The Colour of Magic

Disc’s sea several hundred feet below. Not even the convulsions of all the dimensions could break the iron Law of the Conservation of Energy, and Rjinswand’s brief journey in the plane had sufficed to carry him several hundred miles horizontally and seven thousand feet vertically.
    The word “plane” flamed and died in Rincewind’s mind.
    Was that a ship down there?
    The cold waters of the Circle Sea roared up at him and sucked him down into their green, suffocating embrace. A moment later there was another splash as the luggage, still bearing a label carrying the powerful traveling rune TWA, also hit the sea.
    Later on, they used it as a raft.

4
    C LOSE TO THE E DGE
    It had been a long time in the making. Now it was almost completed, and the slaves hacked away at the last clay remnants of the mantle.
    Where other slaves were industriously rubbing its metal flanks with silver sand it was already beginning to gleam in the sun with the silken, organic sheen of young bronze. It was still warm, even after a week of cooling in the casting pit.
    The Arch-astronomer of Krull motioned lightly with his hand and his bearers set the throne down in the shadow of the hull.
    Like a fish, he thought. A great flying fish. And of what seas?
    “It is indeed magnificent,” he whispered. “A work of true art.”
    “Craft,” said the thickset man by his side. The Arch-astronomer turned slowly and looked up at the man’s impassive face. It isn’t particularly hard for a face to look impassive when there are two golden spheres where the eyes should be. They glowed disconcertingly.
    “Craft, indeed,” said the astronomer, and smiled. “I would imagine that there is no greater craftsman on the entire Disc than you, Goldeneyes. Would I be right?”
    The craftsman paused, his naked body—naked, at least, were it not for a toolbelt, a wrist abacus and a deep tan—tensing as he considered the implications of this last remark. The golden eyes appeared to be looking into some other world.
    “The answer is both yes and no,” he said at last. Some of the lesser astronomers behind the throne gasped at this lack of etiquette, but the Arch-astronomer appeared not to have noticed it.
    “Continue,” he said.
    “There are some essential skills that I lack. Yet I am Goldeneyes Silverhand Dactylos,” said the craftsman. “I made the Metal Warriors that guard the Tomb of Pitchiu, I designed the Light Dams of the Great Nef, I built the Palace of the Seven Deserts. And yet—” he reached up and tapped one of his eyes, which rang faintly, “when I built the golem army for Pitchiu he loaded me down with gold and then, so that I would create no other work to rival my work for him, he had my eyes put out.”
    “Wise but cruel,” said the Arch-astronomer sympathetically.
    “Yah. So I learned to hear the temper of metals and to see with my fingers. I learned how to distinguish ores by taste and smell. I made these eyes, but I cannot make them see.
    “Next I was summoned to build the Palace of the Seven Deserts, as a result of which the Emir showered me with silver and then, not entirely to my surprise, had my right hand cut off.”
    “A grave hindrance in your line of business,” nodded the Arch-astronomer.
    “I used some of the silver to make myself this new hand, putting to use my unrivaled knowledge of levers and fulcrums. It suffices. After I created the first great Light Dam, which had a capacity of 50,000 daylight hours, the tribal councils of the Nef loaded me down with fine silks and then hamstrung me so that I could not escape. As a result I was put to some inconvenience to use the silk and some bamboo to build a flying machine from which I could launch myself from the topmost turret of my prison.”
    “Bringing you, by various diversions, to Krull,” said the Arch-astronomer. “And one cannot help feeling that some alternative occupation—lettuce farming, say—would offer somewhat less of a risk of being put to death by installments. Why do you persist in it?”
    Goldeneyes Dactylos shrugged.
    “I’m good at it,” he said.
    The Arch-astronomer looked up again at the bronze fish, shining now like a gong in the noontime sun.
    “Such beauty,” he murmured. “And unique. Come, Dactylos. Recall to me what it was that I promised should be your reward?”
    “You asked me to design a fish that would swim through the seas of space that lie between the worlds,” intoned the master craftsman. “In return for