Interesting Times d-17

by Terry Pratchett

  "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?"

  Rincewind was ready for this old trick.

  "No," he said. "Never heard of him, never heard of the street."

  Disembowel-Meself-Honourably Dibhala grinned happily. "If I yell 'foreign devil' loud enough you won't get three steps," he said in conversational tones. "The guards will drag you off to the Forbidden City where there's this special thing they do with—"

  "I've heard about it," said Rincewind.

  "Five Tongs has been the district commissioner for three years and the Street of Heavens is the man street," said Disembowel-Meself-Honourably. "I've always wanted to meet a blood-sucking foreign ghost. Have a rice cake."

  Rincewind's gaze darted this way and that. But strangely enough the situation didn't seem dangerous, or at least inevitably dangerous. It seemed that danger was negotiable.

  "Supposing I was to admit I was from behind the Wall?" he said, keeping his voice as low as possible.

  Dibhala nodded. One hand reached into his robe and, in a quick movement, revealed and then concealed the corner of something which Rincewind was not entirely surprised to see was entitled WHAT I DID…

  "Some people say that beyond the Wall there's nothing but deserts and burning wastes and evil ghosts and terrible monsters," said Dibhala, "but I say what about the merchandizing opportunities? A man with the right contacts… Know what I mean, shogun? He could go a long way in the land of blood-sucking ghosts."

  Rincewind nodded. He didn't like to point out that if you turned up in Ankh-Morpork with a handful of gold then about three hundred people would turn up with a handful of steel.

  "The way I see it, what with all this uncertainty about the Emperor and talk of rebels and that — Long Live His Excellency The Son Of Heaven, of course — there might just be a nitch for the open-minded trader, am I right?"

  "Nitch?"

  "Nitch. Like… we've got this stuff" — he leaned closer — "comes out of a caterpillar's [unidentified pictogram]. 'S called… silk. It's—"

  "Yes, I know. We get it from Klatch," said Rincewind.

  "Or, well, there's this bush, see, you dry the leaves but then you put it in hot water and you drin—"

  "Tea, yes," said Rincewind. "That comes from Howondaland."

  D. M. H. Dibhala looked taken aback.

  "Well… we've got this powder, you put it in rubes—"

  "Fireworks? Got fireworks."

  "How about this really fine china, it's so—"

  "In Ankh-Morpork we've got dwarfs that can make china you can read a book through," said Rincewind. "Even if it's got tiny footnotes in it."

  Dibhala frowned.

  "Sounds like you are very clever blood-sucking ghosts," he said, backing away. "Maybe it's true and you are dangerous."

  "Us? Don't worry about us," said Rincewind. "We hardly ever kill foreigners in Ankh-Morpork. It makes it so hard to sell them things afterwards."

  "What've we got that you want, though? Go on, have a rice cake. On the pagoda. Wanna try some pork balls? Onna chopstick?"

  Rincewind selected a cake. He didn't like to ask about the other stuff.

  "You've got gold," he said.

  "Oh, gold. It's too soft to do much with," said Dibhala. "It's all right for pipes and putting on roofs, though."

  "Oh… I daresay people in Ankh-Morpork could find a use for some," said Rincewind. His gaze returned to the coins in Dibhala's tray.

  A land whe
re gold was as cheap as lead…

  "What's that?" he said, pointing to a crumpled rectangle half covered with coins.

  D. M. H. Dibhala looked down. "It's this thing we have here," he said, speaking slowly. "Of course, it's probably all new to you. It's called money. It's a way of carrying around your—"

  "I meant the bit of paper," said Rincewind.

  "So did I," said Dibhala. "That's a ten-rhinu note."

  "What does that mean?" said Rincewind.

  "Means what it says," said Dibhala. "Means it's worth ten of these." He held up a gold coin about the size of a rice cake.

  "Why'd you want to buy a piece of paper?" said Rincewind.

  "You don't buy it, it's for buying things with," said Dibhala.

  Rincewind looked blank.

  "You go to a market stall," said Dibhala, getting back into the slow-voice-for-the-hard-of-thinking, "and you say, 'Good morning, butcher, how much for those dog noses?' and he says, 'Three rhinu, shogun,' and you say, 'I've only got a pony, OK?' (look, there's an etching of a pony on it, see, that's what you get on ten-rhinu notes) and he gives you the dog noses and seven coins in what we call 'change'. Now, if you had a monkey, that's fifty rhinu, he'd say 'Got anything smaller?' and—"

  "But it's only a bit of paper!" Rincewind wailed.

