The Colour of Magic
can afford. It is an old Empire, Rincewind. Old and cunning and cruel and very, very rich. So we exchange fraternal greetings by albatross mail. At infrequent intervals.
    “One such letter arrived this morning. A subject of the Emperor appears to have taken it into his head to visit our city. It appears he wishes to look at it. Only a madman would possibly undergo all the privations of crossing the Turnwise Ocean in order to merely look at anything. However.
    “He landed this morning. He might have met a great hero, or the cunningest of thieves, or some wise and great sage. He met you. He has employed you as a guide. You will be a guide, Rincewind, to this looker , this Twoflower. You will see that he returns home with a good report of our little homeland. What do you say to that?”
    “Er. Thank you, Lord,” said Rincewind miserably.
    “There is another point, of course. It would be a tragedy should anything untoward happen to our little visitor. It would be dreadful if he were to die, for example. Dreadful for the whole of our land, because the Agatean Emperor looks after his own and could certainly extinguish us at a nod. A mere nod. And that would be dreadful for you, Rincewind, because in the weeks that remained before the Empire’s huge mercenary fleet arrived certain of my servants would occupy themselves about your person in the hope that the avenging captains, on their arrival, might find their anger tempered by the sight of your still living body. There are certain spells that can prevent the life departing from a body, be it never so abused, and—I see by your face that understanding dawns?”
    “Yarrg.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Yes, lord. I’ll, er, see to it, I mean, I’ll endeavor to see, I mean, well, I’ll try to look after him and see he comes to no harm.” And after that I’ll get a job juggling snowballs through Hell, he added bitterly in the privacy of his own skull.
    “Capital! I gather already that you and Twoflower are on the best of terms. An excellent beginning. When he returns safely to his homeland you will not find me ungrateful. I shall probably even dismiss the charges against you. Thank you, Rincewind. You may go.”
    Rincewind decided not to ask for the return of his five remaining rhinu . He backed away, cautiously.
    “Oh, and there is one other thing,” the Patrician said, as the wizard groped for the door handles.
    “Yes, lord?” he replied, with a sinking heart.
    “I’m sure you won’t dream of trying to escape from your obligations by fleeing the city. I judge you to be a born city person. But you may be sure that the lords of the other cities will be appraised of these conditions by nightfall.”
    “I assure you the thought never even crossed my mind, Lord.”
    “Indeed? Then if I were you I’d sue my face for slander.”

    Rincewind reached the Broken Drum at a dead run, and was just in time to collide with a man who came out backward, fast. The stranger’s haste was in part accounted for by the spear in his chest. He bubbled noisily and dropped dead at the wizard’s feet.
    Rincewind peered around the doorframe and jerked back as a heavy throwing ax whirred past like a partridge.
    It was probably a lucky throw, a second cautious glance told him. The dark interior of the Drum was a broil of fighting men, quite a number of them—a third and longer glance confirmed—in bits. Rincewind swayed back as a wildly thrown stool sailed past and smashed on the far side of the street. Then he dived in.
    He was wearing a dark robe, made darker by constant wear and irregular washings. In the raging gloom no one appeared to notice a shadowy shape that shuffled desperately from table to table. At one point a fighter, staggering back, trod on what felt like fingers. A number of what felt like teeth bit his ankle. He yelped shrilly and dropped his guard just sufficiently for a sword, swung by a surprised opponent, to skewer him.
    Rincewind reached the stairway, sucking his
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