.

  The Patrician of Ankh-Morpork smiled, but with his mouth only.

  “The Hub Gate, you say?” he murmured.

  The guard captain saluted smartly. “Aye, lord. We had to shoot the horse before he would stop.”

  “Which, by a fairly direct route, brings you here,” said the Patrician, looking down at Rincewind. “And what have you got to say for yourself?”

  It was rumored that an entire wing of the Patrician’s palace was filled with clerks who spent their days collating and updating all the information collected by their master’s exquisitely organized spy system. Rincewind didn’t doubt it. He glanced toward the balcony that ran down one side of the audience room. A sudden run, a nimble jump—a sudden hail of crossbow quarrels. He shuddered.

  The Patrician cradled his chins in a beringed hand, and regarded the wizard with eyes as small and hard as beads.

  “Let me see,” he said. “Oathbreaking, the theft of a horse, uttering false coinage—yes, I think it’s the Arena for you, Rincewind.”

  This was too much.

  “I didn’t steal the horse! I bought it fairly!”

  “But with false coinage. Technical theft, you see.”

  “But those rhinu are solid gold!”

  “Rhinu?” The Patrician rolled one of them around in his thick fingers. “Is that what they are called? How interesting. But, as you point out, they are not very similar to dollars…”

  “Well, of course they’re not—”

  “Ah! you admit it, then?”

  Rincewind opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and shut it again.

  “Quite so. And on top of these there is, of course, the moral obloquy attendant on the cowardly betrayal of a visitor to this shore. For shame, Rincewind!”

  The Patrician waved a hand vaguely. The guards behind Rincewind backed away, and their captain took a few paces to the right. Rincewind suddenly felt very alone.

  It is said that when a wizard is about to die Death himself turns up to claim him (instead of delegating the task to a subordinate, such as Disease or Famine, as is usually the case). Rincewind looked around nervously for a tall figure in black (wizards, even failed wizards, have in addition to rods and cones in their eyeballs the tiny octagons that enable them to see into the far octarine, the basic color of which all other colors are merely pale shadows impinging on normal four dimensional space. It is said to be a sort of fluorescent greenish yellow purple).

  Was that a flickering shadow in the corner?

  “Of course,” said the Patrician, “I could be merciful.”

  The shadow disappeared. Rincewind looked up, an expression of insane hope on his face.

  “Yes?” he said.

  The Patrician waved a hand again. Rincewind saw the guards leave the chamber. Alone with the overlord of the twin cities, he almost wished they would come back.

  “Come hither, Rincewind,” said the Patrician. He indicated a bowl of savories on a low onyx table by the throne. “Would you care for a crystallized jellyfish? No?”

  “Um,” said Rincewind, “no.”

  “Now I want you to listen very carefully to what I am about to say,” said the Patrician amiably, “otherwise you will die. In an interesting fashion. Over a period. Please stop fidgeting like that.

  “Since you are a wizard of sorts, you are of course aware that we live upon a world shaped, as it were, like a disc? And that there is said to exist, toward the far rim, a continent which though small is equal in weight to all the mighty land-masses in this hemi-circle? And that this, according to ancient legend, is because it is largely made of gold?”

  Rincewind nodded. Who hadn’t heard of the Counterweight Continent? Some sailors even believed the childhood tales and sailed in search of it. Of course, they returned either empty-handed or not at all. Probably eaten by giant turtles, in the opinion of more serious mariners. Because, of course, the Counterweight Continent was nothing more than a solar myth.

  “It does, of course, exist,” said the Patrician. “Although it is not made of gold, it is true that gold is a very common metal there. Most of the mass is made up by vast deposits of octiron deep within the crust. Now it will be obvious to an incisive mind like yours that the existence of the Counterweight Continent poses a deadly threat to our people here—” he paused, looking at Rincewind’s open mouth. He sighed. He said, “Do you by
some chance fail to follow me?”

  “Yarrg,” said Rincewind. He swallowed, and licked his lips. “I mean, no. I mean—well, gold…”

  “I see,” said the Patrician sweetly. “You feel, perhaps, that it would be a marvelous thing to go to the Counterweight Continent and bring back a shipload of gold?”

  Rincewind had a feeling that some sort of trap was being set.

  “Yes?” he ventured.

  “And if every man on the shores of the Circle Sea had a mountain of gold of his own? Would that be a good thing? What would happen? Think carefully.”

  Rincewind’s brow furrowed. He thought. “We’d all be rich?”

  The way the temperature fell at his remark told him that it was not the correct one.

  “I may as well tell you, Rincewind, that there is some contact between the Lords of the Circle Sea and the Emperor of the Agatean Empire, as it is styled,” the Patrician went on. “It is only very slight. There is little common ground between us. We have nothing they want, and they have nothing we can afford. It is an old Empire, Rincewind. Old and cunning and cruel and very, very rich. So we exchange fraternal greetings by albatross mail. At infrequent intervals.

  “One such letter arrived this morning. A subject of the Emperor appears to have taken it into his head to visit our city. It appears he wishes to look at it. Only a madman would possibly undergo all the privations of crossing the Turnwise Ocean in order to merely look at anything. However.

  “He landed this morning. He might have met a great hero, or the cunningest of thieves, or some wise and great sage. He met you. He has employed you as a guide. You will be a guide, Rincewind, to this looker, this Twoflower. You will see that he returns home with a good report of our little homeland. What do you say to that?”

  “Er. Thank you, Lord,” said Rincewind miserably.

  “There is another point, of course. It would be a tragedy should anything untoward happen to our little visitor. It would be dreadful if he were to die, for example. Dreadful for the whole of our land, because the Agatean Emperor looks after his own and could certainly extinguish us at a nod. A mere nod. And that would be dreadful for you, Rincewind, because in the weeks that remained before the Empire’s huge mercenary fleet arrived certain of my servants would occupy themselves about your person in the hope that the avenging captains, on their arrival, might find their anger tempered by the sight of your still living body. There are certain spells that can prevent the life departing from a body, be it never so abused, and—I see by your face that understanding dawns?”

  “Yarrg.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Yes, lord. I’ll, er, see to it, I mean, I’ll endeavor to see, I mean, well, I’ll try to look after him and see he 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 backward, 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 ax 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 absentmindedly, 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 low 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 program 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 chandelier, 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.r />
  “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 materialize 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 organizing 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 favor. The job carried a pension, and attracted a cautious, thoughtful kind of man.