After the stampede the artist Three Solid Frogs got to his feet, retrieved his brush from his nostril, pulled his easel out of a tree, and tried to think placid thoughts.

The garden was not what it had been.

The willow tree was bent. The pagoda had been demolished by an out-of-control wrestler, who had eaten the roof. The doves had flown. The little bridge had been broken. His model, the concubine Jade Fan, had run off crying after she’d managed to scramble out of the ornamental pond.

And someone had stolen his straw hat.

Three Solid Frogs adjusted what remained of his dress and endeavored to compose himself.

The plate with his sketch on had been smashed, of course.

He pulled another one out of his bag and reached for his palette.

There was a huge footprint in the middle of it…

He wanted to cry. He’d had such a good feeling about this picture. He just knew it would be one that people would remember for a long time. And the colors? Did anyone understand how much vermilion cost these days?

He pulled himself together. So there was only blue left. Well, he’d show them…

He tried to ignore the devastation in front of him and concentrated on the picture in his mind.

“Let me see, now,” he thought. “Jade Fan being pursued over a bridge by man waving his arms and screaming, ‘Get out of the way!’ followed by man with prod, three guards, five laundry men, and a wrestler unable to stop.”

He had to simplify it a bit, of course.

The pursuers rounded a corner, except for the wrestler, who wasn’t built for such a difficult maneuver.

“Where’d he go?”

They were in a courtyard. There were pigsties on one side, and middens on the other.

And, in the middle of the courtyard, a pointy hat.

One of the guards reached out and grabbed a colleague’s arm before the man stepped forward.

“Steady now,” he said.

“It’s just a hat.”

“So where’s the rest of him? He couldn’t have just…disappeared…into…”

They backed away.

“You heard about him too?”

“They said he blew a hole in the wall just by waving his hands!”

“That’s nothing! I heard he appeared on an invisible dragon up in the mountains!”

“What shall we tell Lord Hong?”

“I don’t want to be blown to pieces!”

“I don’t want to tell Lord Hong we lost him. We’re in enough trouble already. And I’ve only just paid for this helmet.”

“Well…we could take the hat. That’d be evidence.”

“Right. You pick it up.”

“Me? You pick it up!”

“It might be surrounded by terrible spells.”

“Really? So it’s all right for me to touch it? Thank you! Get one of them to pick it up!”

The laundry men backed away, the Hunghungese habit of obedience evaporating like morning dew. The soldiers weren’t the only ones to have heard rumors.

“Not us!”

“Got a rush order for socks!”

The guard turned. A peasant was stumbling out of one of the pigsties, carrying a sack, his face covered by his big straw hat.

“Hey, you!”

The man dropped to his knees and banged his head on the ground.

“Don’t kill me!”

The guards exchanged a glance.

“We ain’t going to kill you,” said one of them. “We just want you to try and pick up that hat over there.”

“What hat, o mighty warrior?”

“That hat there! Right now!”

The man crawled crabwise across the cobbles.

“This hat, o great lord?”

“Yes!”

The man’s fingers crept over the stones and prodded the hat’s ragged brim.

Then he screamed.

“Your wife is a big hippo! My face is melting! My face is meltinnnnggg!”

Rincewind waited until the sound of fleeing sandals had quite faded, and then stood up, dusted off his hat, and put it in the sack.

That had gone a lot better than he’d expected. So there was another valuable thing to know about the Empire: no one looked at peasants. It must be the clothes and the hat. No one but the common people dressed like that, so anyone dressed like that must be a common person. It was the advertising principle of a wizard’s hat, but in reverse. You were careful and polite around people in a pointy hat, in case they took a very physical offense, whereas someone in a big straw hat was a suitable target for a “Hey, you!” and a—

It was at exactly this point that someone behind him shouted, “Hey, you!” and hit Rincewind across the shoulders with a stick.

The irate face of a servant appeared in front of him. The man waved a finger in front of Rincewind’s nose.

“You are late! You are a bad man! Get inside right now!”

“I—”

The stick hit Rincewind again. The servant pointed at a distant doorway.

“Insolence! Shame! Go to work!”

Rincewind’s brain prepared the words: Oh, so we think we’re Clever-san just because we’ve got a big stick, do we? Well, I happen to be a great wizard and you know what you can do with your big stick.

