The Colour of Magic 4 страница

" Where is he, the rich foreigner? " hissed the wizard. " Quickly! "

" What's holding my leg? " said the man, with a note of terror in his voice. He tried to wriggle free.

The pressure increased

" You wouldn't want to know, " said Rincewind

" Pay attention, please. Where's the foreigner? "

" Not here. They’ve got him at Broadman's place. "

" Everyone's looking for him! You're Rincewind aren't you? The box - the box that bites people ononono... pleasssse... "

Rincewind had gone. The guard felt the unseen leg-gripper release his - or, as he was beginning to fear, it’s - hold. Then, as he tried to pull himself to his feet, something big and heavy and square cannoned into him out of the dark and plunged off after the wizard. Something with hundreds of tiny feet.

With only his home-made phrase book to help him Twoflower was trying to explain the mysteries of in-sour-ants to Broadman. The fat innkeeper was listening intently, his little black eyes glittering. From the other end of the table Ymor watched with mild amusement, occasionally feeding one of his ravens with scraps from his plate. Beside him Withel paced up and down.

" You fret too much, " said Ymor, without taking his eyes from the two men opposite him. " I can feel it, Stren. Who would dare attack us here? And the gutter wizard will come. He's too much of a coward not to. And he'll try to bargain. And we shall have him. And the gold. And the chest. "

Withel's one eye glared, and he made a fist into the palm of a black-gloved hand.

" Who would have thought there was so much sapient pearwood in the whole of the disc? " he said.

" How could we have known? "

" You fret too much, Stren. I’m sure you can do better this time, " said Ymor pleasantly.

The lieutenant snorted in disgust, and strode off around the room to bully his men. Ymor carried on watching the tourist.

It was strange, but the little man didn't seem to realise the seriousness of his position. Ymor had on several occasions seen him look around the room with an expression of deep satisfaction he had also been talking for ages to Broadman and Ymer had seen a piece of paper change hands and Broadman had given the foreigner some coins. It was strange. When Broadman got up and waddled past Ymer's chair the thiefmasters arm shot out like a steel spring and grabbed the fat man by his apron.

" What was that all about, friend? " asked Ymor quietly.

" N-nothing, Ymor. Just private business, like. "

" There are no secrets between friends, Broadman. "

" Yar. Well, I’m not sure about it myself, really. It's a sort of bet, see? " said the innkeeper nervously " inn-sewer-ants, it's called. It's like a bet that the Broken Drum won't get burned down. "

Ymor held the man's gaze until Broadman twitched in fear and embarrassment. Then the thiefmaster laughed.

" This worm-eaten old tinder pile? " he said. " The man must be mad! "

" Yes, but mad with money. He says now he's got the - can't remember the word, begins with a P, it's what you might call the stake money- the people he works for in the Agatean Empire will pay up. If the Broken Drum burns down. Not that I hope it does. Burn down. The Broken Drum, I mean. I mean, it's like a home to me, is the Drum... "

" Not entirely stupid, are you? " said Ymor, and pushed the innkeeper away.

The door slammed back on its hinges and thudded into the wall.

" Hey, that's my door. " screamed Broadman. Then he realised who was standing at the top of the steps, and ducked behind the table a mere shaving of time before a short black dart sped across the room and thunked into the woodwork.

Ymor moved his hand carefully, and poured out another flagon of beer.

" Won't you join me, Zlorf? " he said levelly. " and put that sword away, Stren. Zlorf Flannelfoot is our friend "

The president of the Assassins' Guild spun his short blowgun dexterously and slotted it into its holster in one smooth movement.

" Stren! " said Ymor.

The black-clad thief hissed, and sheathed his sword. But he kept his hand on the hilt, and his eyes on the assassin.

That wasn't easy. Promotion in the Assassins Guild was by competitive examination, the Practical being the most important - indeed, the only - part. Thus Zlorf's broad, honest face was a welter of scar tissue, the result of many a close encounter. It probably hadn't been all that good-looking in any case- it was said that Zlorf had chosen a profession in which dark hoods, cloaks and nocturnal prowlings figured largely because there was a day-fearing trollish streak in his parentage. People who said this in earshot of Zlorf tended to carry their ears home in their hats.

