The Colour of Magic

by Terry Pratchett

  The roar of the assembled people of Krull was deafening. As the chelonauts and their guards crossed the great arena, passing between the many altars that had been set up for the various wizards and priests of Krull’s many sects to ensure the success of the launch, the Arch-astronomer frowned. By the time the party was halfway across the floor his mind had reached a conclusion. By the time the chelonauts were standing at the foot of the ladder that led to the ship—and was there more than a hint of reluctance about them?—the Arch-astronomer was on his feet, his words lost in the noise of the crowd. One of his arms shot out and back, fingers spread dramatically in the traditional spell-casting position, and any passing lip-reader who was also familiar with the standard texts on magic would have recognized the opening words of Vestcake’s Floating Curse, and would then have prudently run away.

  Its final words remained unsaid, however. The Arch-astronomer turned in astonishment as a commotion broke out around the big arched entrance to the arena. Guards were running out into the daylight, throwing down their weapons as they scuttled among the altars or vaulted the parapet into the stands.

  Something emerged behind them, and the crowd around the entrance ceased its raucous cheering and began a silent, determined scramble to get out of the way.

  The something was a low dome of seaweed, moving slowly but with a sinister sense of purpose. One guard overcame his horror sufficiently to stand in its path and hurl his spear, which landed squarely among the weeds. The crowd cheered—then went deathly silent as the dome surged forward and engulfed the man completely.

  The Arch-astronomer dismissed the half-formed shape of Vestcake’s famous Curse with a sharp wave of his hand, and quickly spoke the words of one of the most powerful spells in his repertoire: the Infernal Combustion Enigma.

  Octarine fire spiraled around and between his fingers as he shaped the complex rune of the spell in midair and sent it, screaming and trailing blue smoke, toward the shape.

  There was a satisfying explosion and a gout of flame shot up into the clear morning sky, shedding flakes of burning seaweed on the way. A cloud of smoke and steam concealed the monster for several minutes, and when it cleared the dome had completely disappeared.

  There was a large charred circle on the flagstones, however, in which a few clumps of kelp and bladderwrack still smoldered.

  And in the center of the circle was a perfectly ordinary, if somewhat large, wooden chest. It was not even scorched. Someone on the far side of the arena started to laugh, but the sound was broken off abruptly as the chest rose up on dozens of what could only be legs and turned to face the Arch-Astronomer. A perfectly ordinary if somewhat large wooden chest does not, of course, have a face with which to face, but this one was quite definitely facing. In precisely the same way as he understood that, the Arch-astronomer was also horribly aware that this perfectly normal box was in some indescribable way narrowing its eyes.

  It began to move resolutely toward him. He shuddered.

  “Magicians!” he screamed. “Where are my magicians?”

  Around the arena pale-faced men peeped out from behind altars and under benches. One of the bolder ones, seeing the expression on the Arch-astronomer’s face, raised an arm tremulously and essayed a hasty thunderbolt. It hissed toward the chest and struck it squarely in a shower of white sparks.

  That was the signal for every magician, enchanter and thaumaturgist in Krull to leap up eagerly and, under the terrified eyes of their master, unleash the first spell that came to each desperate mind. Charms curved and whistled through the air.

  Soon the chest was lost to view again in an expanding cloud of magical particles, which billowed out and wreathed it in twisting, disquieting shapes. Spell after spell screamed into the melee. Flame and lightning bolts of all eight colors stabbed out brightly from the seething thing that now occupied the space where the box had been.

  Not since the Mage Wars had so much magic been concentrated on one small area. The air itself wavered and glittered. Spell ricocheted off spell, creating short-lived wild spells whose brief half-life was both weird and uncontrolled. The stones under the heaving mass began to buckle and split. One of them in fact turned into something best left undescribed and slunk off into some dismal dimension. Other strange side effects began to manifest themselves. A shower of small lead cubes bounced out of the storm and rolled across the heaving floor, and eldritch shapes gibbered and beckoned obscenely; four-sided triangles and double-ended circles existed momentarily before merging again into the booming, screaming tower of runaway raw magic that boiled up from the molten flagstones and spread out over Krull. It no longer mattered that most of the magicians had ceased their spell casting and fled—the thing was now feeding on the stream of octarine particles that were always at their thickest near the Edge of the Disc. Throughout the island of Krull every magical activity failed as all the available mana in the area was sucked into the cloud, which was already a quarter of a mile high and streaming out into mind-curdling shapes; hydrophobes on their sea-skimming lenses crashed screaming into the waves, magic potions turned to mere impure water in their phials, magic swords melted and dripped from their scabbards.