Somewhere between the brain and his mouth they became:

“Yessir! Right away!”

The Horde were left alone.

“Well, gentlemen, we did it,” said Mr. Saveloy eventually. “You have the world on a plate.”

“All the treasure we want,” said Truckle.

“That’s right.”

“Let’s not hang around, then,” said Truckle. “Let’s get some sacks.”

“There’s no point,” said Mr. Saveloy. “You’d only be stealing from yourselves. This is an Empire. You don’t just shove it in a bag and divvy it up at the next campfire!”

“How about the ravishing?”

Mr. Saveloy sighed. “There are, I understand, three hundred concubines in the imperial harem. I’m sure they will be very pleased to see you, although matters will be improved if you take your boots off.”

The old men wore the puzzled look such as might be worn by fish trying to understand the concept of the bicycle.

“We ought to take just small stuff,” said Boy Willie at last. “Rubies and emeralds, for preference.”

“And chuck a match on the place as we go out,” said Vincent. “These paper walls and all this lacquered wood should go up a treat.”

“No, no, no!” said Mr. Saveloy. “The vases in this room alone are priceless!”

“Nah, too big to carry. Can’t get ’em onna horse.”

“But I’ve shown you civilization!” said Mr. Saveloy.

“Yeah. It’s all right to visit. Ain’t that so, Cohen?”

Cohen was hunched down in the throne, glaring at the far wall.

“What’s that?”

“I’m saying we take everything we can carry and head off back home, right?”

“Home…yeah…”

“That was the Plan, yeah?”

Cohen didn’t look at Mr. Saveloy’s face.

“Yeah…the Plan…” he said.

“It’s a good plan,” said Truckle. “Great idea. You move in as boss? Fine. Great scam. Saves trouble. None of that fiddling with locks and things. So we’ll all be off home, okay? With all the treasure we can carry?”

“What for?” said Cohen.

“What for? It’s treasure.”

Cohen seemed to reach a decision.

“What did you spend your last haul on, Truckle? You said you got three sacks of gold and gems from that haunted castle.”

Truckle looked puzzled, as if Cohen had asked what purple smelled like.

“Spend it on? I dunno. You know how it is. What’s it matter what you spend it on? It’s loot. Anyway…what do you spend yours on?”

Cohen sighed.

Truckle gaped at him.

“You’re not thinking of really staying here?” He glared at Mr. Saveloy. “Have you two been cooking up something?”

Cohen drummed his fingers on the arm of the throne. “You said go home,” he said. “Where to?”

“Well…wherever…”

“And Hamish there—”

“Whut? Whut?”

“I mean…he’s a hundred and five, right? Time to settle down, maybe?”

“Whut?”

“Settle down?” said Truckle. “You tried it once. Stole a farm and said you was goin’ to raise pigs! Gave it up after…What was it?…three hours?”

“Whutzeesayin’? Whutzeesayin’?”

“He said IT’S TIME YOU SETTLED DOWN, Hamish.”

“Bugrthat!”

The kitchens were in uproar. Half the court had ended up there, in most cases for the first time. The place was as crowded as a street market, through which the servants tried to go about their business as best they could.

The fact that one of them seemed a little unclear as to what his business actually consisted of was quite unnoticed in the turmoil.

“Did you smell him?” said Lady Two Streams. “The stink!”

“Like a hot day in a pig yard!” said Lady Peach Petal.

“I’m pleased to say I have never experienced that,” said Lady Two Streams haughtily.

Lady Jade Night, who was rather younger than the other two, and who had been rather attracted to Cohen’s smell of unwashed lion, said nothing.

The head cook said: “Just that? Big lumps? Why doesn’t he just eat a cow while he’s about it?”

“You wait till you hear about this devil food called sausage,” said the Lord Chamberlain.

“Big lumps.” The cook was almost in tears. “Where’s the skill in big lumps of meat? Not even sauce? I’d rather die than simply heat up big lumps of meat!”

“Ah,” said the new Lord Chamberlain, “I should think very carefully about that. The new Emperor, may he have a bath for ten thousand years, tends to interpret that as a request—”

The babble of voices stopped. The cause of the sudden silence was one small, sharp noise. It was a cork, popping.

