The Color of Magic (Discworld 1)

An archmage, by dint of great effort and much expenditure of time, might eventually obtain a small staff made from the timber of the sapient peartree. It grew only on the sites of ancient magic-there were probably no more than two such staffs in all the cities of the circle sea. A large chest of it… Rincewind tried to work it out, and decided that even if the box were crammed with star opals and sticks of auricholatum the contents would not be worth one-tenth the price of the container. A vein started to throb in his forehead.

He stood up and made his way to the trio.

“May I be of assistance?” he ventured.

“Shove off, Rincewind,” snarled Broadman.

“I only thought it might be useful to address this gentleman in his own tongue,” said the wizard gently. “He’s doing all right on his own,” said the innkeeper, but took a few steps backward. Rincewind smiled politely at the stranger and tried a few words of Chimeran. He prided himself on his fluency in the tongue, but the stranger only looked bemused.

“It won’t work,” said Hugh knowledgeably, “it’s the book, you see. It tells him what to say. Magic.”

Rincewind switched to High Borogravian, to Vanglemesht, Sumtri and even Black Oroogu, the language with no nouns and only one adjective, which is obscene. Each was met with polite incomprehension. In desperation he tried heathen Trob, and the little man’s face split into a delighted grin.

“At last!” he said. “My good sir! This is remarkable!” (Although in Trob the last word in fact became “a thing which may happen but once in the usable lifetime of a canoe hollowed diligently by axe and fire from the tallest diamondwood tree that grows in the noted diamondwood forests on the lower Slopes of Mount Awayawa, home of the firegods or so it is said.”).

“What was all that?” said Broadman suspiciously.

“What did the innkeeper say?” said the little man.

Rincewind swallowed. “Broadman,” he said. “Two mugs of your best ale, please.”

“You can understand him?”

“Oh, sure.”

“Tell him tell him he’s very welcome. Tell him breakfast is - uh one gold piece.” For a moment Broadman’s face looked as though some vast internal struggle was going on, and then he added with a burst of generosity. “I’ll throw in yours, too.”

“Stranger,” said Rincewind levelly. “if you stay here you will be knifed or poisoned by nightfall. But don’t stop smiling, or so will I.”

“Oh, come now,” said the stranger, looking around.

“This looks like a delightful place. A genuine Morporkean tavern. I’ve heard so much about them, you know. All these quaint old beams. And so reasonable, too.”

Rincewind glanced around quickly, in case some leakage of enchantment from the Magician’s Quarter across the river had momentarily transported them to some other place. No - this was still the interior of the Drum, its walls stained with smoke, its floor a compost of old rushes and nameless beetles, its sour beer not so much purchased as merely hired for a while. He tried to fit the image around the word “quaint”, or rather the nearest Trob equivalent, which was “that pleasant oddity of design found in the little coral houses of the sponge-eating pigmies on the Orohai peninsular”.

His mind reeled back from the effort. The visitor went on, “My name is Twoflower,” and extended his hand. Instinctively, the other three looked down to see if there was a coin in it.

“Pleased to meet you,” said Rincewind. “I’m Rincewind. Look, I wasn’t joking. This is a tough place.”

“Good! Exactly what I wanted!”

“Eh?”

“What is this stuff in the mugs?”

“This? Beer. Thanks, Broadman. Yes. Beer. You know. Beer.”

“Ah, the so-typical drink. A small gold piece will be sufficient payment, do you think? I do not want to cause offense.”

It was already half out of his purse.

“Yarrt,” croaked Rincewind. “I mean, no, it won’t cause Offense.”

“Good. You say this is a tough place. Frequented, you mean, by heroes and men of adventure?”

Rincewind considered this. “Yes?” he managed.

“Excellent. I would like to meet some.”