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his bruised hand and running with a curious, bent-over gait. A crossbow quarrel thunked into the banister rail above him, and he gave a whimper.
    He made the stairs in one breathless rush, expecting at any moment another, more accurate shot.
    In the corridor above he stood upright, gasping, and saw the floor in front of him scattered with bodies. A big black bearded man, with a bloody sword in one hand, was trying a door handle.
    “Hey!” screamed Rincewind. The man looked around and then, almost absentmindedly, drew a short throwing knife from his bandolier and hurled it. Rincewind ducked. There was a brief scream behind him as the crossbow man, sighting down his weapon, dropped it and clutched at his throat.
    The big man was already reaching for another knife. Rincewind looked around wildly, and then with wild improvisation drew himself up into a wizardly pose.
    His hand was flung back. “Asoniti! Kyorucha! Beazleblor!”
    The man hesitated, his eyes flicking nervously from side to side as he waited for the magic. The conclusion that there was not going to be any hit him at the same time as Rincewind, whirring wildly down the passage, kicked him sharply in the groin.
    As he screamed and clutched at himself the wizard dragged open the door, sprang inside, slammed it behind him and threw his body against it, panting.
    It was quiet in here. There was Twoflower, sleeping peacefully on the low bed. And there, at the foot of the bed, was the Luggage.
    Rincewind took a few steps forward, cupidity moving him as easily as if he were on little wheels. The chest was open. There were bags inside, and in one of them he caught the gleam of gold. For a moment greed overcame caution, and he reached out gingerly…but what was the use? He’d never live to enjoy it. Reluctantly he drew his hand back, and was surprised to see a slight tremor in the chest’s open lid. Hadn’t it shifted slightly, as though rocked by the wind?
    Rincewind looked at his fingers, and then at the lid. It looked heavy, and was bound with brass bands. It was quite still now.
    What wind?
    “Rincewind!”
    Twoflower sprang off the bed. The wizard jumped back, wrenching his features into a smile.
    “My dear chap, right on time! We’ll just have lunch, and then I’m sure you’ve got a wonderful program lined up for this afternoon!”
    “Er—”
    “That’s great!”
    Rincewind took a deep breath. “Look,” he said desperately, “let’s eat somewhere else. There’s been a bit of a fight down below.”
    “A tavern brawl? Why didn’t you wake me up?”
    “Well, you see, I—What?”
    “I thought I made myself clear this morning, Rincewind. I want to see genuine Morporkian life—the slave market, the Whore Pits, the Temple of Small Gods, the Beggars’ Guild…and a genuine tavern brawl.” A faint note of suspicion entered Twoflower’s voice. “You do have them, don’t you?You know, people swinging on chandelier, swordfights over the table, the sort of thing Hrun the Barbarian and the Weasel are always getting involved in. You know— excitement .”
    Rincewind sat down heavily on the bed.
    “You want to see a fight?” he said.
    “Yes. What’s wrong with that?”
    “For a start, people get hurt.”
    “Oh, I wasn’t suggesting we get involved. I just want to see one, that’s all. And some of your famous heroes. You do have some, don’t you? It’s not all dockside talk?” And now, to the wizard’s astonishment, Twoflower was almost pleading.
    “Oh, yeah. We have them all right,” said Rincewind hurriedly. He pictured them in his mind, and recoiled from the thought.
    All the heroes of the Circle Sea passed through the gates of Ankh-Morpork sooner or later. Most of them were from the barbaric tribes nearer the frozen Hub, which had a sort of export trade in heroes. Almost all of them had crude magic swords, whose unsuppressed harmonics on the astral plane played hell with any delicate experiments in applied sorcery for miles around, but