Lord Hong had a Grand Vizier’s talent for apparently turning up out of nowhere. His gaze swept the kitchens. It was certainly the only housework that he had ever done.

He stepped forward. He’d taken a small black bottle from out of the sleeve of his robe.

“Bring me the meat,” he said. “The sauce will take care of itself.”

The assembled people watched with horrified interest. Poison was all part of the Hunghungese court etiquette but people generally did it while hidden from sight somewhere, out of good manners.

“Is there anyone,” said Lord Hong, “who has anything they would like to say?”

His gaze was like a scythe. As it swung around the room people wavered, and hesitated, and fell.

“Very well,” said Lord Hong. “I would rather die than see a…barbarian on the Imperial throne. Let him have his…big lumps. Bring me the meat.”

There was movement in the ground, and the sound of shouting and the thump of a stick. A peasant scuttled forward, reluctantly wheeling a huge covered dish on a trolley.

At the sight of Lord Hong he pushed the trolley aside, flung himself forward and grovelled.

“I avert my gaze from your…an orchard in a favorable position…damn… countenance, o lord.”

Lord Hong prodded the prone figure with his foot.

“It is good to see the arts of respect maintained,” he observed. “Remove the lid.”

The man got up and, still bowing and ducking, lifted the cover.

Lord Hong upended the bottle and held it there until the last drop had hissed out. His audience was transfixed.

“And now let it be taken to the barbarians,” he said.

“Certainly, your celestial…ink brush…willow frond…righteousness.”

“Where are you from, peasant?”

“Bes Pelargic, o lord.”

“Ah. I thought so.”

The big bamboo doors slid back. The new Lord Chamberlain stepped in, followed by a caravan of trolleys.

“Breakfast, o lord of a thousand years,” he said. “Big lumps of pig, big lumps of goat, big lumps of ox, and seven fried rice.”

One of the servants lifted the lid of a dish. “But take my tip and don’t go for this pork,” he said. “It’s been poisoned.”

The Chamberlain spun around.

“Insolent pig! You will die for this.”

“It’s Rincewind, isn’t it?” said Cohen. “Looks like Rincewind—”

“Got my hat here somewhere,” said Rincewind. “Had to stuff it down my trousers—”

“Poison?” said Cohen. “You sure?”

“Well, okay, it was a black bottle and it had a skull and crossbones on it and when he tipped it out it smoked,” said Rincewind, as Mr. Saveloy helped him up. “Was it anchovy essence? I don’t think so.”

“Poison,” said Cohen. “I hate poisoners. Just about the worst sort, poisoners. Creeping around, putting muck in a man’s grub…”

He glared at the Chamberlain.

“Was it you?” He looked at Rincewind and jerked a thumb towards the cowering Chamberlain. “Was it him? Because if it was he’s going to get done to him what I did to the mad Snake Priests of Start, and this time I’ll use both thumbs!”

“No,” said Rincewind. “It was someone they called Lord Hong. But they all watched him do it.”

A little scream erupted from the Lord Chamberlain. He threw himself to the floor and was about to kiss Cohen’s foot until he realized that this would have about the same effect as eating the pork.

“Mercy, o celestial being! We are all pawns in the hands of Lord Hong!”

“What’s so special about Lord Hong, then?”

“He’s…a fine man!” the Chamberlain gibbered. “I won’t say a word against Lord Hong! I certainly don’t believe it’s true that he has spies everywhere! Long life to Lord Hong, that’s what I say!”

He risked looking up and found the point of Cohen’s sword just in front of his eyes.

“Yeah, but right now who’re you more frightened of? Me or this Lord Hong?”

“Uh…Lord Hong!”

Cohen raised an eyebrow. “I’m impressed. Spies everywhere, eh?”

He looked around the huge room and his gaze came to rest on a very large vase. He sauntered over to it and raised the lid.

“You okay in there?”

“Er…yes?” said a voice from the depths of the vase.

“Got everythin’ you want? Spare notebook? Potty?”

“Er…yes?”

“Would you like, oh, let’s say about sixty gallons of boiling water?”

“Er…no?”

“Would you rather die than betray Lord Hong?”

“Er…can I have a moment to think about it, please?”

