Interesting Times d-17

by Terry Pratchett

  "It may be delayed action," he ventured, as they gripped harder.

  "Alternatively, would you be interested in hearing a famous quotation?" he said. His feet were lifted off the ground. "Or perhaps not?" Rincewind, running absent-mindedly in mid-air, was brought in front of the officer.

  "On your knees, rebel!" said the officer.

  "I'd like to, but—"

  "I saw what you did to Captain Four White Fox!"

  "What? Who's he?"

  "Take… him… to… the… Emperor."

  As he was dragged off Rincewind saw, for one brief moment, the guards closing on the Red Army, swords flashing…

  A metal plate shuddered for a moment, and then dropped on the floor.

  "Careful!"

  "I ain't used to being careful! Bruce the Hoon wasn't care—"

  "Shut up about Bruce the Hoon!"

  "Well, dang you too!"

  "Whut?"

  "Anyone out there?"

  Cohen stuck his head out of the pipe. The room was dark, damp and full of pipes and runnels. Water went off in every direction to feed fountains and cisterns.

  "No," he said, in a disappointed voice.

  "Very well. Everyone out of the pipe."

  There was some echoey swearing and the scrape of metal as Hamish's wheelchair was manoeuvred into the long, low cellar.

  Mr Saveloy lit a match as the Horde spread out and examined their surroundings.

  "Congratulations, gentlemen," he said. "I believe we are in the palace."

  "Yeah," said Truckle. "We've conquered a f— a lovemaking pipe. What good is that?"

  "We could rape it," said Caleb hopefully.

  "Hey, this wheel thing turns… "

  "What's a lovemaking pipe?"

  "What does this lever do?"

  "Whut?"

  "How about we find a door, rush out, and kill everyone?"

  Mr Saveloy closed his eyes. There was something familiar about this situation, and now he realized what it was. He'd once taken an entire class on a school trip to the city armoury. His right leg still hurt him on wet days.

  "No, no, no!" he said. "What good would that do? Boy Willie, please don't pull that lever."

  "Well, I'd feel better, for one," said Cohen. "Ain't killed anyone all day except a guard, and they hardly count."

  "Remember that we're here for theft, not murder," said Mr Saveloy. "Now, please, out of all that wet leather and into your nice new clothes."

  "I don't like this part," said Cohen, pulling on a shirt. "I like people to know who I was."

  "Yeah," said Boy Willie. "Without our leather and mail people'll just think we're a load of old men."

  "Exactly," said Mr Saveloy. "That is part of the subterfuge."

  "Is that like tactics?" said Cohen.

  "Yes."

  "All right, but I don't like it," said Old Vincent. "S'posing we win? What kind of song will the minstrels sing about people who invaded through a pipe?"

  "An echoey one," said Boy Willie.

  "They won't sing anything like that," said Cohen firmly. "You pay a minstrel enough, he'll sing whatever you want."

  A flight of damp steps led to a door. Mr Saveloy was already at the top, listening.

  "That's right," said Caleb. "They say that whoever pays the piper calls the tune."

  "But, gentlemen," said Mr Saveloy, his eyes bright, "whoever holds a knife to the piper's throat writes the symphony."

  The assassin moved slowly through Lord Hong's chambers.

  He was one of the best in Hunghung's small but very select guild, and he certainly was not a rebel. He disliked rebels. They were invariably poor people, and therefore unlikely to be customers.

  His mode of movement was unusual and cautious. It avoided the floor; Lord Hong was known to tune his floorboards. It made considerable use of furniture and decorative screens, and occasionally of the ceiling as well.

  And the assassin was very good at it. When a messenger entered the room through a distant door he froze for an instant, and then moved in perfect rhythm towards his quarry, letting the newcomer's clumsy footsteps mask his own.

  Lord Hong was making another sword. The folding of the metal and all the tedious yet essential bouts of heating and hammering were, he found, conducive to clear thinking. Too much pure cerebration was bad for the mind. Lord Hong liked to use his hands sometimes.

  He plunged the sword back into the furnace and pumped the bellows a few times.

  "Yes?" he said. The messenger looked up from his prone position near the floor.