  But none of this in any way prevented the thing at the base of the cloud, now gleaming mirror-bright in the intensity of the power storm around it, from moving at a steady walking pace toward the Arch-astronomer.

  Rincewind and Twoflower watched in awe from the shelter of Potent Voyager’s launch tower. The honor party had long since vanished, leaving their weapons scattered behind them.

  “Well,” sighed Twoflower at last, “there goes the Luggage.” He sighed.

  “Don’t you believe it,” said Rincewind. “Sapient pearwood is totally impervious to all known forms of magic. It’s been constructed to follow you anywhere. I mean, when you die, if you go to Heaven, you’ll at least have a clean pair of socks in the afterlife. But I don’t want to die yet, so let’s just get going, shall we?”

  “Where?” said Twoflower.

  Rincewind picked up a crossbow and a handful of quarrels. “Anywhere that isn’t here,” he said.

  “What about the Luggage?”

  “Don’t worry. When the storm has used up all the free magic in the vicinity it’ll just die out.”

  In fact that was already beginning to happen. The billowing cloud was still flowing up from the area but now it had a tenuous, harmless look about it. Even as Twoflower stared, it began to flicker uncertainly.

  Soon it was a pale ghost. The Luggage was now visible as a squat shape among the almost invisible flames. Around it the rapidly cooling stones began to crack and buckle.

  Twoflower called softly to his Luggage. It stopped its stolid progression across the tortured flags and appeared to be listening intently; then, moving its dozens of feet in an intricate pattern, it turned on its length and headed toward the Potent Voyager. Rincewind watched it sourly. The Luggage had an elemental nature, absolutely no brain, a homicidal attitude toward anything that threatened its master, and he wasn’t quite sure that its inside occupied the same space-time framework as its outside.

  “Not a mark on it,” said Twoflower cheerfully, as the box settled down in front of him. He pushed open the lid.

  “This is a fine time to change your underwear,” snarled Rincewind. “In a minute all those guards and priests are going to come back, and they’re going to be upset, man!”

  “Water,” murmured Twoflower. “The whole box is full of water!”

  Rincewind peered over his shoulder. There was no sign of clothes, moneybags, or any other of the tourist’s belongings. The whole box was full of water.

  A wave sprang up from nowhere and lapped over the edge. It hit the flagstones but, instead of spreading out, began to take the shape of a foot. Another foot and the bottom half of a pair of legs followed as more water streamed down as if filling an invisible mold. A moment later Tethis the sea troll was standing in front of them, blinking.

  “I see,” he said at last. “You t
wo. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  He looked around, ignoring their astonished expressions.

  “I was just sitting outside my hut, watching the sun set, when this thing came roaring up out of the water and swallowed me,” he said. “I thought it was rather strange. Where is this place?”

  “Krull,” said Rincewind. He stared hard at the now closed Luggage, which was managing to project a smug expression. Swallowing people was something it did quite frequently, but always when the lid was next opened there was nothing inside but Twoflower’s laundry. Savagely he wrenched the lid up. There was nothing inside but Twoflower’s laundry. It was perfectly dry.

  “Well, well,” said Tethis. He looked up.

  “Hey!” he said. “Isn’t this the ship they’re going to send over the Edge? Isn’t it? It must be!”

  An arrow zipped through his chest, leaving a faint ripple. He didn’t appear to notice. Rincewind did. Soldiers were beginning to appear at the edge of the arena, and a number of them were peering around the entrances.