  "It may be a bit of paper to you but it's ten rice cakes to me," said Dibhala. "What do you foreign bloodsuckers use? Big stones with holes in them?"

  Rincewind stared at the paper money.

  There were dozens of papermills in Ankh-Morpork, and some of the craftsmen in the Engravers' Guild could engrave their name and address on a pinhead.

  He suddenly felt immensely proud of his countrymen. They might be venal and greedy, but by heaven they were good at it and they never assumed that there wasn't any more to learn.

  "I think you'll find," he said, "that there's a lot of buildings in Ankh-Morpork that need new roofs."

  "Really?" said Dibhala.

  "Oh, yes. The rain's just pouring in."

  "And people can pay? Only I heard—"

  Rincewind looked at the paper money again. He shook his head. Worth more than gold…

  "They'll pay with notes at least as good as that," he said. "Probably even better. I'll put in a good word for you. And now," he added hurriedly, "which way is out?"

  Dibhala scratched his head.

  "Could be a bit tricky," he said. "There's armies outside. You look a bit foreign with that hat. Could be tricky—"

  There was a commotion further along the alley or, rather, a general increase in the commotion. The crowd parted in that hurried way common to unarmed crowds in the presence of weaponry, and a group of guards hurried towards Disembowel-Meself-Honourably.

  He stepped back and gave them the friendly grin of one happy to sell at a discount to anyone with a knife.

  A limp figure was being dragged between two of the guards. As it went past it raised a slightly bloodstained head and said, "Extended Duration to the—" before a gloved fist smacked across its mouth.

  And then the guards were heading down the street. The crowd flowed back.

  "Tch, tch," said D. M. H. "Seems to be — Hello? Where'd you go?"

  Rincewind reappeared from around a corner. D. M. H. looked impressed. There had actually been a small thunderclap when Rincewind moved.

  "See they got another of 'em," he said. Tutting up wall posters again, I expect."

  "Another one of who?" said Rincewind.

  "Red Army. Huh!"

  "Oh."

  "I don't pay much attention," said D. M. H. "They say some old legend's going to come true about emperors and stuff. Can't see it myself."

  "He didn't look very legendary," said Rincewind.

  "Ach, some people will believe anything."

  "What'll happen to him?"

  "Difficult to say, with the Emperor about to die. Hands and feet cut off, probably."

  "What? Why?"

  "'Cos he's young. That's leniency. A bit older and it's his head on a spike over one of the gates."

  "That's punishment for putting up a poster?"

  "Stops 'em doing it again, see," said D. M. H.

  Rincewind backed away.

  "Thank you," he said, and hurried off.

  "Oh, no," he said, pushing his way through the crowds. "I'm not getting mixed up in people's heads getting chopped off—"

  And then someone hit him again. But politely.

  As he sank to his knees, and then to his chin, he wondered what had happened to the good, old-fashioned 'Hey, you!'

  The Silver Horde wandered through the alleys of Hunghung.

  "I don't call this bloody well sweeping through a city, slaughtering every bugger," muttered Truckle. "When I was riding with Bruce the Hoon, we never walked in through a front gate like a bunch of soppy mother—"

  "Mr Uncivil," said Mr Saveloy hurriedly, "I wonder if this might be a good time to refer you to that list I drew up for you?"

  "What bloody list?" said Truckle, sticking out his jaw belligerently.

  "The list of acceptable civilized words, yes?" He turned to the others. "Remember I was telling you about civilized be-hav-iour. Civilized behaviour is vital to our long-term strategy."

  "What's a long-term strategy?" said Caleb the Ripper.

  "It's what we're going to do later," said Cohen.

  "And what's that, then?"

  "It's the Plan," said Cohen.

  "Well, I'll be f—" Truckle began.

  "The list, Mr Uncivil, only the words on the list," snapped Mr Saveloy. "Listen, I bow to your expertise when it comes to crossing wildernesses, but this is civilization and you must use the right words. Please?"

  "Better do what he says, Truckle," said Cohen.

  With bad grace, Truckle fished a grubby piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it.