He strolled down the stairs, followed by a number of assassins. When he was directly in front of Ymor he said: " I've come for the tourist. "

" Is it any of Your business, Zlorf? "

" Yes. Gringo, Urmond - take him. "

Two of the assassins stepped forward. Then Stren was in front of them, his sword appearing to materialise an inch from their throats without having to pass through the intervening air.

" Possibly I could only kill one of you, " he murmured, " but I suggest you ask yourselves which one? "

" Look up, Zlorf, " said Ymor.

A row of yellow, baleful eyes looked down from the darkness among the rafters.

" One step more and you'll leave here with fewer eyeballs than you came with, " said the thiefmaster. " So sit down and have a drink, Zlorf, and let's talk about this sensibly. I thought we had an agreement. You don't rob- I don't kill. Not for payment, that is, " he added after a pause.

Zlorf took the proffered beer.

" So? " he said. " I’ll kill him. Then you rob him. Is he that funny looking one over there? "

" Yes. "

Zlorf stared at Twoflower, who grinned at him.

He shrugged. He seldom wasted time wondering why people wanted other people dead. It was just a living. " Who is your client, may I ask? " said Ymor.

Zlorf held up a hand. " Please! " he protested. " Professional etiquette. "

" Of course. By the way-"

" Yes? "

" I believe I have a couple of guards outside-"

" Had. "

" And some others in the doorway across the street-"

" Formerly. "

" And two bowmen on the roof. "

A flicker of doubt passed across Zlorf's face, like the last shaft of sunlight over a badly ploughed field. The door flew open, badly damaging the assassin who was standing beside it.

" Stop doing that! " shrieked Broadman, from under his table.

Zlorf and Ymor stared up at the figure on the threshold. It was short, fat and richly dressed. Very richly dressed. There were a number of tall, big shapes looming behind it. Very big, threatening shapes.

" Who's that? " said Zlorf.

" I know him, " said Ymor. " His name's Rerpf. He runs the Groaning Platter tavern down by Brass Bridge. Stren - remove him. "

Rerpf held up a beringed hand. Stren Withel hesitated halfway to the door as several very large trolls ducked under the doorway and stood on either side of the fat man, blinking in the light. Muscles the size of melons bulged in forearms like flour sacks. Each troll held a double-headed axe. Between thumb and forefinger.

Broadman erupted from cover, his face Suffused with rage.

" Out! " he screamed. " Get those trolls out of here! " No-one moved. The room was suddenly quiet.

Broadman looked around quickly. It began to dawn on him just what he had said, and to whom. A whimper escaped from his lips, glad to be free. He reached the doorway to his cellars just as one of the trolls, with a lazy flick of one ham-sized hand, sent his axe whirling across the room. The slam of the door and its subsequent splitting as the axe hit it merged into one sound.

" Bloody hell! " exclaimed Zlorf Flannelfoot.

" What do you want? " said Ymor.

" I am here on behalf of the Guild of Merchants and Traders, " said Rerpf evenly. " to protect our interests, you might say. Meaning the little man. "

Ymor wrinkled his brows.

" I’m sorry, " he said. " I thought I heard you say the Guild of Merchants? "

" And traders, " agreed Rerpf. Behind him now, in addition to more trolls, were several humans that Ymor vaguely recognized. He had seen them, maybe, behind counters and bars. Shadowy figures, usually - easily ignored, easily forgotten. At the back of his mind a bad feeling began to grow. He thought about how it might be to be, say, a fox confronted with an angry sheep. A sheep, moreover, that could afford to employ wolves.

" How long has this - Guild - been in existence, may I ask? " he said.

" Since this afternoon, " said Rerpf. " I’m viceguildmaster in charge of tourism, you know. "

" What is this tourism of which you Speak? "

" Uh - we are not quite sure... " said Rerpf. An old bearded man poked his head over the guildmaster's shoulder and cackled, " speaking on behalf of the winesellers of Morpork, Tourism means Business See? "

" Well? " said Ymor coldly.

