Read Online The Colour of Magic by Terry Pratchett - Free Book Online

Withel paced up and down.
    “You fret too much,” said Ymor, without taking his eyes from the two men opposite him. “I can feel it, Stren. Who would dare attack us here? And the gutter wizard will come. He’s too much of a coward not to. And he’ll try to bargain. And we shall have him. And the gold. And the chest.”
    Withel’s one eye glared, and he smacked a fist into the palm of a black-gloved hand.
    “Who would have thought there was so much sapient pearwood in the whole of the Disc?” he said. “How could we have known?”
    “You fret too much, Stren. I’m sure you can do better this time,” said Ymor pleasantly.
    The lieutenant snorted in disgust, and strode off around the room to bully his men. Ymor carried on watching the tourist.
    It was strange, but the little man didn’t seem to realize the seriousness of his position. Ymor had on several occasions seen him look around the room with an expression of deep satisfaction. He had also been talking for ages to Broadman, and Ymor had seen a piece of paper change hands. And Broadman had given the foreigner some coins. It was strange.
    When Broadman got up and waddled past Ymor’s chair the thiefmaster’s arm shot out like a steel spring and grabbed the fat man by his apron.
    “What was that all about, friend?” asked Ymor quietly.
    “N-nothing, Ymor. Just private business, like.”
    “There are no secrets between friends, Broadman.”
    “Yar. Well, I’m not sure about it myself, really. It’s a sort of bet, see?” said the innkeeper nervously. “ Inn-sewer-ants , it’s called. It’s like a bet that the Broken Drum won’t get burned down.”
    Ymor held the man’s gaze until Broadman twitched in fear and embarrassment. Then the thiefmaster laughed.
    “This worm-eaten old tinder pile?” he said. “The man must be mad!”
    “Yes, but mad with money. He says now he’s got the—can’t remember the word, begins with a P, it’s what you might call the stake money—the people he works for in the Agatean Empire will pay up. If the Broken Drum burns down. Not that I hope it does. Burn down. The Broken Drum, I mean. I mean, it’s like a home to me, is the Drum…”
    “Not entirely stupid, are you?” said Ymor, and pushed the innkeeper away.
    The door slammed back on its hinges and thudded into the wall.
    “Hey, that’s my door!” screamed Broadman. Then he realized who was standing at the top of the steps, and ducked behind the table a mere shaving of time before a short black dart sped across the room and thunked into the woodwork.
    Ymor moved his hand carefully, and poured out another flagon of beer.
    “Won’t you join me, Zlorf?” he said levelly. “And put that sword away, Stren. Zlorf Flannelfoot is our friend.”
    The president of the Assassins’ Guild spun his short blowgun dexterously and slotted it into its holster in one smooth movement.
    “Stren!” said Ymor.
    The black-clad thief hissed, and sheathed his sword. But he kept his hand on the hilt, and his eyes on the assassin.
    That wasn’t easy. Promotion in the Assassins’ Guild was by competitive examination, the Practical being the most important—indeed, the only—part. Thus Zlorf’s broad, honest face was a welt of scar tissue, the result of many a close encounter. It probably hadn’t been all that good looking in any case—it was said that Zlorf had chosen a profession in which dark hoods, cloaks and nocturnal prowlings figured largely because there was a day-fearing trollish streak in his parentage. People who said this in earshot of Zlorf tended to carry their ears home in their hats.
    He strolled down the stairs, followed by a number of assassins. When he was directly in front of Ymor he said: “I’ve come for the tourist.”
    “Is it any of your business, Zlorf?”
    “Yes. Grinjo, Urmond—take him.”
    Two of the assassins stepped forward. Then Stren was in front of them, his sword appearing to materialize an inch from their throats without having to