JК
The Colour of Magic :: Пратчетт Терри
Страница: 28 из 150The box didn’t appear to be hampered in any way by theornamental rug draped roguishly over it, nor by the thief hanging by one arm from the lid. It was in a very real sense, a dead weight. Further along the lid were the remains of two fingers, owner unknown.
The Luggage halted a few feet from the wizard and, after a moment, retracted its legs. It had no eyes that Rincewind could see, but he was never the less sure that it was staring at him. Expectantly.
“Shoo,” he said weakly. It didn’t budge, but the lid creaked open, releasing the dead thief.
Rincewind remembered about the gold.
Presumably the box had to have a master. In the absence of Twoflower, had it adopted him?
The tide was turning and he could see debris drifting downstream in the yellow afternoon light towards the river gate, a mere hundred yards downstream. It was the work of a moment to let the dead thief join them. Even if it was found later it would hardly cause comment. And the sharks in the Ankh were used to solid, regular meals.
Rincewind watched the body drift away, and considered his next move. The Luggage would probably float. All he had to do was wait until dusk, and then go out with the tide. There were plenty of wild places downstream where he could wade ashore, and then—well, if the Patrician really had sent out word about him then a change of clothing and a shave should take care of that. In any case, there were other lands and he had a facility for languages. Let him but get to Chimera or Gonim or Ecalpon and half a dozen armies couldn’t bring him back. And then—wealth, comfort, security…
There was, of course, the problem of Twoflower.
Rincewind allowed himself a moment’s sadness.
“It could be worse,” he said by way of farewell. “It could be me.”
It was when he tried to move that he found his robe was caught on some obstruction. By craning his neck he found that the edge of it was being gripped firmly by the Luggage’s lid.
“Ah, Gorphal,” said the Patrician pleasantly. Come in. Sit down. Can I press you to a candied starfish?”
“I am yours to command, master,” said the old man calmly. “Save, perhaps, in the matter of preserved echinoderms.”
The Patrician shrugged, and indicated the scroll on the table.
“Read that,” he said.
Gorphal picked up the parchment and raised one eyebrow slightly when he saw the familiar ideograms of the Golden Empire. He read in silence for perhaps a minute, and then turned the scroll over to examine minutely the seal on the obverse.
The Luggage halted a few feet from the wizard and, after a moment, retracted its legs. It had no eyes that Rincewind could see, but he was never the less sure that it was staring at him. Expectantly.
“Shoo,” he said weakly. It didn’t budge, but the lid creaked open, releasing the dead thief.
Rincewind remembered about the gold.
Presumably the box had to have a master. In the absence of Twoflower, had it adopted him?
The tide was turning and he could see debris drifting downstream in the yellow afternoon light towards the river gate, a mere hundred yards downstream. It was the work of a moment to let the dead thief join them. Even if it was found later it would hardly cause comment. And the sharks in the Ankh were used to solid, regular meals.
Rincewind watched the body drift away, and considered his next move. The Luggage would probably float. All he had to do was wait until dusk, and then go out with the tide. There were plenty of wild places downstream where he could wade ashore, and then—well, if the Patrician really had sent out word about him then a change of clothing and a shave should take care of that. In any case, there were other lands and he had a facility for languages. Let him but get to Chimera or Gonim or Ecalpon and half a dozen armies couldn’t bring him back. And then—wealth, comfort, security…
There was, of course, the problem of Twoflower.
Rincewind allowed himself a moment’s sadness.
“It could be worse,” he said by way of farewell. “It could be me.”
It was when he tried to move that he found his robe was caught on some obstruction. By craning his neck he found that the edge of it was being gripped firmly by the Luggage’s lid.
“Ah, Gorphal,” said the Patrician pleasantly. Come in. Sit down. Can I press you to a candied starfish?”
“I am yours to command, master,” said the old man calmly. “Save, perhaps, in the matter of preserved echinoderms.”
The Patrician shrugged, and indicated the scroll on the table.
“Read that,” he said.
Gorphal picked up the parchment and raised one eyebrow slightly when he saw the familiar ideograms of the Golden Empire. He read in silence for perhaps a minute, and then turned the scroll over to examine minutely the seal on the obverse.