The Colour of Magic - Terry Pratchett [3]
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. Let’s just say that if complete and utter chaos were lightning, then he’d be the sort to stand on a hilltop in a thunderstorm wearing wet copper armor and shouting ‘All gods are bastards.’ Got any food?”
“There’s some chicken,” said Weasel. “In exchange for a story.”
“What’s his name?” said Bravd, who tended to lag behind in conversations.
“Twoflower.”
“Twoflower?” said Bravd. “What a funny name.”
“You,” said Rincewind, dismounting, “do not know the half of it. Chicken, you say?”
“Deviled,” said Weasel. The wizard groaned.
“That reminds me,” added the Weasel, snapping his fingers, “there was a really big explosion about, oh, half an hour ago—”
“That was the oil bond store going up,” said Rincewind, wincing at the memory of the burning rain.
Weasel turned and grinned expectantly at his companion, who grunted and handed over a coin from his pouch. Then there was a scream from the roadway, cut off abruptly. Rincewind did not look up from his chicken.
“One of the things he can’t do, he can’t ride a horse,” he said. Then he stiffened as if sandbagged by a sudden recollection, gave a small yelp of terror and dashed into the gloom. When he returned, the being called Twoflower was hanging limply over his shoulder. It was small and skinny, and dressed very oddly in a pair of knee length britches and a shirt in such a violent and vivid conflict of colors that Weasel