  "'Dang'?" he said. "Wassat mean? And what's this 'darn' and 'heck'?"

  "They are… civilized swearwords," said Mr Saveloy.

  "Well, you can take 'em and—"

  "Ah?" said Mr Saveloy, raising a cautionary finger.

  "You can shove them up—"

  "Ah?"

  "You can—"

  "Ah?"

  Truckle shut his eyes and clenched his fists.

  "Dang it all to heck!" he shouted.

  "Good," said Mr Saveloy. "That's much better."

  He turned to Cohen, who was grinning happily at Truckle's discomfort.

  "Cohen," he said, "there's an apple stall over there. Do you fancy an apple?"

  "Yeah, might do," Cohen conceded, in the cautious manner of someone giving a conjuror his watch while remaining aware that the man is grinning and holding a hammer.

  "Right. Now, then, cla— I mean, gentlemen. Ghenghiz wants an apple. There's a stall over there selling fruit and nuts. What does he do?" Mr Saveloy looked hopefully at his charges. "Anyone? Yes?"

  "Easy. You kill that little" — there was a rustle of unfolding paper again — "chap behind the stall, then—"

  "No, Mr Uncivil. Anyone else?"

  "Whut?"

  "You set fire to—"

  "No, Mr Vincent. Anyone else…?"

  "You rape—"

  "No, no, Mr Ripper," said Mr Saveloy. "We take out some muh — muh—?" He looked at them expectantly.

  "—money—" chorused the Horde.

  "—and we… What do we do? Now, we've gone through this hundreds of times. We…"

  This was the difficult bit. The Horde's lined faces creased and puckered still further as they tried to force their minds out of the chasms of habit.

  "Gi…?" said Cohen hesitantly. Mr Saveloy gave him a big smile and a nod of encouragement.

  "Give?… it… to…" Cohen's lips tensed around the word "… him?"

  "Yes! Well done. In exchange for the apple. We'll talk about making change and saying 'thank you' later on, when you're ready for it. Now then, Cohen, here's the coin. Off you go."

  Cohen wiped his forehead. He was beg
inning to sweat.

  "How about if I just cut him up a bit—"

  "No! This is civilization."

  Cohen nodded uncomfortably. He threw back his shoulders and walked over to the stall, where the apple merchant, who had been eyeing the group suspiciously, nodded at him.

  Cohen's eyes glazed and his lips moved silently, as if he were rehearsing a script. Then he said:

  "Ho, fat merchant, give me all your… one apple… and I will give you… this coin…"

  He looked around. Mr Saveloy had his thumb up.

  "You want an apple, is that it?" said the apple merchant.

  "Yes!"

  The apple merchant selected one. Cohen's sword had been hidden in the wheelchair again but the merchant, in response to some buried acknowledgement, made sure it was a good apple. Then he took the coin. This proved a little difficult, since his customer seemed loath to let go of it.

  "Come on, hand it over, venerable one," he said.

  Seven crowded seconds passed.

  Then, when they were safely around the corner, Mr Saveloy said, "Now, everyone: who can tell me what Ghenghiz did wrong?"

  "Didn't say please?"

  "Whut?"

  "No."

  "Didn't say thank you?"

  "Whut?"

  "No."

  "Hit the man over the head with a melon and thumped him into the strawberries and kicked him in the nuts and set fire to his stall and stole all the money?"

  "Whut?"

  "Correct!" Mr Saveloy sighed. "Ghenghiz, you were doing so well up to then."

  "He didn't ort to have called me what he did!"

  "But 'venerable' means old and wise, Ghenghiz."

  "Oh. Does it?"

  "Yes."

  "We-ell… I did leave him the money for the apple."

  "Yes, but, you see, I do believe you took all his other money."

  "But I paid for the apple," said Cohen, rather testily.

  Mr Saveloy sighed. "Ghenghiz, I do rather get the impression that several thousand years of the patient development of fiscal propriety have somewhat passed you by."

  "Come again?"

  "It is possible sometimes for money to legitimately belong to other people," said Mr Saveloy patiently.

  The Horde paused to wrap their minds around this, too. It was, of course, something they knew to be true in theory. Merchants always had money. But it seemed wrong to think of it as belonging to them; it belonged to whoever took it off them. Merchants didn't actually own it, they were just looking after it until it was needed.