They jogged on through the crowd of frightened people leaving the area, while the wizard took great mouthfuls of cool dawn air. Something was puzzling him.
“I’m sure all the candles went out,” he said. “So how did the Drum catch fire?”
“I don’t know,” moaned Twoflower. “It’s terrible, Rincewind. We were getting along so well, too.”
Rincewind stopped in astonishment, so that another refugee cannoned into him and spun away with an oath.
“Yes, a great bunch of fellows, I thought — language was a bit of a problem, but they were so keen for me to join their party, they just wouldn’t take no for an answer — really friendly people, I thought…”
Rincewind started to correct him, then realized he didn’t know how to begin.
“It’ll be a blow for old Broadman,” Twoflower continued. “Still, he was wise. I’ve still got the rhinu he paid as his first premium.”
Rincewind didn’t know the meaning of the word premium, but his mind was working fast.
“You inn-sewered the Drum?” he said. “You bet Broadman it wouldn’t catch fire?”
“Oh yes. Standard valuation. Two hundred rhinu. Why do you ask?”
Rincewind turned and stared at the flames racing towards them, and wondered how much of Ankh-Morpork could be bought for two hundred rhinu. Quite a large peice, he decided. Only not now, not the way those flames were moving… [Page 88-89 The Color of Magic. Terry Pratchett. 1983]