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The Colour of Magic :: Пратчетт Терри
Страница: 44 из 150The strange iridescent metal was almost as highly valued inthe lands around the Circle Sea as sapient pearwood, and was about as rare. A man who owned a needle made of octiron would never lose his way, since it always pointed to the Hub of the Discworld, being acutely sensitive to the disc’s magical field; it would also miraculously darn his socks.
“Well, my point is, you see, that gold also has its sort of magical field. Sort of financial wizardry. Echo-gnomics.” Rincewind giggled.
The Weasel stood up and stretched. The sun was well up now, and the city below them was wreathed in mists and full of foul vapours. Also gold, he decided. Even a citizen of Morpork would, at the very point of death, desert his treasure to save his skin. Time to move.
The little man called Twoflower appeared to be asleep. The Weasel looked down at him and shook his head.
“The city awaits, such as it is,” he said. “Thank you for a pleasant tale, Wizard. What will you do now?”
He eyed the Luggage, which immediately backed away and snapped its lid at him.
“Well, there are no ships leaving the city now,” giggled Rincewind. “I suppose we’ll take the coast road to Quirm. I’ve got to look after him, you see. But look, I didn’t make it—”
“Sure, sure,” said the Weasel soothingly. He turned away and swung himself into the saddle of the horse that Bravd was holding. A few moments later the two heroes were just specks under a cloud of dust, heading down towards the charcoal city.
Rincewind stared muzzily at the recumbent tourist. At two recumbent tourists. In his somewhat defenceless state a stray thought, wandering through the dimensions in search of a mind to harbour it, slid into his brain.
“Here’s another fine mess you’ve got me into,” he moaned, and slumped backwards.
“Mad,” said the Weasel.
Bravd, galloping along a few feet away, nodded.
“All wizards get like that,” he said. “it’s the quicksilver fumes. Rots their brains. Mushrooms, too “
“However—” said the brown-clad one. He reached into his tunic and took out a golden disc on a short chain. Bravd raised his eyebrows.
“The wizard said that the little man had some sort of golden disc that told him the time,” said the Weasel.
“Arousing your cupidity, little friend? You always were an expert thief, Weasel.”
“Aye,” agreed the Weasel modestly. He touched the knob at the disc’s rim, and it flipped open.
The very small demon imprisoned within looked up from its tiny abacus and scowled.
“Well, my point is, you see, that gold also has its sort of magical field. Sort of financial wizardry. Echo-gnomics.” Rincewind giggled.
The Weasel stood up and stretched. The sun was well up now, and the city below them was wreathed in mists and full of foul vapours. Also gold, he decided. Even a citizen of Morpork would, at the very point of death, desert his treasure to save his skin. Time to move.
The little man called Twoflower appeared to be asleep. The Weasel looked down at him and shook his head.
“The city awaits, such as it is,” he said. “Thank you for a pleasant tale, Wizard. What will you do now?”
He eyed the Luggage, which immediately backed away and snapped its lid at him.
“Well, there are no ships leaving the city now,” giggled Rincewind. “I suppose we’ll take the coast road to Quirm. I’ve got to look after him, you see. But look, I didn’t make it—”
“Sure, sure,” said the Weasel soothingly. He turned away and swung himself into the saddle of the horse that Bravd was holding. A few moments later the two heroes were just specks under a cloud of dust, heading down towards the charcoal city.
Rincewind stared muzzily at the recumbent tourist. At two recumbent tourists. In his somewhat defenceless state a stray thought, wandering through the dimensions in search of a mind to harbour it, slid into his brain.
“Here’s another fine mess you’ve got me into,” he moaned, and slumped backwards.
“Mad,” said the Weasel.
Bravd, galloping along a few feet away, nodded.
“All wizards get like that,” he said. “it’s the quicksilver fumes. Rots their brains. Mushrooms, too “
“However—” said the brown-clad one. He reached into his tunic and took out a golden disc on a short chain. Bravd raised his eyebrows.
“The wizard said that the little man had some sort of golden disc that told him the time,” said the Weasel.
“Arousing your cupidity, little friend? You always were an expert thief, Weasel.”
“Aye,” agreed the Weasel modestly. He touched the knob at the disc’s rim, and it flipped open.
The very small demon imprisoned within looked up from its tiny abacus and scowled.