  Another arrow bounced off the tower behind Twoflower. At this range the bolts did not have a lot of force, but it would only be a matter of time…

  “Quick!” said Twoflower. “Into the ship! They won’t dare fire at that!”

  “I knew you were going to suggest that,” groaned Rincewind. “I just knew it!”

  He aimed a kick at the Luggage. It backed off a few inches, and opened its lid threateningly.

  A spear arced out of the sky and trembled to a halt in the woodwork by the wizard’s ear. He screamed briefly and scrambled up the ladder after the others.

  Arrows whistled around them as they came out onto the narrow catwalk that led along the spine of the Potent Voyager. Twoflower led the way, jogging along with what Rincewind considered to be too much suppressed excitement.

  Atop the center of the ship was a large round bronze hatch with hasps around it. The troll and the tourist knelt down and started to work on them.

  In the heart of the Potent Voyager fine sand had been trickling into a carefully designed cup for several hours. Now the cup was filled by exactly the right amount to dip down and upset a carefully balanced weight. The weight swung away, pulling a pin from an intricate little mechanism. A chain began to move. There was a clonk…

  “What was that?” said Rincewind urgently. He looked down.

  The hail of arrows had stopped. The crowd of priests and soldiers were standing motionless, staring intently at the ship. A small worried man elbowed his way through them and started to shout something.

  “What was what?” said Twoflower, busy with a wing-nut.

  “I thought I heard something,” said Rincewind. “Look,” he said, “we’ll threaten to damage the thing if they don’t let us go, right? That’s all we’re going to do, right?”

  “Yah,” said Twoflower vaguely. He sat back on his heels. “That’s it,” he said. “It ought to lift off now.”

  Several muscular men were swarming up the ladder to the ship. Rincewind recognized the two chelonauts among them. They were carrying swords.

  “I—” he began.

  The ship lurched. Then, with infinite slowness, it began to move along the rails.

  In that moment of black horror Rincewind saw that Twoflower and the troll had managed to pull the hatch up. A metal ladder inside led into the cabin below. The troll disappeared.

  “We’ve got to get off,” whispered Rincewind. Twoflower looked at him, a strange mad smile on his face.

  “Stars,” said the tourist. “Worlds. The whole damn sky full of worlds. Places no one will ever see. Except me.” He stepped through the hatchway.

  “You’re totally mad,” said Rincewind hoarsely, trying to keep his balance as the ship began to speed up. He turned as one of the chelonauts tried to leap the gap between the Voyager and the tower, landed on the curving flank of the ship, scrabbled for an instant for purchase, failed to find any, and dropped away with a shriek.

  The Voyager was traveling quite fast now. Rincewind could see past Twoflower’s head to the sunlit cloud sea and the impossible Rimbow, floating tantalizingly beyond it, beckoning fools to venture too far…

  He also saw a gang of men climbing desperately over the lower slopes of the launching ramp and manhandling a large bulk of timber onto the track, in a frantic attempt to derail the ship before it vanished over the Edge. The wheels slammed into it, but the only effect was to make the ship rock, Twoflower to lose his grip on the ladder and fall into the cabin, and the hatch to slam down with the horrible sound of a dozen fiddly little catches snapping into place. Rincewind dived forward and scrabbled at them, whimpering.

  The cloud sea was much nearer now. The Edge itself, a rocky perimeter to the arena, was startlingly close.

  Rincewind stood up. There was only one thing to do now, and he did it. He panicked blindly, just as the ship’s bogeys hit the little upgrade and flung it, sparkling like a salmon, into the sky and over the Edge.

  A few seconds later there was a thunder of little feet and the Luggage cleared the rim of the world, legs still pumping determinedly, and plunged down into the universe.

  THE END

  Rincewind woke up and shivered. He was freezing cold.

