The Colour of Magic

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.
    “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.
    The Sergeant glowered at Rincewind, and then peered at Twoflower with interest.
    “Everything all right here, then?” he said.
    “Oh, fine,” said Rincewind. “Got held up, did you?”
    The sergeant ignored him. “This the foreigner, then?” he inquired.
    “We were just leaving,” said Rincewind quickly, and switched to Trob. “Twoflower, I think we ought to get lunch somewhere else. I know some places.”
    He marched out into the corridor with as much aplomb as he could muster. Twoflower followed, and a few seconds later there was a strangling sound from the sergeant as the Luggage closed its lid with a snap, stood up, stretched, and marched after them.
    Watchmen were dragging bodies out of the room downstairs. There were no survivors. The Watch had ensured this by giving them ample time to escape via the back door, a neat compromise between caution and