The Colour of Magic   ::   Пратчетт Терри

“Then let us move, brother,” agreed Zlorf. In one movement he brought his blowgun to his mouth and sent a dart hissing towards the nearest troll. It spun around, hurling its axe, which whirred over the assassin’s head and buried itself in a luckless thief behind him.

Rerpf ducked, allowing a troll behind him to raise its huge iron crossbow and fire a spear-length quarrel into the nearest assassin. That was the start…

It has been remarked before that those who are sensitive to radiations in the far octarine—the eighth colour, the pigment of the imagination—can see things that others cannot.

Thus it was that Rincewind, hurrying through the crowded, flare-lit evening bazaars of Morpork. With the luggage trundling behind him, jostled a tall dark figure, turned to deliver a few suitable curses, and beheld Death.

It had to be Death. No-one else went around with empty eye sockets and, of course, the scythe over one shoulder was another clue. As Rincewind stared in horror a courting couple, laughing at some private joke, walked straight through the apparition without appearing to notice it.

Death, insofar as it was possible in a face with no movable features, looked surprised.

Rincewind? Death said, in tones as deep and heavy as the slamming of leaden doors, far underground.

“Um,” said Rincewind, trying to back away from that eyeless stare.

But why are you here? (Boom, boom went crypt lids, in the worm-haunted fastnesses under old mountains…)

“Um, why not?” said Rincewind. “Anyway, I’m sure you’ve got lots to do, so if you’ll just—”

I was surprised that you jostled me, Rincewind. For I have an appointment with thee this very night.

“Oh no, not—”

Of course, what’s so bloody vexing about the whole business is that I was expecting to meet thee in Pseudopolis.

“But that’s five hundred miles away!”

You don’t have to tell me, the whole system’s got screwed up again. I can see that. Look there’s no chance of you—?

Rincewind backed away, hands spread protectively in front of him. The dried fish salesman on a nearby stall watched this madman with interest.

I could lend you a very fast horse. it won’t hurt a bit.

“No!” Rincewind turned and ran. Death watched him go and shrugged bitterly.

Sod you, then , Death said. He turned, and noticed the fish salesman. With a snarl Death reached out a bony finger and stopped the man’s heart, but he didn’t take much pride in it.