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The Colour of Magic :: Пратчетт Терри
Страница: 11 из 150It 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!” [ 2 ].
“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 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!” [ 2 ].
“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.