The Colour of Magic   ::   Пратчетт Терри

Now the big man finished gnawing at the bone and tossed it into the grass, smiling ruefully.

“There go all those little alleyways,” he said. “I liked them.”

“All the treasure houses,” said the small man. He added thoughtfully, “Do gems burn, I wonder? ‘Tis said they’re kin to coal.”

“All the gold, melting and running down the gutters,” said the big one, ignoring him. “And all the wine, boiling in the barrels.”

“There were rats,” said his brown companion.

“Rats, I’ll grant you.”

“It was no place to be in high summer.”

“That, too. One can’t help feeling, though, a well, a momentary—”

He trailed off, then brightened. “We owed old Fredor at the Crimson Leech eight silver pieces,” he added. The little man nodded.

They were silent for a while as a whole new series of explosions carved a red line across a hitherto dark section of the greatest city in the world. Then the big man stirred

“Weasel?”

“Yes?”

“I wonder who started it?”

The small swordsman known as the Weasel said nothing. He was watching the road in the ruddy light. Few had come that way since the widershins gate had been one of the first to collapse in a shower of white-hot embers.

But two were coming up it now. The Weasel’s eyes always at their sharpest in gloom and halflight, made out the shapes of two mounted men and some sort of low beast behind them. Doubtless a rich merchant escaping with as much treasure as he could lay frantic hands on. The Weasel said as much to his companion, who sighed.

“The status of footpad ill suits us,” said the barbarian, “but as you say, times are hard and there are no soft beds tonight.”

He shifted his grip on his sword and, as the leading rider drew near, stepped out onto the road with a hand held up and his face set in a grin nicely calculated to reassure yet threaten.

“Your pardon, sir—” he began.

The rider reined in his horse and drew back his hood. The big man looked into a face blotched with superficial burns and punctuated by tufts of singed beard. Even the eyebrows had gone.

“Bugger off,” said the face. “You’re Bravd the Hublander, aren’t you?”

Bravd became aware that he had fumbled the initiative.

“Just go away, will you?” said the rider. “I just haven’t got time for you, do you understand?” He looked around and added: “That goes for your shadow-loving fleabag partner too, wherever he’s hiding.