The Colour of Magic by Terry Pratchett Read Free Book Online

it?”
    “You did say you wanted to try some typical Morporkean food,” said Rincewind. “What was that about risks?”
    “Oh, I know all about risks. They’re my business.”
    “I thought that’s what you said. I didn’t believe it the first time either.”
    “Oh, I don’t take risks. About the most exciting thing that happened to me was knocking some ink over. I assess risks. Day after day. Do you know what the odds are against a house catching fire in the Red Triangle district of Bes Pelargic? Five hundred and thirty-eight to one. I calculated that,” he added with a trace of pride.
    “What—” Rincewind tried to suppress a burp—“what for? ’Scuse me.” He helped himself to some more wine.
    “For—” Twoflower paused. “I can’t say it in Trob,” he said. “I don’t think the beTrobi have a word for it. In my language we call it—” he said a collection of outlandish syllables.
    “Inn-sewer-ants,” repeated Rincewind. “Tha’s a funny word. Wossit mean?”
    “Well, suppose you have a ship loaded with, say, gold bars. It might run into storms or, or be taken by pirates. You don’t want that to happen, so you take out an inn-sewer-ants-polly-sea . I work out the odds against the cargo being lost, based on weather reports and piracy records for the last twenty years, then I add a bit, then you pay me some money based on those odds—”
    “—and the bit—” Rincewind said, waggling a finger solemnly.
    “—and then, if the cargo is lost, I reimburse you.”
    “Reeburs?”
    “Pay you the value of your cargo,” said Twoflower patiently.
    “I get it. It’s like a bet, right?”
    “A wager? In a way, I suppose.”
    “And you make money at this inn-sewer-ants ?”
    “It offers a return on investment, certainly.”
    Wrapped in the warm yellow glow of the wine, Rincewind tried to think of inn-sewer-ants in Circle Sea terms.
    “I don’t think I unnerstan’ this inn-sewer-ants ,” he said firmly, idly watching the world spin by. “Magic, now. Magic I unnerstan’.”
    Twoflower grinned. “Magic is one thing, and reflected-sound-of-underground-spirits is another,” he said.
    “Wha’?”
    “What?”
    “That funny wor’ you used,” said Rincewind impatiently.
    “Reflected-sound-of-underground-spirits?”
    “Never heard o’ it.”
    Twoflower tried to explain.
    Rincewind tried to understand.

    In the long afternoon they toured the city Turnwise of the river. Twoflower led the way, with the strange picture box slung on a strap around his neck. Rincewind trailed behind, whimpering at intervals and checking to see that his head was still there.
    A few others followed, too. In a city where public executions, duels, fights, magical feuds and strange events regularly punctuated the daily round the inhabitants had brought the profession of interested bystander to a peak of perfection. They were, to a man, highly skilled gawpers. In any case, Twoflower was delightedly taking picture after picture of people engaged in what he described as typical activities, and since a quarter- rhinu would subsequently change hands “for their trouble” a tail of bemused and happy nouveauxriches was soon following him in case this madman exploded in a shower of gold.
    At the Temple of the Seven-Handed Sek a hasty convocation of priests and ritual heart-transplant artisans agreed that the hundred-span high statue of Sek was altogether too holy to be made into a magic picture, but a payment of two rhinu left them astoundedly agreeing that perhaps He wasn’t as holy as all that.
    A prolonged session at the Whore Pits produced a number of colorful and instructive pictures, a number of which Rincewind concealed about his person for detailed perusal in private. As the fumes cleared from his brain he began to speculate seriously as to how the iconograph worked.
    Even a failed wizard knew that some substances were sensitive to light. Perhaps the glass plates were treated by some arcane process that froze