The Colour of Magic

his hand.

    Rincewind pounded down an alley, paying no heed to the screams of rage coming from the picture box, and cleared a high wall with his frayed robe flapping around him like the feathers of a disheveled jackdaw. He landed in the forecourt of a carpet shop, scattering the merchandise and customers, dived through its rear exit trailing apologies, skidded down another alley and stopped, teetering dangerously, just as he was about to plunge unthinkingly into the Ankh.
    There are said to be some mystic rivers one drop of which can steal a man’s life away. After its turbid passage through the twin cities the Ankh could have been one of them.
    In the distance the cries of rage took on a shrill note of terror. Rincewind looked around desperately for a boat, or a handhold up the sheer walls on either side of him.
    He was trapped.
    Unbidden, the Spell welled up in his mind. It was perhaps untrue to say that he had learned it; it had learned him. The episode had led to his expulsion from Unseen University, because, for a bet, he had dared to open the pages of the last remaining copy of the Creator’s own grimoire, the Octavo (while the University librarian was otherwise engaged). The spell had leapt out of the page and instantly burrowed deeply into his mind, whence even the combined talents of the Faculty of Medicine had been unable to coax it. Precisely which one it was they were also unable to ascertain, except that it was one of the eight basic spells that were intricately interwoven with the very fabric of time and space itself.
    Since then it had been showing a worrying tendency, when Rincewind was feeling rundown or especially threatened, to try to get itself said.
    He clenched his teeth together but the first syllable forced itself around the corner of his mouth. His left hand raised involuntarily and, as the magical force whirled him around, began to give off octarine sparks…
    The Luggage hurtled around the corner, its several hundred knees moving like pistons.
    Rincewind gaped. The spell died, unsaid.
    The box didn’t appear to be hampered in any way by the ornamental rug draped roguishly over it, nor by the thief hanging by one arm from the lid. It was, in a very real sense, a dead weight. Farther along the lid were the remains of two fingers, owner unknown.
    The Luggage halted a few feet from the wizard and, after a moment, retracted its legs. It had no eyes that Rincewind could see, but he was nevertheless sure that it was staring at him. Expectantly.
    “Shoo,” he said weakly. It didn’t budge, but the lid creaked open, releasing the dead thief.
    Rincewind remembered about the gold. Presumably the box had to have a master. In the absence of Twoflower, had it adopted him?
    The tide was turning and he could see debris drifting downstream in the yellow afternoon light toward the River Gate, a mere hundred yards downstream. It was the work of a moment to let the dead thief join them. Even if it was found later it would hardly cause comment. And the sharks in the estuary were used to solid, regular meals.
    Rincewind watched the body drift away, and considered his next move. The Luggage would probably float. All he had to do was wait until dusk, and then go out with the tide. There were plenty of wild places downstream where he could wade ashore, and then—well, if the Patrician really had sent out word about him then a change of clothing and a shave should take care of that. In any case, there were other lands and he had a facility for languages. Let him but get to Chimera or Gonim or Ecalpon and half a dozen armies couldn’t bring him back. And then—wealth, comfort, security…
    There was, of course, the problem of Twoflower. Rincewind allowed himself a moment’s sadness.
    “It could be worse,” he said by way of farewell. “It could be me .”
    It was when he tried to move that he found his robe was caught on some obstruction.
    By craning his neck he found that the edge of it was being gripped firmly by the Luggage’s lid.

    “Ah, Gorphal,” said the Patrician pleasantly. “Come in. Sit down. Can I press you to a candied starfish?”
    “I am yours to command, master,” said the old man calmly. “Save, perhaps, in the matter of preserved echinoderms.”
    The Patrician shrugged, and indicated the scroll on the table.
    “Read that,” he said.
    Gorphal picked up the parchment and raised one eyebrow slightly when he saw the familiar ideograms of the Golden Empire. He read in silence for