“That, too. One can’t help feeling, though, a well, a momentary-“
He trailed off, then brightened. “We owed old Fredor at the Crimson Leech eight silver pieces,” he added. The little man nodded.
They were silent for a while as a whole new series of explosions carved a red line across a hitherto dark section of the greatest city in the world. Then the big man stirred
“Weasel?”
“Yes?”
“I wonder who started it?”
The small swordsman known as the Weasel said nothing. He was watching the road in the ruddy light. Few had come that way since the widershins gate had been one of the first to collapse in a shower of white-hot embers.
But two were coming up it now. The Weasel’s eyes always at their sharpest in gloom and halflight, 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 dishevelled 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 towards 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 travelling 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 was lightning, then he’d be the sort to stand on a hilltop in a thunderstorm wearing wet copper armour 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.”