“No problem. It takes a long time to heat the water in any case. As you were, then.”

He replaced the lid.

“One Big Mother?” he said.

“That’s One Big River, Ghenghiz,” said Mr. Saveloy.

The guard rumbled into life.

“Just you watch this vase and if it moves again you do to it what I once did to the Green Necromancer of the Night, all right?”

“Don’t know what that was you did, lord,” said the soldier.

Cohen told him. One Big River beamed. From inside the jar came the noise of someone trying not to be sick.

Cohen strolled back to the throne.

“So tell me a bit more about Lord Hong, then,” he said.

“He’s the Grand Vizier,” said the Chamberlain.

Cohen and Rincewind looked at one another.

“That’s right. And everyone knows,” said Rincewind, “that Grand Viziers are always—”

“—complete and utter bastards,” said Cohen. “Dunno why. Give ’em a turban with a point in the middle and their moral wossname just gets eaten away. I always kill ’em soon as I meet ’em. Saves time later on.”

“I thought there was something fishy about him as soon as I saw him,” said Rincewind. “Look, Cohen—”

“That’s Emperor Cohen to you,” said Truckle. “I’ve never trusted wizards, mister. Never trusted any man in a dress.”

“Rincewind’s all right—” said Cohen.

“Thank you!” said Rincewind.

“—but a bloody useless wizard.”

“I just happened to risk my neck to save you, thank you so very much,” said Rincewind. “Look, some friends of mine are in the prison block. Could you…Emperor?”

“Sort of,” said Cohen.

“Temp’ry,” said Truckle.

“Technically,” said Mr. Saveloy.

“Does that mean you can get my friends somewhere safe? I think Lord Hong has murdered the old Emperor and wants them to take the blame. I’m just hoping he won’t believe they’ll be hiding in the cells.”

“Why in the cells?” said Cohen.

“Because if I had the chance to get away from Lord Hong’s cells I would,” said Rincewind, fervently. “No one in their right minds’d go back inside if they thought they had a chance to get away.”

“Okay,” said Cohen. “Boy Willie, One Big Mother, go and round up some of your mates and bring those people here.”

“Here?” said Rincewind. “I wanted them to be somewhere safe!”

“Well, we’re here,” said Cohen. “We can protect ’em.”

“Who’s going to protect you?”

Cohen ignored this. “Lord Chamberlain,” he said, “I don’t ’spect Lord Hong’ll be around but…in the court was a guy with a nose like a badger. A fat bugger, he was, with a big pink hat. And a skinny woman with a face like a hatful of pins.”

“That would be Lord Nine Mountains and Lady Two Streams,” said the Lord Chamberlain. “Er. You are not angry with me, o lord?”

“Gods bless you, no,” said Cohen. “In fact, mister, I’m so impressed I’m going to give you extra responsibilities.”

“Lord?”

“Food taster, for a start. And now go and fetch them other two. Didn’t like the look of them at all.”

Nine Mountains and Two Streams were ushered in a few moments later. Their merest glance from Cohen to the untouched food would have passed entirely unnoticed by those who weren’t watching for it.

Cohen nodded cheerfully at them. “Eat it,” he said.

“My lord! I had a large breakfast! I am entirely full!” said Nine Mountains.

“That’s a pity,” said Cohen. “One Big Mother, before you go off just see Mr. Nine Mountains over there and make some room in him so he can have another breakfast. The same goes for the lady, too, if I don’t hear chomping in the next five seconds. A good mouthful of everything, understand? With lots of sauce.”

One Big River drew his sword.

The two nobles stared fixedly at the glistening mounds.

“Looks good to me,” said Cohen conversationally. “The way you’re looking at it, anyone’d think there was something wrong with it.”

Nine Mountains gingerly put a piece of pork into his mouth.

“Extremely good,” he said, indistinctly.

“Now swallow,” said Cohen.

The mandarin gulped.

“Marvelous,” he said. “And now, if your excellency will excuse me, I—”

“Don’t rush off,” said Cohen. “We don’t want you accidentally sticking your fingers down your throat or anything like that, do we?”

Nine Mountains hiccuped.

Then he hiccupped again.

Smoke appeared to be rising from the bottom of his robe.

