The Color of Magic (Discworld 1)

“What, all of them?” said Hugh, taken aback.

“?” said the stranger.

Hugh was aware that a small crowd of fishwives, shellfish diggers and freelance gawpers were watching them with interest.

“Look,” he said, “I know a good tavern, is that enough?” He shuddered to think of the gold coin escaping from his life. He’d keep that one, even if Ymor confiscated all the rest. And the big chest that comprised most of the newcomer’s luggage looked to be full of gold, Hugh decided. The four-eyed man looked at his book.

“I would like to be directed to an hotel, place of repose, tavern, a-“

“Yes, all right. Come on then,” said Hugh hurriedly. He picked up one of the bundles and walked away quickly. The stranger, after a moment’s hesitation, strolled after him.

A train of thought shunted its way through Hugh’s mind. Getting the newcomer to the Broken Drum so easily was a stroke of luck, no doubt of it, and Ymor would probably reward him. But for all his new acquaintance’s mildness there was something about him that made Hugh uneasy, and for the life of him he couldn’t figure out what it was. Not the two extra eyes, odd though they were. There was something else. He glanced back. The little man was ambling along in the middle of the street, looking around him with an expression of keen interest.

Something else Hugh saw nearly made him gibber.

The massive wooden chest, which he had last seen resting solidly on the quayside, was following on its master’s heels with a gentle rocking gait. Slowly, in case a sudden movement on his part might break his fragile control over his own legs, Hugh bent slightly so that he could see under the chest.

There were lots and lots of little legs. Very deliberately, Hugh turned around and walked very carefully towards the Broken Drum.

“Odd,” said Ymor.

“He had this big wooden chest,” added Cripple Wa.

“He’d have to be a merchant or a spy,” said Ymor.

He pulled a scrap of meat from the cutlet in his hand and tossed it into the air. It hadn’t reached the zenith of its arc, before a black shape detached itself from the shadows in the corner of the room and swooped down, taking the morsel in mid-air.

“A merchant or a spy,” repeated Ymor. “I’d prefer a spy. A spy pays for himself twice, because there’s always the reward when we turn him in. What do you think, Withel?”

Opposite Ymor the second greatest thief in Ankh-Morpork half-closed his one eye and shrugged. “I’ve checked on the ship,” he said. “it’s a freelance trader. Does the occasional run to the Brown islands. People there are just savages. They don’t understand about spies and I expect they eat merchants.”

“He looked a bit like a merchant,” volunteered Wa. “Except he wasn’t fat.”

There was a flutter of wings at the window. Ymor shifted his bulk out of the chair and crossed the room, coming back with a large raven. After he’d unfastened the message capsule from its leg it flew to join its fellows lurking among the rafters.

Withel regarded it without love. Ymor’s ravens were notoriously loyal to their master, to the extent that Withel’s one attempt to promote himself to the rank of greatest thief in Ankh-Morpork had cost their master’s right hand man his left eye. But not his life, however. Ymor never grudged a man his ambitions.

“B12,” said Ymor, tossing the little phial aside and unrolling the tiny scroll within.

“Gorrin the Cat,” said Withel automatically. “On station up in the gong tower at the Temple of Small Gods.”

“He says Hugh has taken our stranger to the Broken Drum. Well, that’s good enough. Broadman is a - friend of ours, isn’t he?”

“Aye,” said Withel, “if he knows what’s good for trade.”

“Among his customers has been your man Gorrin,” said Ymor pleasantly, “for he writes here about a box on legs, if I read this scrawl correctly.”

He looked at Withel over the top of the paper. Withel looked away. “He will be disciplined,” he said flatly. Wa looked at the man leaning back in his chair, his black-clad frame resting as nonchalantly as a Rimland puma on a jungle branch, and decided that Gorrin atop Small Gods temple would soon be joining those little deities in the multifold dimensions of Beyond. And he owed Wa three copper pieces.

Ymor crumpled the note and tossed it into a corner. “I think we’ll wander along to the Drum later on, Withel. Perhaps, too, we may try this beer that your men find so tempting.”

Withel said nothing. Being Ymor’s right-hand man was like being gently flogged to death with scented bootlaces.

o;You,” said Rincewind, dismounting, “do not know the half of it. Chicken, you say?”

“Devilled,” 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.”