The Colour of Magic

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 traveling 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 around 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 smoldering 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.
    “Well, my point is, you see, that gold also has its sort of magical field. Sort of financial wizardry. Echo-gnomics.” Rincewind giggled.
    The Weasel stood up and stretched. The sun was well up now, and the city below them was wreathed in mists and full of foul vapors. Also gold, he decided. Even a citizen of Morpork would, at the very point of death, desert his treasure to save his skin. Time to move.
    The little man called Twoflower appeared to be asleep. The Weasel looked down at him and shook his head.
    “The city awaits, such as it is,” he said. “Thank you for a pleasant tale, Wizard. What will you do now?” He eyed the Luggage, which immediately backed away and snapped its lid at him.
    “Well, there are no ships leaving the city now,” giggled Rincewind. “I suppose we’ll take the coast road to Chirm. I’ve got to look after him, you see. But look, I didn’t make it—”
    “Sure, sure,” said the Weasel soothingly. He turned away and swung himself into the saddle of the horse that Bravd was holding. A few moments later the two heroes were just specks under a cloud of dust, heading down toward the charcoal city.
    Rincewind stared muzzily at the recumbent tourist. At two recumbent tourists. In his somewhat defenseless state a stray thought, wandering through the dimensions in search of a mind to harbor it, slid into his brain.
    “Here’s another fine mess you’ve got me into,” he moaned, and slumped backward.

    “Mad,” said the Weasel. Bravd, galloping along a few feet away, nodded.
    “All wizards get like that,” he said. “It’s the quicksilver fumes. Rots their brains. Mushrooms, too.”
    “However—” said the brown clad one. He reached into his tunic and took out a golden disc on a short chain. Bravd raised his eyebrows.
    “The wizard said that the little man had some sort of golden disc that told him the time,” said the Weasel.
    “Arousing your cupidity, little friend? You always were an expert thief, Weasel.”
    “Aye,” agreed the Weasel modestly. He touched the knob at the disc’s rim, and it flipped open.
    The very small demon imprisoned within looked up from its tiny abacus and scowled. “It lacks but ten minutes to