" Well, " said Rerpf, " we're protecting our interests, like I said. "

" Thieves OUT, Thieves OUT! " cackled his elderly companion. Several others took up the chant. Zlorf grinned. " and assassins, " chanted the old man. Zlorf growled.

" Stands to reason, " said Rerpf. " People robbing and murdering all over the place, what sort of impression are visitors going to take away? You come all the way to see our fine city with its many points of historical and civic interest, also many quaint customs, and you wake up dead in some back alley or as it might be floating down the Ankh, how are you going to tell all your friends what a great time you're having? Let's face it, you’ve got to move with the times. "

Zlorf and Ymor met each other's gaze.

" We have, have we? " said Ymor.

" Then let us move, brother, " agreed Zlorf. In one movement he brought his blowgun to his mouth and sent a dart hissing towards the nearest troll. It spun around, hurling its axe, which whirred over the assassin's head and buried itself in a luckless thief behind him.

Rerpf ducked, allowing a troll behind him to raise its huge iron crossbow and fire a spear-length quarrel into the nearest assassin. That was the start...

It has been remarked before that those who are sensitive to radiations in the far octarine - the eighth colour, the pigment of the imagination- can see things that others cannot.

Thus it was that Rincewind, hurrying through the crowded, flare-lit evening bazaars of Morpork. With the luggage trundling behind him, jostled a tall dark figure, turned to deliver a few suitable curses, and beheld Death.

It had to be Death. No-one else went around with empty eye sockets and, of course, the scythe over one shoulder was another clue. As Rincewind stared in horror a courting couple, laughing at some private joke, walked straight through the apparition without appearing to notice it.

Death, insofar as it was possible in a face with no movable features, looked surprised.

RINCEWIND? Death said, in tones as deep and heavy as the slamming of leaden doors, far underground.

" Um, " said Rincewind, trying to back away from that eyeless stare.

BUT WHY ARE YOU HERE? (Boom, boom went crypt lids, in the worm-haunted fastnesses under old mountains... )

" Um, why not? " said Rincewind. " Anyway, I’m sure you’ve got lots to do, so if you'll just-"

I WAS SURPRISED THAT YOU JOSTLED ME, RINCEWIND. FOR I HAVE AN APPOINTMENT WITH THEE THIS VERY NIGHT.

" Oh no, not-"

OF COURSE, WHAT'S SO BLOODY VEXING ABOUT THE WHOLE BUSINESS IS THAT I WAS EXPECTING TO MEET THEE IN PSEUDOPOLIS.

" But that's five hundred miles away! "

YOU DON'T HAVE TO TELL ME, THE WHOLE SYSTEM'S GOT SCREWED UP AGAIN. I CAN SEE THAT. LOOK THERE'S NO CHANCE OF YOU-?

Rincewind backed away, hands spread protectively in front of him. The dried fish salesman on a nearby stall watched this madman with interest.

I COULD LEND YOU A VERY FAST HORSE. IT WON'T HURT A BIT.

" No! " Rincewind turned and ran. Death watched him go and shrugged bitterly.

SOD YOU, THEN, Death said. He turned, and noticed the fish salesman. With a snarl Death reached out a bony finger and stopped the man's heart, but he didn't take much pride in it.

Then Death remembered what was due to happen later that night. It would not be true to say that Death smiled, because in any case His features were perforce frozen in a calcareous grin. But He hummed a little tune, cheery as a plague pit, and pausing only to extract the life from a passing mayfly, and one-ninth of the lives from a cat cowering under the fish stall (all cats can see into the octarine) - Death turned on His heel and set off towards the Broken Drum.

Short Street, Morpork, is in fact one of the longest in the city. Filigree Street crosses its turnwise end in the manner of the crosspiece of a T, and the Broken Drum is so placed that it looks down the full length of the street.

At the furthermost end of Short Street a dark oblong rose on hundreds of tiny legs, and started to run. At first it moved at no more than a lumbering trot, but by the time it was halfway up the street it was moving arrow-fast...

A darker shadow inched its way along one of the walls of the Drum, a few yards from the two trolls who were guarding the door. Rincewind was sweating. If they heard the faint clinking of the specially-prepared bags at his belt...

One of the trolls tapped his colleague on the shoulder, producing a noise like two pebbles being knocked together. He pointed down the starlit street...

