The Colour of Magic by Terry Pratchett

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.
    “You are famed as a student of Empire affairs,” said the Patrician. “Can you explain this?”
    “Knowledge in the matter of the Empire lies less in noting particular events than in studying a certain cast of mind,” said the old diplomat. “The message is curious, yes, but not surprising.”
    “This morning the Emperor instructed ,” the Patrician allowed himself the luxury of a scowl, “ instructed me, Gorphal, to protect this Twoflower person. Now it seems I must have him killed. You don’t find that surprising?”
    “No. The Emperor is no more than a boy. He is—idealistic. Keen. A god to his people. Whereas this afternoon’s letter is, unless I am very much mistaken, from Nine Turning Mirrors, the Grand Vizier. He has grown old in the service of several Emperors. He regards them as a necessary but tiresome ingredient in the successful running of the Empire. He does not like things out of place. The Empire was not built by allowing things to get out of place. That is his view.”
    “I begin to see—” said the Patrician.
    “Quite so.” Gorphal smiled into his beard. “This tourist is a thing that is out of place. After acceding to his master’s wishes Nine Turning Mirrors would, I am quite sure, make his own arrangements with a view to ensuring that one wanderer would not be allowed to return home bringing, perhaps, the disease of dissatisfaction. The Empire likes people to stay where it puts them. So much more convenient, then, if this Twoflower disappears for good in the barbarian lands. Meaning here, master.”
    “And your advice?” said the Patrician.
    Gorphal shrugged.
    “Merely that you should do nothing. Matters will undoubtedly resolve themselves. However,” he scratched an ear thoughtfully, “perhaps the Assassins’ Guild…?”
    “Ah yes,” said the Patrician. “The Assassins’ Guild. Who is their president at the moment?”
    “Zlorf Flannelfoot, master.”
    “Have a word with him, will you?”
    “Quite so, master.”
    The Patrician nodded. It was all rather a relief. He agreed with Nine Turning Mirrors—life was difficult enough. People ought to stay where they were put.

    Brilliant constellations shone down on the Discworld. One by one the traders shuttered their shops. One by one the ganefs, thieves, finewirers, whores, illusionists, backsliders and second-story men awoke and breakfasted. Wizards went about their polydimensional affairs. Tonight saw the conjunction of two powerful planets, and already the air over the Magical Quarter was hazy with early spells.
    “Look,” said Rincewind, “this isn’t getting us anywhere.” He inched sideways. The Luggage followed faithfully, lid half open and menacing. Rincewind briefly considered making a desperate leap to safety. The lid smacked in anticipation.
    In any case, he told himself with sinking heart, the damn thing would only follow him again. It had that dogged look about it. Even if he managed to get to a horse, he had a nasty suspicion that it would follow him at its own pace. Endlessly. Swimming rivers and oceans. Gaining slowly every night, while he had to stop to sleep. And then one day, in some exotic city and years hence, he’d hear the sound of hundreds of tiny feet accelerating down the road behind him…
    “You’ve got the wrong man!” he moaned. “It’s not my fault! I didn’t kidnap him!”
    The box moved