'Shame on Herb to suggest such a thing!'
'Shame,' Rincewind agreed. 'Besides, he will need all of his power to enter the Forbidden City,' said Butterfly. Rincewind found himself hating the sound of her voice. 'Forbidden City,' he murmured. 'Everyone knows there are terrible snares and traps and many, many guards.'
'Snares, traps . . .'
'Why, if his magic should fail him because he did tricks for Herb, he would find himself in the deepest dungeon, dying by inches.'
'Inches . . . er . . . which particular inch—'
'So much shame to Two Fire Herb!' Rincewind gave her a sickly grin. 'Actually,' he said, 'I'm not that great. I'm a bit great,' he added quickly, as Butterfly began to frown, but not very great—'
'The writings of the Master say that you defeated many powerful enchanters and resolutely succeeded in dangerous situations.' Rincewind nodded glumly. It was more or less true. But most of the time he hadn't intended to. Whereas the Forbidden City had looked . . . well . . . forbidden. It didn't look inviting. It didn't look as though it sold postcards. The only souvenir they were likely to give you would be, perhaps, your teeth. In a bag. 'Er . . . I expect this Oxen lad is in some deep dungeon, yes?'
'The deepest,' said Two Fire Herb. 'And . . . you've never seen anyone again? Who's been taken prisoner, I mean.'
'We have seen bits of them,' said Lotus Blossom. 'Usually their heads,' said Two Fire Herb. 'On spikes over the gates.'
'But not Three Yoked Oxen,' said Lotus Blossom firmly. 'The Great Wizard has spoken!'
'Actually, I'm not sure I actually said—'
'You have spoken,' said Butterfly firmly. As Rincewind got accustomed to the gloom he realized that he was in some storeroom or cellar; the noise of the city came, rather muffled, from grilles near the ceiling. It was half full of barrels and bundles, and every one of them was a perch for someone. The room was crowded. The people were watching him with expressions of rapt attention, but that wasn't the only thing they had in common. Rincewind turned right around. 'Who are all these children?' he said. 'This,' said Lotus Blossom, 'is the Hunghung cadre of the Red Army.' Two Fire Herb snorted. 'Why did you tell him that?' he said. 'Now we may have to kill him.'
'But they're all so young!'
'They may be underprivileged in years,' said Two Fire Herb, 'but they are ancient in courage and honour.'
'And experienced in fighting?' said Rincewind hotly. 'The guards I've seen do not look like nice people. I mean, do you even have any weapons?'
'We will wrest the weapons we need from our enemies!' said Two Fire Herb. A cheer went up. 'Really? How do you actually make them let go?' said Rincewind. He pointed to a very small girl, who leaned away from his digit as though it were loaded. She looked about seven and was holding a toy rabbit. 'What's your name?'
'One Favourite Pearl, Great Wizard!'
'And what do you do in the Red Army?'
'I have earned a medal for putting up of wall posters, Great Wizard.''
'What. . . like “Slightly Bad Things Please Happen To Our Enemies”? That sort of thing?'
'Er . . .' said the girl, looking imploringly at Butterfly.
'Rebellion is not easy for us,' said the older girl. 'We don't have . . . experience.'
'Well, I'm here to tell you that you don't do it by singing songs and putting up posters and fighting bare-handed,' said Rincewind. 'Not when you're up against real people with real weapons. You . . .' His voice trailed away as he realized that a hundred pairs of eyes were watching him intently, and two hundred ears were carefully listening. He played back his own words in the echo chamber of his head. He'd said, 'I'm here to tell you . . .' He spread out his hands and waved them frantically. '. . . that is, it's not up to me to tell you anything,' he said. That is correct,' said Two Fire Herb. 'We will overcome because history is on our side.'
'We will overcome because the Great Wizard is on our side,' said Butterfly sharply. 'I'll tell you this!' shouted Rincewind. 'I'd rather trust me than history! Oh, shit, did I just say that?'
'So you will help Three Yoked Oxen,' said Butterfly. 'Please!' said Lotus Blossom. Rincewind looked at her, and the tears in the corners of her eyes, and the bunch of awed teenagers who really thought that you could beat an army by singing rousing songs. There was only one thing he could do, if he really thought about it. He could play along for now and then get the hell out of it at the very first opportunity. Butterfly's anger was bad, but a spike was a spike. Of course, he'd feel a bit of a heel for a while, but that was the point. He'd feel a heel, but he wouldn't feel a spike. The world had too many heroes and didn't need another one. Whereas the world had only one Rince-wind and he owed it to the world to keep this one alive for as long as possible. There was an inn. There was a courtyard. There was a corral, for the Luggages. There were large travelling trunks, big enough to carry the needs of an entire household for a fortnight. There were merchants' sample cases, mere square boxes oh crude legs. There were sleek overnight bags. They shuffled aimlessly in their pen. Occasionally there was the rattle of a handle or the creak of a hinge, and once or twice the snap of a lid and the bonk-bonk-bonk of boxes trying to get out of the way. Three of them were big and covered with studded leather. They looked the kind of travelling accessories that hang around outside cheap hotels and make suggestive remarks to handbags.
The object of their attention was a rather smaller trunk with an inlaid lid and dainty feet. It had already backed into a corner as far as it could go. A large spiked lid creaked open a couple of times as the largest of the boxes edged closer. The smaller box had retreated so far its back legs were trying to climb the corral fence. There was the sound of running feet on the other side of the courtyard wall. They got closer, and then stopped abruptly. Then there was a twang such as would be made by an object landing on the taut roof of a cart. For a moment, against the rising moon, there was the shape of something somersaulting slowly through the evening air. It landed heavily in front of the three big chests, bounced upright and charged. Eventually various travellers spilled out into the night but by then items of clothing were strewn and trampled around the courtyard. Three black chests, battered and scarred, were discovered on the roof, each one scrabbling on the tiles and butting the others in an effort to be the highest. Others had panicked and broken down the wall and headed out across the country. Eventually, all but one of them were found. The Horde were feeling quite proud of themselves when they sat down for dinner. They acted, Mr Saveloy thought, rather like boys who'd just got their first pair of long trousers. Which they had done. Each man had one baggy pair of same, plus a long grey robe. 'We've been shopping,' said Caleb proudly. 'Paying for things with money. We're dressed up like civilized people.'
'Yes indeed,' said Mr Saveloy indulgently. He was hoping that they could all get through this without the Horde finding out what kind of civilized people they were dressed up as. As it was, the beards were a problem. The kind of people who wore these kind of clothes in the Forbidden City didn't usually have beards. They were proverbial for not having them. Actually, they were more properly proverbial for not having other things but, as a sort of consequence of this lack, also for not having beards. Cohen shifted. 'Itchy,' he said. 'This is pants, is it? Never worn 'em before. Same with shirts. What good's a shirt that's not chain mail?'
'We did very well, though,' said Caleb. He had even had a shave, obliging the barber, for the first time in his experience, to use a chisel. He kept rubbing his naked, baby-pink chin.