  "Good news, o lord. We have captured the Red Army!"

  "Well, that is good news," said Lord Hong, watching the blade carefully for the change of colour. "Including the one they call the Great Wizard?"

  "Indeed! But he is not that great, o lord!" said the messenger.

  His cheerfulness faded when Lord Hong raised an eyebrow.

  "Really? On the contrary, I suspect him of being in possession of huge and dangerous powers."

  "Yes, o lord! I did not mean—"

  "See that they are all locked up. And send a message to Captain Five Hong Man to undertake the orders I gave him today."

  "Yes, o lord!"

  "And now, stand up!"

  The messenger stood up, trembling. Lord Hong pulled on a thick glove and reached for the sword handle. The furnace roared.

  "Chin up, man!"

  "My lord!"

  "Now open your eyes wide!"

  There was no need for that order. Lord Hong peered into the mask of terror, noted the flicker of movement, nodded, and then in one almost balletic movement pulled the spitting blade from the furnace, turned, thrust…

  There was a very brief scream, and a rather longer hiss.

  Lord Hong let the assassin sag. Then he tugged the sword free and inspected the steaming blade.

  "Hmm," he said. "Interesting…"

  He caught sight of the messenger.

  "Are you still here?"

  "No, my lord!"

  "See to it."

  Lord Hong turned the sword so that the light caught it, and examined the edge.

  "And, er, shall I send some servants to clear away the, er, body?"

  "What?" said Lord Hong, lost in thought.

  "The body, Lord Hong?"

  "What body? Oh. Yes. See to it."

  The walls were beautifully decorated. Even Rincewind noticed this, though they went past in a blur. Some had marvellous birds painted on them, or mountain scenes, or sprays of foliage, every leaf and bud done in exquisite detail with just a couple of brush strokes.

  Ceramic lions reared on marble pedestals. Vases bigger than Rincewind lined the corridors.

  Lacquered doors opened ahead of the guards. Rincewind was briefly aware of huge, ornate and empty rooms stretching away on either side.

  Finally they passed through yet another set of doors and he was flung down on a wooden floor.

  In these circumstances, he always found, it was best not to look up.

  Eventually an officious voice said, "What do you have to say for yourself, miserable louse?"

  "Well, I—"

  "Silence!"

  Ah. So it was going to be that kind of interview.

  A different voice, a cracked, breathless and elderly voice, said, "Where is the Grand… Vizier?"

  "He has retired to his rooms, O Great One. He said he had a headache."

  "Summon him at… once."

  "Certainly, O Great One."

  Rincewind, his nose pressed firmly to the floor, made some further assumptions. Grand Vizier was always a bad sign; it generally meant that people were going to suggest wild horses and red-hot chains. And when people were called things like 'O Great One', it was pretty certain that there was no appeal.

  "This is a… rebel, is it?" The sentence was wheezed rather than spoken.

  "Indeed, O Great One."

  "I think I would like a clo… ser look."

  There was a general murmur, suggesting that a number
of people had been greatly surprised, and then the sound of furniture being moved.

  Rincewind thought he saw a blanket on the edge of his vision. Someone was wheeling a bed across the floor…

  "Make it… stand up." The gurgle in the pause was like the last bathwater going down the plughole. It sucked as wetly as an outgoing wave.

  Once again a foot kicked Rincewind in the kidneys, making its usual explicit request in the Esperanto of brutality. He got up.

  It was a bed, and quite the biggest Rincewind had ever seen. In it, swathed in brocades and almost lost in pillows, was an old man. Rincewind had never seen anyone look so ill. The face was pale, with a greenish pallor; veins showed up under the skin of his hands like worms in a jar.

  The Emperor had all the qualifications for a corpse except, as it were, the most vital one.

  "So… this is the new Great Wizard of… whom we have read so much, is… it?" he said.

  When he spoke, people waited expectantly for the final gurgle in mid-sentence.

  "Well, I—" Rincewind began.

  "Silence!" screamed a chamberlain.

  Rincewind shrugged.

  He hadn't known what to expect of an Emperor, but the mental picture had room for a big fat man with lots of rings. Talking to this one was a hair's breadth from necromancy.

