The Colour of Magic - Terry Pratchett [13]
As he screamed and clutched at himself the wizard dragged open the door, sprang inside, slammed it behind him and threw his body against it, panting.
It was quiet in here. There was Twoflower, sleeping peacefully on the low bed. And there, at the foot of the bed, was the Luggage.
Rincewind took a few steps forward, cupidity moving him as easily as if he were on little wheels. The chest was open. There were bags inside, and in one of them he caught the gleam of gold. For a moment greed overcame caution, and he reached out gingerly…but what was the use? He’d never live to enjoy it. Reluctantly he drew his hand back, and was surprised to see a slight tremor in the chest’s open lid. Hadn’t it shifted slightly, as though rocked by the wind?
Rincewind looked at his fingers, and then at the lid. It looked heavy, and was bound with brass bands. It was quite still now.
What wind?
“Rincewind!”
Twoflower sprang off the bed. The wizard jumped back, wrenching his features into a smile.
“My dear chap, right on time! We’ll just have lunch, and then I’m sure you’ve got a wonderful program lined up for this afternoon!”
“Er—”
“That’s great!”
Rincewind took a deep breath. “Look,” he said desperately, “let’s eat somewhere else. There’s been a bit of a fight down below.”
“A tavern brawl? Why didn’t you wake me up?”
“Well, you see, I—What?”
“I thought I made myself clear this morning, Rincewind. I want to see genuine Morporkian life—the slave market, the Whore Pits, the Temple of Small Gods, the Beggars’ Guild…and a genuine tavern brawl.” A faint note of suspicion entered Twoflower’s voice. “You do have them, don’t you? You know, people swinging on chandelier, swordfights over the table, the sort of thing Hrun the Barbarian and the Weasel are always getting involved in. You know—excitement.”
Rincewind sat down heavily on the bed.
“You want to see a fight?” he said.
“Yes. What’s wrong with that?”
“For a start, people get hurt.”
“Oh, I wasn’t suggesting we get involved. I just want to see one, that’s all. And some of your famous heroes. You do have some, don’t you? It’s not all dockside talk?” And now, to the wizard’s astonishment, Twoflower was almost pleading.
“Oh, yeah. We have them all right,” said Rincewind hurriedly. He pictured them in his mind, and recoiled from the thought.
All the heroes of the Circle Sea passed through the gates of Ankh-Morpork sooner or later. Most of them were from the barbaric tribes nearer the frozen Hub, which had a sort of export trade in heroes. Almost all of them had crude magic swords, whose unsuppressed harmonics on the astral plane played hell with any delicate experiments in applied sorcery for miles around, but Rincewind didn’t object to them on that score. He knew himself to be a magical dropout, so it didn’t bother him that the mere appearance of a hero at the city gates was enough to cause retorts to explode and demons to materialize all through the Magical Quarter. No, what he didn’t like about heroes was that they were usually suicidally gloomy when sober and homicidally insane when drunk. There were too many of them, too. Some of the most notable questing grounds near the city were a veritable hubbub in the season. There was talk of organizing a rota.
He rubbed his nose. The only heroes he had much time for were Bravd and the Weasel, who were out of town at the moment, and Hrun the Barbarian, who was practically an academic by Hub standards in that he could think without moving his lips. Hrun was said to be roving somewhere Turnwise..
“Look,” he said at last. “Have you ever met a barbarian?”
Twoflower shook his head.
“I was afraid of that,” said Rincewind. “Well, they’re—”
There was a clatter of running feet in the street outside and a fresh uproar from downstairs. It was followed by a commotion on the stairs. The door was flung open before Rincewind