Rincewind darted from his hiding place, turned, and hurled his burden through the Drum's nearest window.

Withel saw it arrive. The bag arced across the room, turning slowly in the air, and burst on the edge of a table. A moment later gold coins were rolling across the floor, spinning, glittering.

The room was suddenly silent, save for the tiny noises of gold and the whimpers of the wounded. With a curse Withel despatched the assassin he had been fighting. " It's a trick! " he screamed. " No-one move! "

Three score men and a dozen trolls froze in mid-grope.

Then, for the third time, the door burst open. Two trolls hurried through it, slammed it behind them dropped the heavy bar across it and fled down the stairs.

Outside there was a sudden crescendo of running feet. And, for the last time, the door opened. In fact it exploded, the great wooden bar being hurled far across the room and the frame itself giving way. Door and frame landed on a table, which flew into splinters. It was then that the frozen fighters noticed that there was something else in the pile of wood. It was a box, shaking itself madly to free itself of the smashed timber around it.

Rincewind appeared in the ruined doorway hurling another of his gold grenades. It smashed into a wall, showering coins.

Down in the cellar Broadman looked up, muttered to himself, and carried on with his work. His entire spindlewinter's supply of candles had already been strewn on the floor, mixed with his store of kindling wood. Now he was attacking a barrel of lamp oil. " inn-sewer-ants" he muttered. Oil gushed out and swirled around his feet.

Withel stormed across the floor, his face a mask of rage. Rincewind took careful aim and caught the thief full in the chest with a bag of gold. But now Ymor was shouting, and pointing an accusing finger. A raven swooped down from its perch in the rafters and dived at the wizard, talons open and gleaming.

It didn't make it. At about the halfway point the Luggage leapt from its bed of splinters, gaped briefly in mid-air, and snapped shut.

It landed lightly. Rincewind saw its lid open again, slightly. Just far enough for a tongue, large as a palm leaf, red as mahogany, to lick up a few errant feathers.

At the same moment the giant candlewheel fell from the ceiling, plunging the room into gloom. Rincewind, coiling himself like a spring, gave a standing jump and grasped a beam, swinging himself up into the relative safety of the roof with a strength that amazed him.

" Exciting, isn't it? " said a voice by his ear.

Down below, thieves, assassins, trolls and merchants all realised at about the same moment that they were in a room made treacherous of foothold by gold coins and containing something, among the suddenly menacing shapes in the semi-darkness, that was absolutely horrible. As one they made for the door, but had two dozen different recollections of its exact position.

High above the chaos Rincewind stared at Twoflower.

" Did you cut the lights down? " he hissed.

" Yes. "

" How come you're up here? "

" I thought I'd better not get in everyone's way-"

Rincewind considered this. There didn't seem to be much he could say. Twoflower added: " A real brawl! Better than anything I'd imagined! Do you think I ought to thank them? Or did you arrange it? " Rincewind looked at him blankly. " I think we ought to be getting down now, " he said hollowly.

" Everyone's gone. "

He dragged Twoflower across the littered floor and up the steps. They burst out into the tail end of the night. There were still a few stars but the moon was down, and there was a faint grey glow to rimward. Most important, the street was empty. Rincewind sniffed.

" Can you smell oil? " he said.

Then Withel stepped out of the shadows and tripped him up.

At the top of the cellar steps Broadman knelt down and fumbled in his tinderbox. It turned out to be damp.

" I'll kill that bloody cat, " he muttered, and groped for the spare box that was normally on the ledge by the door. It was missing. Broadman said a bad word.

A lighted taper appeared in mid-air, right beside him.

HERE, TAKE THIS.

" Thanks, " said Broadman.

DON'T MENTION IT.

Broadman went to throw the taper down the steps. His hand paused in mid-air. He looked at the taper, his brow furrowing. Then he turned around and held the taper up to illuminate the scene. It didn't shed much light, but it did give the darkness a shape...

" Oh, no" he breathed.

BUT YES, said Death.

Rincewind rolled.

For a moment he thought Withel was going to spit him where he lay. But it was worse than that. He was waiting for him to get up.

