The Colour of Magic by Terry Pratchett Page B

You’re no use to it starved.”
    Rincewind peered into the dark recesses of the Luggage. There were indeed, among the chaos of boxes and bags of gold, several bottles and packages in oiled paper. He gave a cynical laugh, mooched around the abandoned jetty until he found a piece of wood about the right length, wedged it as politely as possible in the gap between the lid and the box, and pulled out one of the flat packages.
    It held biscuits that turned out to be as hard as diamondwood.
    “’Loody ’ell,” he muttered, nursing his teeth.
    “Captain Eightpanther’s Travelers’ Digestives, them,” said the imp from the doorway to his box. “Saved many a life at sea, they have.”
    “Oh, sure. Do you use them as a raft, or just throw them to the sharks and sort of watch them sink? What’s in the bottles? Poison?”
    “Water.”
    “But there’s water everywhere! Why’d he want to bring water?”
    “Trust.”
    “Trust?”
    “Yes. That’s what he didn’t, the water here. See?”
    Rincewind opened a bottle. The liquid inside might have been water. It had a flat, empty flavor, with no trace of life. “Neither taste nor smell,” he grumbled.
    The Luggage gave a little creak, attracting his attention. With a lazy air of calculated menace it shut its lid slowly, grinding Rincewind’s impromptu wedge like a dry loaf.
    “All right, all right,” he said. “I’m thinking.”

    Ymor’s headquarters were in the Leaning Tower at the junction of Rime Street and Frost Alley. At midnight the solitary guard leaning in the shadows looked up at the conjoining planets and wondered idly what change in his fortunes they might herald.
    There was the faintest of sounds, as of a gnat yawning.
    The guard glanced down the deserted street, and now caught the glimmer of moonlight on something lying in the mud a few yards away. He picked it up. The lunar light gleamed on gold, and his intake of breath was almost loud enough to echo down the alleyway.
    There was a slight sound again, and another coin rolled into the gutter on the other side of the street.
    By the time he had picked it up there was another one, a little way off and still spinning. Gold was, he remembered, said to be formed from the crystallized light of stars. Until now he had never believed it to be true, that something as heavy as gold could fall naturally from the sky.
    As he drew level with the opposite alley mouth some more fell. It was still in its bag, there was an awful lot of it, and Rincewind brought it down heavily onto his head.
    When the guard came to he found himself looking up into the wild-eyed face of a wizard, who was menacing his throat with a sword. In the darkness, too, something was gripping his leg.
    It was the disconcerting sort of grip that suggested that the gripper could grip a whole lot harder, if he wanted to.
    “Where is he, the rich foreigner?” hissed the wizard. “Quickly!”
    “What’s holding my leg?” said the man, with a note of terror in his voice. He tried to wriggle free. The pressure increased.
    “You wouldn’t want to know,” said Rincewind. “Pay attention, please. Where’s the foreigner?”
    “Not here! They’ve got him at Broadman’s place! Everyone’s looking for him! You’re Rincewind, aren’t you? The box—the box that bites people—ononono…pleasssse…”
    Rincewind had gone. The guard felt the unseen leg gripper release his—or, as he was beginning to fear, its —hold. Then, as he tried to pull himself to his feet, something big and heavy and square cannoned into him out of the dark and plunged off after the wizard. Something with hundreds of tiny feet.

    With only his homemade phrase book to help him, Twoflower was trying to explain the mysteries of inn-sewer-ants to Broadman. The fat innkeeper was listening intently, his little black eyes glittering.
    From the other end of the table Ymor watched with mild amusement, occasionally feeding one of his ravens with scraps from his plate. Beside him