  "Can you show us some more… magic, Great Wizard?"

  Rincewind glanced at the chamberlain.

  "W—"

  "Silence!"

  The Emperor waved a hand vaguely, gurgled with the effort, and gave Rincewind another enquiring look. Rincewind decided to chance things.

  "I've got a good one," he said. "It's a vanishing trick."

  "Can you… do it now?"

  "Only if everyone opens all the doors and turns their back."

  The Emperor's expression did not change. The court fell silent. Then there was a sound like a number of small rabbits being choked to death.

  The Emperor was laughing. Once this was established, everyone else laughed too. No-one can get a laugh like a man who can have you put to death more easily than he goes to the lavatory.

  "What shall we do with… you?" he said. "Where is the… Grand… Vizier?"

  The crowd parted.

  Rincewind risked a sideways squint. Once you were in the hands of a Grand Vizier, you were dead. Grand Viziers were always scheming megalomaniacs. It was probably in the job description: 'Are you a devious, plotting, unreliable madman? Ah, good, then you can be my most trusted minister.'

  "Ah, Lord… Hong," said the Emperor.

  "Mercy?" suggested Rincewind.

  "Silence!" screamed the chamberlain.

  "Tell me, Lord… Hong," said the ancient Emperor. "What would be the punishment for a… foreigner… entering the Forbidden City?"

  "Removal of all limbs, ears and eyes, and then allowed to go free," said Lord Hong.

  Rincewind raised his hand.

  "First offence?" he said.

  "Silence!"

  "We find, generally, that there is no second offence," said Lord Hong. "What is this person?"

  "I like him," said the Emperor. "I think I shall… keep him. He makes me… laugh."

  Rincewind opened his mouth.

  "Silence!" screamed the chamberlain, perhaps unwisely in view of current thinking.

  "Er… could you stop him shouting 'Silence!' every time I try to speak?" Rincewind ventured.

  "Certainly… Great Wizard," said the Emperor. He nodded at some guards. "Take the chamberlain… away and cut his… lips off."

  "Great One, I—!"

  "And his ears… also."

  The wretched man was dragged away. A pair of lacquered doors slammed shut. There was a round of applause from the courtiers.

  "Would you… like to watch him eat… them?" said the Emperor grinning happily. "It's tre… mendous fun."

  "Ahahaha," said Rincewind.

  "A good decision, lord," said Lord Hong. He turned his head towards Rincewind.

  To the wizard's immense surprise, and some horror too, he winked.

  "O Great One…" said a plump courtier, dropping to his knees, bouncing slightly, and then nervously approaching the Emperor, "I wonder if perhaps it is entirely wise to be so merciful to this foreign dev—"

  The Emperor looked down. Rincewind would have sworn that dust fell off him.

  There was a gentle movement among the crowd. Without anyone apparently doing anything so gross as activating their feet, there was nevertheless a widening space around the kneeling man.

  Then the Emperor smiled.

  "Your concern is well… received," he said. The courtier risked a relieved grin. The Emperor added, "However, your presumption is not. Kill him slowly… over several… days."

  "Aaargh!"

  "Yes in… deed! Lots of boiling… oil!"

  "An excellent idea, o lord," said Lord Hong.

  The Emperor turned back to Rincewind.

  "I am sure the… Great Wizard is my friend," he suctioned.

  "Ahahaha," said Rincewind.

  He'd been in this approximate position before, gods knew. But he'd always been facing someone — well, usually someone who looked like Lord Hong, not a near-corpse who was clearly so far round the bend he couldn't poke sanity with a long pole.

  "We shall have such… fun," said the Emperor. "I read… all about you."

  "Ahahaha," said Rincewind.

  The Emperor waved a hand at the court again.

  "Now I will retire," he said. There was a general movement and much ostensible yawning. Clearly no one stayed up later than the Emperor.

  "Emperor," said Lord Hong wearily, "what will you have us do with this Great Wizard of yours?"

  The old man gave Rincewind the look a present gets around the time the batteries have run out.

  "Put him in the special… dungeon," he said. "For…ow."