" I see you have a sword, wizard, " he said quietly. " I suggest you rise, and we shall see how well you use it. " Rincewind stood up as slowly as he dared, and drew from his belt the short sword he had taken from the guard a few hours and a hundred years ago. It was a short blunt affair compared to Withel 's hair-thin rapier.

" But I don't know how to use a sword, " he wailed.

" Good. "

" You know that wizards can't be killed by edged weapons? " said Rincewind desperately. Withel smiled coldly. " So I have heard, " he said. " I look forward to putting it to the test. " He lunged. Rincewind caught the thrust by sheer luck, jerked his hand away in shock, deflected the second stroke by coincidence, and took the third one through his robe at heart-height.

There was a clink.

Withel's snarl of triumph died in his throat. He drew the sword out and prodded again at the wizard, who was rigid with terror and guilt. There was another clink, and gold coins began to drop out of the hem of the wizard's robe.

" So you bleed gold, do you? " hissed Withel. " But have you got gold concealed in that raggedy beard, you little-"

As his sword went back for his final sweep the sullen glow that had been growing in the doorway of the Broken Drum flickered, dimmed, and erupted into a roaring fireball that sent the walls billowing outward and carried the roof a hundred feet into the air before bursting through it, in a gout of red-hot tiles.

Withel stared at the boiling flames, unnerved. And Rincewind leapt. He ducked under the thief's sword arm and brought his own blade around in an arc so incompetently misjudged that it hit the man flat-first and jolted out of the wizard's hand. Sparks and droplets of flaming oil rained down as Withel reached out with both gauntleted hands and grabbed Rincewind's neck, forcing him down.

" You did this! " he screamed. " You and your box of trickery. "

His thumb found Rincewind's windpipe. This is it, the wizard thought. Wherever I’m going, it can't be worse than here...

" Excuse me, " said Twoflower.

Rincewind felt the grip lessen. And now Withel was slowly getting up, a look of absolute hatred on his face.

A glowing ember landed on the wizard. He brushed it off hurriedly, and scrambled to his feet. Twoflower was behind Withel, holding the man's own needle-sharp sword with the point resting in the small of the thief’s back. Rincewind's eyes narrowed. He reached into his robe, then withdrew his hand bunched into a fist.

" Don't move, " he said.

" Am I doing this right? " asked Twoflower anxiously.

" He says he'll skewer your liver if you move, "

Rincewind translated freely.

" I doubt it, " said Withel.

" Bet? "

" No! "

As Withel tensed himself to turn on the tourist Rincewind lashed out and caught the thief on the jaw. Withel stared at him in amazement for a moment, and then quietly toppled into the mud.

The wizard uncurled his stinging fist and the roll of gold coins slipped between his throbbing fingers.

He looked down at the recumbent thief.

" Good grief, " he gasped.

He looked up and yelled as another ember landed on his neck. Flames were racing along the rooftops on the other side of the street. All around him people were hurling possessions from windows and dragging horses from smoking stables. Another explosion in the white-hot volcano that was the Drum sent a whole marble mantelpiece scything overhead.

" The Widdershin Gate's the nearest! " Rincewind shouted above the crackle of collapsing rafters. " Come on! "

He grabbed Twoflower's reluctant arm and dragged him down the street.

" My luggage! "

" Blast your luggage. Stay here much longer and you'll go where you don't need luggage. Come on! " screamed Rincewind.

They jogged on through the crowd of frightened people leaving the area, while the wizard took great mouthfuls of cool dawn air. Something was puzzling him.

" I’m sure all the candles went out, " he said. " So how did the Drum catch fire? "

" I don't know, " moaned Twoflower. " it's terrible, Rincewind. We were getting along so well, too. "

Rincewind stopped in astonishment, so that another refugee cannoned into him and spun away with an oath.

" Getting on? "

" Yes, a great bunch of fellows, I thought language was a bit of a problem, but they were so keen for me to join their party, they just wouldn't take no for an answer - really friendly people, I thought... "

Rincewind started to correct him, then realised he didn't know how to begin.

" It'll be a blow for old Broadman, " Twoflower continued. " Still, he was wise. I’ve still got the rhinu he paid as his first premium. "

Rincewind didn't know the meaning of the word premium, but his mind was working fast.

