Fire roared through the bifurcated city of Ankh-Morpork. Where it licked the Wizards' Quarter it burned blue and green and was even laced with strange sparks of the eighth color, octarine; where its outriders found their way into the vats and oil stores along the Merchants Street it progressed into a series of blazing fountains and explosions; in the streets of the perfume blenders it burned with a sweetness; where it touched bundles of rare and dry herbs in the storerooms of the drugmasters it made men go mad and talk with God.
By now the whole downtown of Morpork was alight, and the richer and worthier citizens of Ankh were bravely responding to the situation by feverishly demolishing the bridges. But already the ships on in Morpork docks — laden with grain, cotton and timber, and coated with tar — were blazing merrily and, their moorings burnt to ashes, were breasting the river Ankh on the ebb tide, inviting riverside palaces and bowers as they drifted like drowning fireflies towards the sea. In any case, sparks were riding the breeze and touching down far across the river in hidden gardens and remote rickyards.
The smoke from the merry burning rose miles high, in a wind-sculpted black column that could be seen from the whole of the discworld.
By now the whole downtown of Morpork was alight, and the richer and worthier citizens of Ankh were bravely responding to the situation by feverishly demolishing the bridges. But already the ships on in Morpork docks — laden with grain, cotton and timber, and coated with tar — were blazing merrily and, their moorings burnt to ashes, were breasting the river Ankh on the ebb tide, inviting riverside palaces and bowers as they drifted like drowning fireflies towards the sea. In any case, sparks were riding the breeze and touching down far across the river in hidden gardens and remote rickyards.
The smoke from the merry burning rose miles high, in a wind-sculpted black column that could be seen from the whole of the discworld.
