The Colour of Magic

around and walked very carefully toward the Broken Drum.

    “Odd,” said Ymor.
    “He had this big wooden chest,” added Cripple Wa.
    “He’d have to be a merchant or a spy,” said Ymor. He pulled a scrap of meat from the cutlet in his hand and tossed it into the air. It hadn’t reached the zenith of its arc before a black shape detached itself from the shadows in the corner of the room and swooped down, taking the morsel in midair.
    “A merchant or a spy,” repeated Ymor. “I’d prefer a spy. A spy pays for himself twice, because there’s always the reward when we turn him in. What do you think, Withel?”
    Opposite Ymor the second greatest thief in Ankh-Morpork half closed his one eye and shrugged.
    “I’ve checked on the ship,” he said. “It’s a freelance trader. Does the occasional run to the Brown Islands. People there are just savages. They don’t understand about spies and I expect they eat merchants.”
    “He looked a bit like a merchant,” volunteered Wa. “Except he wasn’t fat.”
    There was a flutter of wings at the window. Ymor shifted his bulk out of the chair and crossed the room, coming back with a large raven. After he’d unfastened the message capsule from its leg it flew up to join its fellows lurking among the rafters. Withel regarded it without love. Ymor’s ravens were notoriously loyal to their master, to the extent that Withel’s one attempt to promote himself to the rank of greatest thief in Ankh-Morpork had cost their master’s right-hand man his left eye. But not his life, however. Ymor never grudged a man his ambitions.
    “B12,” said Ymor, tossing the little phial aside and unrolling the tiny scroll within.
    “Gorrin the Cat,” said Withel automatically. “On station up in the gong tower at the Temple of Small Gods.”
    “He says Hugh has taken our stranger to the Broken Drum. Well, that’s good enough. Broadman is a—friend of ours, isn’t he?”
    “Aye,” said Withel. “If he knows what’s good for trade.”·
    “Among his customers has been your man Gorrin,” said Ymor pleasantly, “for he writes here about a box on legs, if I read this scrawl correctly.” He looked at Withel over the top of the paper.
    Withel looked away. “He will be disciplined,” he said flatly. Wa looked at the man leaning back in his chair, his black-clad frame resting as nonchalantly as a Rimland puma on a jungle branch, and decided that Gorrin atop Small Gods Temple would soon be joining those little deities in the multifold dimensions of Beyond. And he owed Wa three copper pieces.
    Ymor crumpled the note and tossed it into a corner. “I think we’ll wander along to the Drum later on, Withel. Perhaps, too, we may try this beer that your men find so tempting.”
    Withel said nothing. Being Ymor’s right-hand man was like being gently flogged to death with scented bootlaces.

    The twin city of Ankh-Morpork, foremost of all the cities bounding the Circle Sea, was as a matter of course the home of a large number of gangs, thieves’ guilds, syndicates and similar organizations. This was one of the reasons for its wealth. Most of the humbler folk on the widdershin side of the river, in Morpork’s mazy alleys, supplemented their meager incomes by filling some small role for one or other of the competing gangs. So it was that by the time Hugh and Twoflower entered the courtyard of the Broken Drum the leaders of a number of them were aware that someone had arrived in the city who appeared to have much treasure. Some reports from the more observant spies included details about a book that told the stranger what to say, and a box that walked by itself. These facts were immediately discounted. No magician capable of such enchantments ever came within a mile of Morpork docks.
    It still being that hour when most of the city was just rising or about to go to bed there were few people in the Drum to watch Twoflower descend the stairs. When the Luggage appeared behind him and started to lurch confidently down the steps the customers at the rough wooden tables, as one man, looked suspiciously at their drinks.
    Broadman was browbeating the small troll who swept the bar when the trio walked past him. “What in hell’s that?” he said.
    “Just don’t talk about it,” hissed Hugh. Twoflower was already thumbing through his book.
    “What’s he doing?” said Broadman, arms akimbo.
    “It tells him what to say. I know it sounds ridiculous,” muttered Hugh.
    “How can a book