  So this is it, he thought. When you die you go to a cold, damp, misty freezing place. Hades, where the mournful spirits of the Dead troop forever across the sorrowful marshes, corpse-lights flickering fitfully in the encircling—hang on a minute…

  Surely Hades wasn’t this uncomfortable? And he was very uncomfortable indeed. His back ached where a branch was pressing into it, his legs and arms hurt where the twigs had lacerated them and, judging by the way his head was feeling, something hard had recently hit it. If this was Hades it sure was hell—hang on a minute…

  Tree. He concentrated on the word that floated up from his mind, although the buzzing in his ears and the flashing lights in front of his eyes made this an unexpected achievement. Tree. Wooden thing. That was it. Branches and twigs and things. And Rincewind, lying in it. Tree. Dripping wet. Cold white cloud all around. Underneath, too. Now that was odd.

  He was alive and lying covered in bruises in a small thorn tree that was growing in a crevice in a rock that projected out of the foaming white wall that was the Rimfall. The realization hit him in much the same way as an icy hammer. He shuddered. The tree gave a warning creak.

  Something blue and blurred shot past him, dipped briefly into the thundering waters, and whirred back and settled on a branch near Rincewind’s head. It was a small bird with a tuft of blue and green feathers. It swallowed the little silver fish that it had snatched from the Fall and eyed him curiously.

  Rincewind became aware that there were lots of similar birds around.

  They hovered, darted and swooped easily across the face of the water, and every so often one would raise an extra plume of spray as it stole another doomed morsel from the waterfall. Several of them were perching in the tree. They were as iridescent as jewels. Rincewind was entranced.

  He was in fact the first man ever to see the rimfishers, the tiny creatures who had long ago evolved a lifestyle quite unique even for the Disc. Long before the Krullians had built the Circumfence the rimfishers had devised their own efficient method of policing the edge of the world for a living.

  They didn’t seem bothered about Rincewind. He had a brief but chilling vision of himself living the rest of his life out in this tree, subsisting on raw birds and such fish as he could snatch as they plummeted past.

  The tree moved distinctly. Rincewind gave a whimper as he found himself sliding backward, but managed to grab a branch. Only, sooner or later, he would fall asleep…

  There was a subtle change of scene, a slight purplish tint to the sky. A tall, black-cloaked figure was standing on the air next to the tree. It had a scythe in one hand. Its face was hidden in the shadows of the hood.

  I HAVE COME FOR THEE, said the invisible mouth, in tones as heavy as a whale’s heartbeat.


  The trunk of the tree gave another protesting creak, and a pebble bounced off Rincewind’s helmet as one root tore loose from the rock.

  Death Himself always came in person to harvest the souls of wizards.

  “What am I going to die of?” said Rincewind.

  The tall figure hesitated.

  PARDON? it said.

  “Well, I haven’t broken anything, and I haven’t drowned, so what am I about to die of? You can’t just be killed by Death; there has to be a reason,” said Rincewind. To his utter amazement he didn’t feel terrified anymore. For about the first time in his life he wasn’t frightened. Pity the experience didn’t look like lasting for long.

  Death appeared to reach a conclusion.

  YOU COULD DIE OF TERROR, the hood intoned. The voice still had its graveyard ring, but there was a slight tremor of uncertainty.

  “Won’t work,” said Rincewind smugly.

  THERE DOESN’T HAVE TO BE A REASON, said Death. I CAN JUST KILL YOU.

  “Hey, you can’t do that! It’d be murder!”

  The cowled figure sighed and pulled back its hood. Instead of the grinning death’s head that Rincewind had been expecting he found himself looking up into the pale and slightly transparent face of a rather worried demon, of sorts.

  “I’m making rather a mess of this, aren’t I?” it said wearily.

  “You’re not Death! Who are you?” cried Rincewind.

  “Scrofula.”

  “Scrofula?”

  “Death couldn’t come,” said the demon wretchedly. “There’s a big plague on in Pseudopolis. He had to go and stalk the streets. So he sent me.”

  “No one dies of scrofula! I’ve got rights. I’m a wizard!”

  “All right, all right. This was going to be my big chance,” said Scrofula, “but look at it this way—if I hit you with this scythe you’ll be just as dead as you would be if Death had done it. Who’d know?”

  “I’d know!” snapped Rincewind.

  “You wouldn’t. You’d be dead,” said Scrofula logically.

  “Piss off,” said Rincewind.