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The Colour of Magic :: Пратчетт Терри
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The Weasel stepped up to the horse and peered at the dishevelled figure.
“Why, it’s Rincewind the wizard, isn’t it?” he said in tones of delight, meanwhile filing the wizard’s description of him in his memory for leisurely vengeance. “I thought I recognized the voice.”
Bravd spat and sheathed his sword. It was seldom worth tangling with wizards, they so rarely had any treasure worth speaking of.
“He talks pretty big for a gutter wizard,” he muttered.
“You don’t understand at all,” said the wizard wearily. “I’m so scared of you my spine has turned to jelly, it’s just that I’m suffering from an overdose of terror right now. I mean, when I’ve got over that then I’ll have time to be decently frightened of you.”
The Weasel pointed towards the burning city. “You’ve been through that?” he asked.
The wizard rubbed a red, raw hand across his eyes. “I was there when it started. See him? Back there?” He pointed back down the road to where his travelling companion was still approaching, having adopted a method of riding that involved falling out of the saddle every few seconds.
“Well?” said Weasel.
“He started it,” said Rincewind simply. Bravd and Weasel looked at the figure, now hopping across the road with one foot in a stirrup.
“Fire-raiser, is he?” said Bravd at last.
“No,” said Rincewind. “Not precisely. Let’s just say that if complete and utter chaos was lightning, then he’d be the sort to stand on a hilltop in a thunderstorm wearing wet copper armour and shouting “All gods are bastards”. Got any food?”
“There’s some chicken,” said Weasel. “in exchange for a story.”
“What’s his name?” said Bravd, who tended to lag behind in conversations.
“Twoflower.”
“Twoflower?” said Bravd. “What a funny name.”
“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.”
“That was the oil bond store going up,” said Rincewind, wincing at the memory of the burning rain.
Weasel turned and grinned expectantly at his companion, who grunted and handed over a coin from his pouch. Then there was a scream from the roadway, cut off abruptly. Rincewind did not look up from his chicken.
“One of the things he can’t do, he can’t ride a horse,” he said.
The Weasel stepped up to the horse and peered at the dishevelled figure.
“Why, it’s Rincewind the wizard, isn’t it?” he said in tones of delight, meanwhile filing the wizard’s description of him in his memory for leisurely vengeance. “I thought I recognized the voice.”
Bravd spat and sheathed his sword. It was seldom worth tangling with wizards, they so rarely had any treasure worth speaking of.
“He talks pretty big for a gutter wizard,” he muttered.
“You don’t understand at all,” said the wizard wearily. “I’m so scared of you my spine has turned to jelly, it’s just that I’m suffering from an overdose of terror right now. I mean, when I’ve got over that then I’ll have time to be decently frightened of you.”
The Weasel pointed towards the burning city. “You’ve been through that?” he asked.
The wizard rubbed a red, raw hand across his eyes. “I was there when it started. See him? Back there?” He pointed back down the road to where his travelling companion was still approaching, having adopted a method of riding that involved falling out of the saddle every few seconds.
“Well?” said Weasel.
“He started it,” said Rincewind simply. Bravd and Weasel looked at the figure, now hopping across the road with one foot in a stirrup.
“Fire-raiser, is he?” said Bravd at last.
“No,” said Rincewind. “Not precisely. Let’s just say that if complete and utter chaos was lightning, then he’d be the sort to stand on a hilltop in a thunderstorm wearing wet copper armour and shouting “All gods are bastards”. Got any food?”
“There’s some chicken,” said Weasel. “in exchange for a story.”
“What’s his name?” said Bravd, who tended to lag behind in conversations.
“Twoflower.”
“Twoflower?” said Bravd. “What a funny name.”
“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.”
“That was the oil bond store going up,” said Rincewind, wincing at the memory of the burning rain.
Weasel turned and grinned expectantly at his companion, who grunted and handed over a coin from his pouch. Then there was a scream from the roadway, cut off abruptly. Rincewind did not look up from his chicken.
“One of the things he can’t do, he can’t ride a horse,” he said.