'You!' . . . apart from the soldiers. They appeared abruptly from behind every tree and statue. Rincewind tried to back away, but that proved unfortunate since there was a guard behind him. A terrifying armoured mask confronted him. 'Peasant! Do you not know this is the Imperial Square?'
'Was that a capital S on Square, please?' said Rincewind. 'You do not ask questions!'
'Ah. I'll take that as a “yes”. So it's important, then. Sorry. I'll just sort of go away, then . . .'
'You stay!' But what struck Rincewind as amazingly odd was that none of them actually took hold of him. And then he realized that this must be because they hardly ever needed to. People did what they were told. There's something worse than whips in the Empire, Cohen had said. At this point, he realized, he should be on his knees. He crouched down, hands placed lightly in front of him. 'I wonder,' he said brightly, rising into the starting position, 'if this is the time to draw your attention to a famous saying?' Cohen was familiar with city gates. He'd broken down a number in his time, by battering ram, siege gun and on one occasion with his head. But the gates of Hunghung were pretty damn good gates. They weren't like the gates of Ankh-Morpork, which were usually wide open to attract the spending customer and whose concession to defence was the sign 'Thank You For Not Attacking Our City. Bonum Diem'. These things were big and made of metal and there was a guardhouse and a squad of unhelpful men in black armour. 'Teach?'
'Yes, Cohen?'
'Why're we doing this? I thought we were going to use the invisible duck the mice use.'
Mr Saveloy waggled a finger. 'That's for the Forbidden City itself. I hope we'll find that inside. Now, remember your lessons,' he said. 'It's important that you all learn how to behave in cities.'
'I know how to bloody well behave in cities,' said Truckle the Uncivil. 'Pillage, ravish, loot, set fire to the damn place on your way out. Just like towns only it takes longer.'
'That's all very well if you're just passing through,' said Mr Saveloy, 'but what if you want to come back next day?'
'It ain't bloody well there next day, mister.'
'Gentlemen! Bear with me. You will have to learn the ways of civilization!' People couldn't just walk through. There was a line. And the guards gathered rather offensively around each cowering visitor to examine their papers. And then it was Cohen's turn. 'Papers, old man?' Cohen nodded happily, and handed the guard captain a piece of paper on which was written, in Mr Saveloy's best handwriting: WE ARE WANDERING MADMEN WHO HAVE NO PAPERS. SORRY. The guard's gaze lifted from the paper and met Cohen's cheerful grin. 'Indeed,' he said nastily. 'Can't you speak, grandfather?' Cohen, still grinning, looked questioningly at Mr Saveloy. They hadn't rehearsed this part. 'Foolish dummy,' said the guard. Mr Saveloy looked outraged. 'I thought you were supposed to show special consideration for the insane!' he said. 'You cannot be insane without papers to say you're insane,' said the guard. 'Oh, I'm fed up with this,' said Cohen. 'I said it wouldn't work if we came across a thick guard.'
'Insolent peasant!'
'I'm not as insolent as my friends here,' said Cohen. The Horde nodded. 'That's us, flatfoot.'
'Bum to you.'
'Whut?'
'Extremely foolish soldier.'
'Whut?' The captain was taken aback. Deeply ingrained in the Agatean psyche was the habit of obedience. But even stronger was a veneration of one's ancestors and a respect for the elderly, and the captain had never seen anyone so elderly while still vertical. They practically were ancestors. The one in the wheelchair certainly smelled like one. 'Take them to the guardhouse!' he shouted. The Horde let themselves be manhandled, and did it quite well. Mr Saveloy had spent hours training them in this, since he knew he was dealing with men whose response to a tap on the shoulder was to turn around and hack off someone's arm. It was crowded in the guardhouse, with the Horde and the guards and with Mad Hamish's wheelchair. One of the guards looked down at Hamish, glowering under his blanket. 'What do you have there, grandfather?' A sword came up through the cloth and stabbed the guard in the thigh. 'Whut? Whut? Whutzeesay?'
'He said, “Aargh!”, Hamish,' said Cohen, a knife appearing in his hand. With one movement his skinny arms had the captain in a lock, the knife at his throat. 'Whut?'
'He said, “Aargh!” '
'Whut? I ain't even married!' Cohen put a little more pressure on the captain's neck. 'Now then, friend,' he said. 'You can have it the easy way, see, or the hard way. It's up to you.'
'Blood-sucking pig! You call this the easy way?'
'Well, I ain't sweatin'.'
'May you live in interesting times! I would rather die than betray my Emperor!'
'Fair enough.' It took the captain only a fraction of a second to realize that Cohen, being a man of his word, assumed that other people were too. He might, if he had time, have reflected that the purpose of civilization is to make violence the final resort, while to a barbarian it is the first, preferred, only and above all most enjoyable option. But by then it was too late. He slumped forward. 'I always lives in interestin' times,' said Cohen, in the satisfied voice of someone who did a lot to keep them interesting. He pointed his knife at the other guards. Mr Saveloy's mouth was wide open in horror. 'By rights I should be cleanin' this,' said Cohen. 'But I ain't goin' to bother if it's only goin' to get dirty again. Now, person'ly, I'd as soon kill you as look at you but Teach here says I've got to stop doin' that and become respectable.' One of the guards looked sideways at his fellows and then fell on his knees. 'What is your wish, o master?' he said. 'Ah, officer material,' said Cohen. 'What's your name, lad?'
'Nine Orange Trees, master.' Cohen looked at Mr Saveloy. 'What do I do now?'
'Take them prisoner, please.'
'How do I do that?'
'Well . . . I suppose you tie them up, that sort of thing.'
