The Color of Magic (Discworld 1)

A row of yellow, baleful eyes looked down from the darkness among the rafters.

“One step more and you’ll leave here with fewer eyeballs than you came with,” said the thiefmaster. “So sit down and have a drink, Zlorf, and let’s talk about this sensibly. I thought we had an agreement. You don’t rob- I don’t kill. Not for payment, that is,” he added after a pause.

o;Well, that’ll do.”

“I doubt it,” said Rincewind hopelessly

“What does it do, then?”

“Can’t tell you. Don’t really want to talk about it. But frankly,” he sighed , “no spells are much good. It takes three months to commit even a simple one to memory, and then once you’ve used it, pow it’s gone. that’s what’s so stupid about the whole magic thing, You know. You spend twenty years learning the spell that makes nude virgins appear in your bedroom, and then you’re so poisoned by quicksilver fumes and half-blind from reading old grimoires that you can’t

remember what happens next.”

“I never thought of it like that,” said the imp.

“Hey, look -this is all wrong. When Twoflower said they’d got better kind of magic in the empire I thought- I thought…”

The imp looked at him expectantly. Rincewind cursed to himself.

“Well, if you must know, I thought he didn’t mean magic. Not as such.”

“What else is there, then?”

Rincewind began to feel really wretched. “I don’t know,” he said. “A better way of doing things, I suppose. Something with a bit of sense in it. Harnessing - harnessing the lightning, or something.”

The imp gave him a kind but pitying look.

“Lightning is the spears hurled by the thunder giants when they fight,” it said gently, “established meteorological fact. You can’t harness it.”

“I know,” said Rincewind miserably. That’s the flaw in the argument, of course.”

The imp nodded. and disappeared into the depths of the iconograph. A few moments later Rincewind smelled bacon frying. He waited until his stomach couldn’t stand the strain any more, and rapped on the box. The imp reappeared.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” it said even before Rincewind could open his mouth. “And even if you could get a harness on it, how could you get it to pull a cart?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Lightning. It just goes up and down. “You’d want it to go along, not up and down. Anyway, it’d probably burn through the harness.”

“I don’t care about the lightning! How can I think on an empty stomach?”

“Eat something, then. That’s logic.”

“How? Every time I move that damn box flexes its hinges at me!”

The luggage, on cue, gaped widely.

“See?”

“It’s not trying to bite you,” said the imp. “There’s food in there. You’re no use to it starved.”

Rincewind peered into the dark recesses of the Luggage. There were indeed, among the chaos of boxes and bags of gold, several bottles and packages in oiled paper. He gave a cynical laugh, mooched around the abandoned jetty until he found a piece of wood about the right length, wedged it as politely as possible in the gap between the lid and the box, and pulled out one of the flat packages. It held biscuits that turned out to be as hard as diamond-wood.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, nursing his teeth.

“Captain Eightpanther’s Travellers’ Digestives, them,” said the imp from the doorway to his box, “saved many a life at sea, they have.”

“Oh, sure. Do you use them as a raft, or just throw them to the sharks and sort of watch them sink? What’s in the bottles? Poison?”