“You,” he repeated. Another hurrying figure bumped into him, narrowly missing him with the blade over its shoulder. Rincewind’s tortured temper exploded.
“You little (such a one who, while wearing a copper nose ring, stands in a footbath atop Mount Raruaruaha during a heavy thunderstorm and shouts that Alohura, goddess of lightning, has the facial features of a diseased uloruaha root)!”
JUST DOING MY JOB, said the figure, stalking away.
Every word fell as heavily as slabs of marble; moreover, Rincewind was certain that he was the only one who heard them.
He grabbed Twoflower again.
“Let’s get out of here!” he suggested.
One interesting side effect of the fire in Ankh-Morpork concerns the inn-sewer-ants policy, which left the city through the ravaged roof of the Broken Drum, was wafted high into the Discworld’s atmosphere on the ensuing thermal, and came to earth several days and a few thousand miles away on an uloruaha bush in the beTrobi islands. The simple, laughing islanders subsequently worshipped it as a god, much to the amusement of their more sophisticated neighbors. Strangely enough the rainfall and harvests in the next few years were almost supernaturally abundant, and this led to a research team being dispatched to the islands by the Minor Religions faculty of Unseen University. Their verdict was that it only went to show.
The fire, driven by the wind, spread out from the Drum faster than a man could walk. The timbers of the Widdershin Gate were already on fire when Rincewind, his face blistered and reddened from the flames, reached them. By now he and Twoflower were on horseback—mounts hadn’t been that hard to obtain. A wily merchant had asked fifty times their worth, and had been left gaping when one thousand times their worth had been pressed into his hands.
They rode through just before the first of the big gate timbers descended in an explosion of sparks. Morpork was already a cauldron of flame.
As they galloped up the red-lit road Rincewind glanced sideways at his traveling companion, currently trying hard to learn to ride a horse.
Bloody hell, he thought. He’s alive! Me too. Who’d have thought it? Perhaps there is something in this reflected-sound-of-underground-spirits? It was a cumbersome phrase. Rincewind tried to get his tongue around the thick syllables that were the word in Twoflower’s own language.
“Ecolirix?” he tried. “Ecro-gnothics? Echo-gnomics?”
That would do. That sounded about right.
Several hundred yards downriver from the last smoldering suburb of the city a strangely rectangular and apparently heavily waterlogged object touched the mud on the widdershin bank. Immediately it sprouted numerous legs and scrabbled for a purchase.
Hauling itself to the top of the bank the Luggage—streaked with soot, stained with water and very, very angry—shook itself and took its bearings. Then it moved away at a brisk trot, the small and incredibly ugly imp that was perching on its lid watching the scenery with interest.
Bravd looked at the Weasel and raised his eyebrows.
“And that’s it,” said Rincewind. “The Luggage caught up with us, don’t ask me how. Is there any more wine?”
The Weasel picked up the empty wineskin.
“I think you have had just about enough wine this night,” he said.
Bravd’s forehead wrinkled.
“Gold is gold,” he said finally. “How can a man with plenty of gold consider himself poor? You’re either poor or rich. It stands to reason.”
Rincewind hiccupped. He was finding Reason rather difficult to hold on to. “Well,” he said, “what I think is, the point is, well, you know octiron?”
The two adventurers nodded. The strange iridescent metal was almost as highly valued in the 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 vapors. 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.