'Ah. And then cut their throats?'
'No! No. You see, once you've got them at your mercy, you're not allowed to kill them.' The Silver Horde, to a man, stared at the ex-teacher. 'I'm afraid that's civilization for you,' he added. 'But you said the sods haven't got any bloody weapons!' said Truckle. 'Yes,' said Mr Saveloy, shuddering a little. 'That's why you're not allowed to kill them.'
'Are you mad? Got mad papers, have you?'
Cohen scratched his stubbly chin. The remainder of the guard watched him in trepidation. They were used to cruel and unusual punishment, but they were unaccustomed to argument first. 'You haven't had a lot of military experience, have you, Teach?' he said. 'Apart from Form Four? Not a lot. But I'm afraid this is the way it has to be done. I'm sorry. You did say you wanted me—'
'Well, I vote we just cuts their throats right now,' said Boy Willie. 'I can't be having with this prisoner business either. I mean, who's gonna feed them?'
'I'm afraid you have to.'
'Who me? Not likely! I vote we make them eat their own eyeballs. Hands up all in favour.' There was a chorus of assent from the Horde and, among the raised hands, Cohen noticed one belonging to Nine Orange Trees. 'What you voting for, lad?' he said. 'Please, sir, I would like to go to the lavatory.'
'You listen to me, you lot,' said Cohen. 'This slaughtering and butchering business isn't how you do it these days, right? That's what Mr Saveloy says and he knows how to spell words like “marmalade” which is more than you do. Now, we know why we're here, and we'd better start as we mean to go on.'
'Yeah, but you just killed that guard,' said Truckle. 'I'm breaking myself in,' said Cohen. 'You've got to creep up on civilization a bit at a time.'
'I still say we should cut their heads off. That's what I did to the Mad Demon-Sucking Priests of Ee!' The kneeling guard had cautiously raised his hand again. 'Please, master?'
'Yes, lad?'
'You could lock us up in that cell over there. Then we wouldn't be any trouble to anyone.'
'Good thinking,' said Cohen. 'Good lad. The boy keeps his head in a crisis. Lock 'em up.' Thirty seconds later the Horde had limped off, into the city. The guards sat in the cramped, hot cell. Eventually one said, 'What were they?'
'I think they might have been ancestors.'
'I thought you had to be dead to be an ancestor.'
'The one in the wheelchair looked dead. Right up to the point where he stabbed Four White Fox.'
'Should we shout for help?' They might hear us.'
'Yes, but if we don't get let out we'll be stuck in here. And the walls are very thick and the door is very strong.'
'Good.' Rincewind stopped running in some alley somewhere. He hadn't bothered to see if they'd followed him. It was true - here, with one mighty bound, you could be free. Provided you realized it was one of your options. Freedom did, of course, include man's age-old right to starve to death. It seemed a long time since his last proper meal. The voice erupted further down the alley, as if on cue. 'Rice cakes! Rice cakes! Get chore nice rice cakes! Tea! Hundred-Year-Old Eggs! Eggs! Get them while they're nice and vintage! Get chore - Yeah, what is it?' An elderly man had approached the salesman. 'Dibhala-san! This egg you sold me—'
'What about it, venerable squire?'
'Would you care to smell it?' The street vendor took a sniff. 'Ah, yes, lovely,' he said. 'Lovely? Lovely? This egg,' said the customer, 'this egg is practically fresh!'
'Hundred years old if it's a day, shogun,' said the vendor happily. 'Look at the colour of that shell, nice and black—'
'It rubs off!'
Rincewind listened. There was, he thought, probably something in the idea that there were only a few people in the world. There were lots of bodies, but only a few people. That's why you kept running into the same ones. There was probably some mould somewhere. 'You saying my produce is fresh! May I disembowel myself honourably! Look, I'll tell you what I'll do—' Yes, there seemed to be something familiar and magical about that trader. Someone had come to complain about a fresh egg, and yet within a couple of minutes he'd somehow been talked into forgetting this and purchasing two rice cakes and something strange wrapped in leaves. The rice cakes looked nice. Well . . . nicer than the other things. Rincewind sidled over. The trader was idly jigging from one foot to the other and whistling under his breath, but he stopped and gave Rincewind a big, honest, friendly grin. 'Nice ancient egg, shogun?' The bowl in the middle of the tray was full of gold coins. Rincewind's heart sank. The price of one of Mr Dibhala's foul eggs would have bought a street in Ankh-Morpork. 'I suppose you don't give . . . credit?' he suggested. Dibhala gave him a Look. 'I'll pretend I never heard that, shogun,' he said. 'Tell me,' said Rincewind. 'Do you know if you have any relatives overseas?' This got him another look - a sideways one, full of sudden appraisal. 'What? There's nothing but evil blood-sucking ghosts beyond the seas. Everyone knows that, shogun. I'm surprised you don't.'
'Ghosts?' said Rincewind. 'Trying to get here, do us harm,' said Disembowel-Meself-Honourably. 'Maybe even steal our merchandise. Give 'em a dose of the old firecracker, that's what I say. They don't like a good loud bang, ghosts.' He gave Rincewind another look, even longer and more calculating. 'Where you from, shogun?' he asked, and his voice suddenly had the little barbed edge of suspicion. 'Bes Pelargic,' said Rincewind quickly. 'That ex-plains my strange accent and mannerisms that might otherwise lead people to think I was some sort of foreigner,' he added. 'Oh, Bes Pelargic,' said Disembowel-Meself-Honourably. 'Well, in that case, I expect you know my old friend Five Tongs who lives in the Street of Heavens, yes?'