" You inn-sewered the Drum? " he said. " You bet Broadman it wouldn't catch fire? "

" Oh yes. Standard valuation. Two hundred rhinu, Why do you ask? "

Rincewind turned and stared at the flames racing towards them, and wondered how much of Ankh Morpork could be bought for two hundred rhinu. Quite a large piece, he decided. Only not now, not the way those flames were moving... He glanced down at the tourist.

" You-" he began, and searched his memory for the worst word in the Trob tongue; the happy little beTrobi didn't really know how to swear properly.

" You, " he repeated. Another hurrying figure bumped into him, narrowly missing him with the blade over its shoulder. Rincewind's tortured temper exploded.

" You little (such a one who, while wearing a copper nose ring, stands in a footbath atop Mount Raruaruaha during a heavy thunderstorm and shouts that Alohura, Goddess of Lightning, has the facial features of a diseased uloruaha root! )"

JUST DOING MY JOB, said the figure, stalking off.

Every word fell as heavily as slabs of marble; moreover, Rincewind was certain that he was the only one who heard them.

He grabbed Twoflower again.

" Let's get out of here! " he suggested.

One interesting side effect of the fire in Ankh-Morpork concerns the inn-sewer-ants policy, which left the city through the ravaged roof of the Broken Drum, was wafted high into the Discworld's atmosphere on the ensuing thermal, and came to earth several days and a few thousand miles away on an uloruaha bush in the beTrobi islands. The simple, laughing islanders subsequently worshipped it as a god, much to the amusement of their more sophisticated neighbours. Strangely enough the rainfall and harvests in the next few years were almost supernaturally abundant, and this led to a research team being despatched to the islands by the Minor Religions faculty of Unseen University. Their verdict was that it only went to show.

The fire, driven by the wind, spread out from the Drum faster than a man could walk. The timbers of the Widdershin Gate were already on fire when Rincewind, his face blistered and reddened from the flames, reached them. By now he and Twoflower were on horseback - mounts hadn't been that hard to obtain. A wily merchant had asked fifty times their worth, and had been left gaping when one thousand times their worth had been pressed into his hands.

They rode through just before the first of the big gate timbers descended in an explosion of sparks Morpork was already a cauldron of flame.

As they galloped up the red-lit road Rincewind glanced sideways at his travelling companion currently trying hard to learn to ride a horse.

Bloody hell, he thought. He's alive! Me too. Who'd have thought it? Perhaps there is something in this reflected-sound-of-underground- spirits? It was a cumbersome phrase. Rincewind tried to get his tongue round the thick syllables that were the word in Twoflower's own language.

" Ecolirix? " he tried. " Ecro-gnothics? Echo-gnomics? "

That would do. That sounded about right.

Several hundred yards downriver from the last smouldering suburb of the city a strangely rectangular and apparently heavily-waterlogged object touched the mud on the widdershin bank. Immediately it sprouted numerous legs and scrabbled for a purchase.

Hauling itself to the top of the bank the Luggage-streaked with soot, stained with water and very very angry - shook itself and took its bearings. Then it moved away at a brisk trot, the small and incredibly ugly imp that was perching on its lid watching the scenery with interest.

Bravd looked at the Weasel and raised his eyebrows.

" And that's it, " said Rincewind, " The Luggage caught up with us, don't ask me how. Is there any more wine? "

The Weasel picked up the empty wineskin.

" I think you have had just about enough wine this night, " he said.

Bravd's forehead wrinkled.

" Gold is gold, " he said finally. " How can a man with plenty of gold consider himself poor? You're either poor or rich. It stands to reason-"

Rincewind hiccupped. He was finding Reason rather difficult to hold on to. " Well, " he said, " what I think is, the point is, well, you know octiron? "

The two adventurers nodded. The strange iridescent metal was almost as highly valued in the lands around the Circle Sea as sapient pearwood, and was about as rare. A man who owned a needle made of octiron would never lose his way, since it always pointed to the Hub of the Discworld, being acutely sensitive to the disc's magical field; it would also miraculously darn his socks.

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