The Colour of Magic

and leaning on a sword that was only marginally shorter than the average man. If it wasn’t for the air of wary intelligence about him it might have been supposed that he was a barbarian from the Hubland wastes.
    His partner was much shorter and wrapped from head to toe in a brown cloak. Later, when he has occasion to move, it will be seen that he moves lightly, catlike.
    The two had barely exchanged a word in the last twenty minutes except for a short and inconclusive argument as to whether a particularly powerful explosion had been the oil bond store or the workshop of Kerible the Enchanter. Money hinged on the fact.
    Now the big man finished gnawing at the bone and tossed it into the grass, smiling ruefully.
    “There go all those little alleyways,” he said. “I liked them.”
    “All the treasure houses,” said the small man. He added thoughtfully, “Do gems burn? I wonder. ’Tis said they’re kin to coal.”
    “All the gold, melting and running down the gutters,” said the big one, ignoring him. “And all the wine, boiling in the barrels.”
    “There were rats,” said his brown companion.
    “Rats, I’ll grant you.”
    “It was no place to be in high summer.”
    “That, too. One can’t help feeling, though, a—well, a momentary—”
    He trailed off, then brightened. “We owed old Fredor at the Crimson Leech eight silver pieces,” he added. The little man nodded.
    They were silent for a while as a whole new series of explosions carved a red line across a hitherto dark section of the greatest city in the world. Then the big man stirred.
    “Weasel?”
    “Yes?”
    “I wonder who started it.”
    The small swordsman known as the Weasel said nothing. He was watching the road in the ruddy light. Few had come that way since the Deosil Gate had been one of the first to collapse in a shower of white-hot embers.
    But two were coming up it now. The Weasel’s eyes, always at their sharpest in gloom and half-light, made out the shapes of two mounted men and some sort of low beast behind them. Doubtless a rich merchant escaping with as much treasure as he could lay frantic hands on. The Weasel said as much to his companion, who sighed.
    “The status of footpad ill suits us,” said the barbarian, “but, as you say, times are hard and there are no soft beds tonight.”
    He shifted his grip on his sword and, as the leading rider drew near, stepped out onto the road with a hand held up and his face set in a grin nicely calculated to reassure yet threaten.
    “Your pardon, sir—” he began.
    The rider reined in his horse and drew back his hood. The big man looked into a face blotched with superficial burns and punctuated by tufts of singed beard. Even the eyebrows had gone.
    “Bugger off,” said the face. “You’re Bravd the Hublander, * aren’t you?”
    Bravd became aware that he had fumbled the initiative.
    “Just go away, will you?” said the rider. “I just haven’t got time for you, do you understand?”
    He looked around and added: “That goes for your shadow-loving fleabag partner, too, wherever he’s hiding.”
    The Weasel stepped up to the horse and peered at the disheveled figure.
    “Why, it’s Rincewind the wizard, isn’t it?” he said in tones of delight, meanwhile filing the wizard’s description of him in his memory for leisurely vengeance. “I thought I recognized the voice.”
    Bravd spat and sheathed his sword. It was seldom worth tangling with wizards, they so rarely had any treasure worth speaking of.
    “He talks pretty big for a gutter wizard,” he muttered.
    “You don’t understand at all,” said the wizard wearily. “I’m so scared of you my spine has turned to jelly, it’s just that I’m suffering from an overdose of terror right now. I mean, when I’ve got over that then I’ll have time to be decently frightened of you.”
    The Weasel pointed toward the burning city.
    “You’ve been through that?” he asked.
    The wizard rubbed a red-raw hand across his eyes. “I was there when it started. See him? Back there?” He pointed back down the road to where his traveling companion was still approaching, having adopted a method of riding that involved falling out of the saddle every few seconds.
    “Well?” said Weasel.
    “He started it,” said Rincewind simply.
    Bravd and Weasel looked at the figure, now hopping across the road with one foot in a stirrup.
    “Fire-raiser, is he?” said Bravd at last.
    “No,” said Rincewind. “Not precisely.