“Well, there are no ships leaving the city now,” giggled Rincewind. “I suppose we’ll take the coast road to Chirm. 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 toward the charcoal city.
Rincewind stared muzzily at the recumbent tourist. At two recumbent tourists. In his somewhat defenseless state a stray thought, wandering through the dimensions in search of a mind to harbor it, slid into his brain.
“Here’s another fine mess you’ve got me into,” he moaned, and slumped backward.
“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. “It lacks but ten minutes to eight of the clock,” it snarled. The lid slammed shut, almost trapping the Weasel’s fingers.
With an oath the Weasel hurled the time-teller far out into the heather, where it possibly hit a stone. Something, in any event, caused the case to split; there was a vivid octarine flash and a whiff of brimstone as the time being vanished into whatever demonic dimension it called home.
“What did you do that for?” said Bravd, who hadn’t been close enough to hear the words.
“Do what?” said the Weasel. “I didn’t do anything. Nothing happened at all. Come on—we’re wasting opportunities!”
Bravd nodded. Together they turned their steeds and galloped toward ancient Ankh, and honest enchantments.
The Sending of Eight
PROLOGUE
THE DISCWORLD OFFERS SIGHTS far more impressive than those found in universes built by Creators with less imagination but more mechanical aptitude.
Although the Disc’s sun is but an orbiting moonlet, its prominences hardly bigger than croquet hoops, this slight drawback must be set against the tremendous sight of Great A’Tuin the Turtle, upon Whose ancient and meteor riddled shell the Disc ultimately rests. Sometimes, in His slow journey across the shores of Infinity, He moves His country-sized head to snap at a passing comet.
But perhaps the most impressive sight of all—if only because most brains, when faced with the sheer galactic enormity of A’Tuin, refuse to believe it—is the endless Rimfall, where the seas of the Disc boil ceaselessly over the Edge into space. Or perhaps it is the Rimbow, the eight-colored, world-girdling rainbow that hovers in the mist-laden air over the Fall. The eighth color is octarine, caused by the scatter effect of strong sunlight on an intense magical field.
Or perhaps, again, the most magnificent sight is the Hub. There, a spire of green ice ten miles high rises through the clouds and supports at its peak the realm of Dunmanifestin, the abode of the Disc gods. The Disc gods themselves, despite the splendor of the world below them, are seldom satisfied. It is embarrassing to know that one is a god of a world that only exists because every improbability curve must have its far end; especially when one can peer into other dimensions at worlds whose Creators had more mechanical aptitude than imagination. No wonder, then, that the Disc gods spend more time in bickering than in omnicognizance.
On this particular day Blind Io, by dint of constant vigilance the chief of the gods, sat with his chin on his hand and looked at the gaming board on the red marble table in front of him. Blind Io had got his name because, where his eye sockets should have been, there were nothing but two areas of blank skin. His eyes, of which he had an impressively large number, led a semi-independent life of their own. Several were currently hovering above the table.