The Colour of Magic

astoundedly agreeing that perhaps He wasn’t as holy as all that.
    A prolonged session at the Whore Pits produced a number of colorful and instructive pictures, a number of which Rincewind concealed about his person for detailed perusal in private. As the fumes cleared from his brain he began to speculate seriously as to how the iconograph worked.
    Even a failed wizard knew that some substances were sensitive to light. Perhaps the glass plates were treated by some arcane process that froze the light that passed through them? Something like that, anyway. Rincewind often suspected that there was something, somewhere, that was better than magic. He was usually disappointed.
    However, he soon took every opportunity to operate the box. Twoflower was only too pleased to allow this, since that enabled the little man to appear in his own pictures. It was at this point that Rincewind noticed something strange. Possession of the box conferred a kind of power on the wielder—which was that anyone, confronted with the hypnotic glass eye, would submissively obey the most peremptory orders about stance and expression.
    It was while he was thus engaged in the Plaza of Broken Moons that disaster struck.
    Twoflower had posed alongside a bewildered charm seller, his crowd of newfound admirers watching him with interest in case he did something humorously lunatic.
    Rincewind got down on one knee, the better to arrange the picture, and pressed the enchanted lever.
    The box said, “It’s no good. I’ve run out of pink.”
    A hitherto unnoticed door opened in front of his eyes. A small, green and hideously warty humanoid figure leaned out, pointed at a color-encrusted palette in one clawed hand, and screamed at him.
    “No pink! See?” screeched the homunculus. “No good you going on pressing the lever when there’s no pink, is there? If you wanted pink you shouldn’t of took all those pictures of young ladies, should you? It’s monochrome from now on, friend. All right?”
    “All right. Yeah, Sure,” said Rincewind. In one dim corner of the little box he thought he could see an easel, and a tiny unmade bed. He hoped he couldn’t.
    “So long as that’s understood,” said the imp, and shut the door. Rincewind thought he could hear the muffled sound of grumbling and the scrape of a stool being dragged across the floor.
    “Twoflower—” he began, and looked up.
    Twoflower had vanished. As Rincewind stared at the crowd, with sensations of prickly horror traveling up his spine, there came a gentle prod in the small of his back.
    “Turn without haste,” said a voice like black silk. “Or kiss your kidneys goodbye.”
    The crowd watched with interest. It was turning out to be quite a good day.
    Rincewind turned slowly, feeling the point of the sword scrape along his ribs. At the other end of the blade he recognized Stren Withel—thief, cruel swordsman, disgruntled contender for the title of worst man in the world.
    “Hi,” he said weakly. A few yards away he noticed a couple of unsympathetic men raising the lid of the Luggage and pointing excitedly at the bags of gold. Withel smiled. It made an unnerving effect on his scar-crossed face.
    “I know you,” he said. “A gutter wizard. What is that thing ?”
    Rincewind became aware that the lid of the Luggage was trembling slightly, although there was no wind. And he was still holding the picture box.
    “This? It makes pictures,” he said brightly. “Hey, just hold that smile, will you?” He backed away quickly and pointed the box.
    For a moment Withel hesitated. “What?” he said.
    “That’s fine, hold it just like that…” said Rincewind.
    The thief paused, then growled and swung his sword back.
    There was a snap , and a duet of horrible screams. Rincewind did not glance around for fear of the terrible things he might see, and by the time Withel looked for him again he was on the other side of the Plaza, and still accelerating.

    The albatross descended in wide, slow sweeps that ended in an undignified flurry of feathers and a thump as it landed heavily on its platform in the Patrician’s bird garden.
    The custodian of the birds, dozing in the sun and hardly expecting a long-distance message so soon after this morning’s arrival, jerked to his feet and looked up.
    A few moments later he was scuttling through the palace’s corridors holding the message capsule and—owing to carelessness brought on by surprise—sucking at the nasty beak wound on the back of