Терри Пратчетт - The Colour of Magic

And then, of course, the other five coins would help him set up a useful practice at some safe distance, say two hundred miles. That would be the sensible thing.

But what would happen to Twoflower, all alone in a city where even the cockroaches had an unerring instinct for gold? A man would have to be a real heel to leave him.

The Patrician of Ankh-Morpork smiled, but with his mouth only.

“The Hub Gate, you say?” he murmured.

The guard captain saluted smartly. “Aye, lord. We had to shoot the horse before he would stop.”

“Which, by a fairly direct route, brings you here,” said the Patrician, looking down at Rincewind.

“And what have you got to say for yourself?”

It was rumoured that an entire wing of the Patrician’s palace was filled with clerks who spent their days collating and updating all the information collected by their master’s exquisitely organized spy system. Rincewind didn’t doubt it. He glanced towards the balcony that ran down one side of the audience room. A sudden run, a nimble jump—a sudden hail of crossbow quarrels. He shuddered. The Patrician cradled his chins in a beringed hand, and regarded the wizard with eyes as small and hard as beads.

“Let me see,” he said. “Oathbreaking, the theft of a horse, uttering false coinage—yes, I think it’s the Arena for you, Rincewind.”

This was too much.

“I didn’t steal the horse! I bought it fairly!”

“But with false coinage. Technical theft, you see.”

“But those rhinu are solid gold!”

“Rhinu?” The Patrician rolled one of them around in his thick fingers. “is that what they are called? How interesting. But, as you point out, they are not very similar to dollars…”

“Well, of course they’re not—”

“Ah you admit it, then?”

Rincewind opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and shut it again.

“Quite so. And on top of these there is, of course, the moral obloquy attendant on the cowardly betrayal of a visitor to this shore. For shame, Rincewind!” The Patrician waved a hand vaguely. The guards behind Rincewind backed away, and their captain took a few paces to the right. Rincewind suddenly felt very alone.

It is said that when a wizard is about to die Death himself turns up to claim him (instead of delegating the task to a subordinate, such as Disease or Famine, as is usually the case). Rincewind looked around nervously for a tall figure in black [ 3 3 Wizards, even failed wizards, have in addition to rods and cones in their eyeballs the tiny octagons that enable them to see into the far octarine, the basic colour of which all other colours are merely pale shadows impinging on normal four-dimensional space. It is said to be a sort of fluorescent greenish-yellow purple ].

Was that a flickering shadow in the corner?

“Of course,” said the Patrician, “I could be merciful.” The shadow disappeared. Rincewind looked up an expression of insane hope on his face.

“Yes?” he said.

The Patrician waved a hand again. Rincewind saw the guards leave the chamber. Alone with the lord of the twin cities, he almost wished they would come back.

“Come hither, Rincewind,” said the Patrician. He indicated a bowl of savouries on a low onyx table by the throne. “Would you care for a crystallised jellyfish? No?”

“Um,” said Rincewind, “no.”

“Now I want you to listen very carefully to what I am about to say,” said the Patrician amiably, “otherwise you will die. In an interesting fashion. Over a period. Please stop fidgetting like that. Since you are a wizard of sorts, you are of course aware that we live upon a world shaped, as it were, like a disc? And that there is said to exist, towards the far rim, a continent which though small is equal in weight to all the mighty landmasses in this hemicircle? And that this, according to ancient legend, is because it is largely made of gold?”

Rincewind nodded. Who hadn’t heard of the Counterweight Continent? Some sailors even believed the childhood tales and sailed in search of it. Of course, they returned either empty handed or not at all. Probably eaten by giant turtles, in the opinion of more serious mariners. Because, of course, the Counterweight Continent was nothing more than a solar myth.

“It does, of course, exist,” said the Patrician. “Although it is not made of gold, it is true that gold is a very common metal there. Most of the mass is made up by vast deposits of octiron deep within the crust. Now it will be obvious to an incisive mind like yours that the existence of the Counterweight Continent poses a deadly threat to our people here—” he paused, looking at Rincewind’s open mouth. He sighed. He said, “Do you by some chance fail to follow me?”

“Yarrg,” said Rincewind. He swallowed, and licked his lips. “I mean, no. I mean—well, gold…”

“I see,” said the Patrician sweetly. “You feel, perhaps, that it would be a marvellous thing to go to the Counterweight Continent and bring back a shipload of gold?”

Rincewind had a feeling that some sort of trap was being set.

“Yes?” he ventured.

“And if every man on the shores of the Circle Sea had a mountain of gold of his own? Would that be a good thing? What would happen?—think carefully.” Rincewind’s brow furrowed. He thought. “We’d all be rich?”

The way the temperature fell at his remark told him that it was not the correct one.

“I may as well tell you, Rincewind, that there is some contact between the Lords of the Circle Sea and the Emperor of the Agatean Empire, as it is styled,” the Patrician went on. “It is only very slight. There is little common ground between us. We have nothing they want, and they have nothing we can afford. It is an old Empire, Rincewind. Old and cunning and cruel and very, very rich. So we exchange fraternal greetings by albatross mail. At infrequent intervals.

“One such letter arrived this morning. A subject of the Emperor appears to have taken it into his head to visit our city. It appears he wishes to look at it. Only a madman would possibly undergo all the privations of crossing the Turnwise Ocean in order to merely look at anything. However, he landed this morning. He might have met a great hero, or the cunningest of thieves, or some wise and great sage. He met you. He has employed you as a guide. You will be a guide, Rincewind, to this looker, this Twoflower. You will see that he returns home with a good report of our little homeland. What do you say to that?”

“Er. Thank you, lord,” said Rincewind miserably.

“There is another point, of course. It would be a tragedy should anything untoward happen to our little visitor. It would be dreadful if he were to die, for example. Dreadful for the whole of our land, because the Agatean Emperor looks after his own and could certainly extinguish us at a nod. A mere nod. And that would be dreadful for you, Rincewind, because in the weeks that remained before the Empire’s huge mercenary fleet arrived certain of my servants would occupy themselves about your person in the hope that the avenging captains, on their arrival, might find their anger tempered by the sight of your still-living body. There are certain spells that can prevent the life departing from a body, be it never so abused, and– I see by your face that understanding dawns?”

“Yarrg.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Yes, lord. I’ll, er, see to it, I mean, I’ll endeavour to see, I mean, well, I’ll try to look after him and see he comes to no harm.” And after that I’ll get a job juggling snowballs through Hell, he added bitterly in the privacy of his own skull.

“Capital! I gather already that you and Twoflower are on the best of terms. An excellent beginning! When he returns safely to his homeland you will not find me ungrateful. I shall probably even dismiss the charges against you. Thank you, Rincewind. You may go.”