  "Yes, Emperor," said Lord Hong. He nodded at a couple of guards.

  Rincewind managed a quick look back as he was dragged from the room. The Emperor was lying back in his movable bed, quite oblivious to him.

  "Is he mad or what?" he said.

  "Silence!"

  Rincewind looked up at the guard who'd said that.

  "A mouth like that could get a man into big trouble around here," he muttered.

  Lord Hong always found himself depressed by the general state of humanity. It often seemed to him to be flawed. There was no concentration. Take the Red Army. If he had been a rebel the Emperor would have been assassinated months ago and the country would now be aflame, except for those bits too damp to burn. But these? Despite his best efforts, their idea of revolutionary activity was a surreptitious wall poster saying something like 'Unpleasantness To Oppressors When Convenient!'

  They had tried to set fire to guardhouses. That was good. That was proper revolutionary activity, except for the bit where they tried to make an appointment first. It had taken Lord Hong some considerable effort to see that the Red Army appeared to achieve any victories at all.

  Well, he'd given them the Great Wizard they so sincerely believed in. They had no excuse now. And by the look of him, the wretch was as craven and talentless as Lord Hong had hoped. Any army led by him would either flee or be slaughtered, leaving the way open for the counter-revolution.

  The counter-revolution would not be inefficient. Lord Hong would see to that.

  But things had to be done one step at a time. There were enemies everywhere. Suspicious enemies. The path of the ambitious man was a nightingale floor. One wrong step and it would sing out. It was a shame the Great Wizard would turn out to be so good at locks. Lord Tang's men were guarding the prison block tonight. Of course, if the Red Army were to escape, no blame at all could possibly attach to Lord Tang…

  Lord Hong risked a little chuckle to himself as he strode back to his suite. Proof, that was the thing. There must never be proof. But that wouldn't matter very long. There was nothing like a fearsomely huge war to unite people, and the fact that the Gr
eat Wizard — that is, the leader of the terrible rebel army — was an evil foreign troublemaker was just the spark to light the firecracker.

  And then… Ankh-Morpork [urinating dog].

  Hunghung was old. The culture was based on custom, the alimentary tract of the common water buffalo, and base treachery. Lord Hong was in favour of all three, but they did not add up to world domination, and Lord Hong was particularly in favour of that, provided it was achieved by Lord Hong.

  If I was the traditional type of Grand Vizier, he thought as he sat down before his tea table, I'd cackle with laughter at this point.

  He smiled to himself, instead.

  Time for the box again? No. Some things were all the better for the anticipation.

  Mad Hamish's wheelchair caused a few heads to turn, but no actual comment. Undue curiosity was not a survival trait in Hunghung. They just got on with their work, which appeared to be the endless carrying of stacks of paper along the corridors.

  Cohen looked down at what was in his hand. Over the decades he'd fought with many weapons — swords, of course, and bows and spears and clubs and… well, now he came to think of it, just about anything.

  Except this…

  "I still don't like it," said Truckle. "Why're we carrying pieces of paper?"

  "Because no-one looks at you in a place like this if you're carrying a piece of paper," said Mr Saveloy.

  "Why?"

  "Whut?"

  "It's — a kind of magic."

  "I'd feel happier if it was a weapon."

  "As a matter of fact, it can be the greatest weapon there is."

  "I know, I've just cut myself on my bit," said Boy Willie, sucking his finger.

  "Whut?"

  "Look at it like this, gentlemen," said Mr Saveloy. "Here we are, actually inside the Forbidden City, and no-one is dead!"

  "Yes. That's what we're… dunging… complaining about," said Truckle.

  Mr Saveloy sighed. There was something in the way Truckle used words. It didn't matter what he actually said, what you heard was in some strange way the word he actually meant. He could turn the air blue just by saying 'socks'.

  The door slammed shut behind Rincewind, and there was the sound of a bolt shooting into place.

  The Empire's jails were pretty much like the ones at home. When you want to incarcerate such an ingenious creature as the common human being, you tend to rely on the good old-fashioned iron bar and large amounts of stone. It looked as though this well-tried pattern had been established here for a very long time.