The Horde dived for cover just as the explosion removed an area of floorboards, a circular part of the ceiling and all of Lord Nine Mountains.

A black hat with a ruby button on it spun around on the floor for a moment.

“That’s just like me and pickled onions,” said Vincent.

Lady Two Streams was standing with her eyes shut.

“Not hungry?” said Cohen.

She nodded.

Cohen leaned back.

“One Big Mother?”

“It’s ‘River,’ Cohen,” said Mr. Saveloy, as the guard lumbered forward.

“Take her with you and put her in one of the dungeons. See that she has plenty to eat, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, excellency.”

“And Mr. Chamberlain here can push off down to the kitchen again and tell the chef he’s going to share what we eat this time, and he’s gonna eat it first, all right?”

“Yes indeed, excellency.”

“Call this living?” Caleb burst out, as the Lord Chamberlain scuttled away. “This is being Emperor, is it? Can’t even trust the food? We’ll probably be murdered in our beds!”

“Can’t see you being murdered in your bed,” said Truckle.

“Yeah, ’cos you’re never in it,” said Cohen.

He walked over to the big jar and gave it a kick.

“You getting all this?”

“Yessir,” said the jar.

There was some laughter. But it had an edge of nervousness. Mr. Saveloy realized that the Horde weren’t used to this. If a true barbarian wanted to kill someone during a meal, he’d invite him in with all his henchmen, sit them down, get them drunk and sleepy and then summon his own men from hiding places to massacre them instantly in a straight-forward, no-nonsense and honorable manner. It was completely fair. The “get them drunk and butcher the lot of them” stratagem was the oldest trick in the book, or would have been if barbarians bothered with books. Anyone falling for it would be doing the world a favor by being slaughtered over the pudding. But at least you could trust the food. Barbarians didn’t poison food. You never knew when you might be short of a mouthful yourself.

“Excuse me, your excellency,” said Six Beneficent Winds, who had been hovering, “I think Lord Truckle is right. Er. I know a little history. The correct method of succession is to wade to the throne through seas of blood. That is what Lord Hong is planning to do.”

“You say? Seas of blood, right?”

“Or over a mountain of skulls. That’s an option, too.”

“But…but…I thought the Imperial crown was handed down from father to son,” said Mr. Saveloy.

“Well, yes,” said Six Beneficent Winds. “I suppose that could happen in theory.”

“You said once we were at the top of the pyramid everyone’d do what we said,” said Cohen to Mr. Saveloy.

Truckle looked from one to the other. “You two planned this?” he said accusingly. “This is what it’s all been about, isn’t it? All that learnin’ to be civilized? And right at the start you just said it was going to be a really big theft! Eh? I thought we were just going to nick a load of stuff and push off! Loot and pillage, that’s the way—”

“Oh, loot and pillage, loot and pillage, I’ve had it up to here with loot and pillage!” said Mr. Saveloy. “Is that all you can think of, looting and pillaging?”

“Well, there used to be ravishing, too,” said Vincent wistfully.

“I hate to tell you, but they’ve got a point, Teach,” said Cohen. “Fightin’ and lootin’…that’s what we do. I ain’t happy with all this bowing and scraping business. I ain’t sure if I was cut out for civilization.”

Mr. Saveloy rolled his eyes. “Even you, Cohen? You’re all so…dim-witted!” he snapped. “I don’t know why I bother! I mean, look at you! You know what you are? You’re legends!”

The Horde stepped back. No one had ever seen Teach lose his temper before.

“From legendum, which means ‘something written down’,” said Mr. Saveloy. “Books, you know. Reading and writing. Which incidentally is as alien to you as the Lost City of Ee—”

Truckle’s hand went up, a little nervously.

“Actually, I once discovered the Lost City of—”

“Shut up! I’m saying…What was I saying?…yes…you don’t read, do you? You never learned to read? Then you’ve wasted half your life. You could have been accumulating pearls of wisdom instead of rather shoddy gems. It’s just as well people read about you and don’t meet you face to face because, gentlemen, you are a big disappointment!”

Rincewind watched, fascinated, waiting for Mr. Saveloy to have his head cut off. But this didn’t seem about to happen. He was possibly too angry to be beheaded.

“What have you actually done, gentlemen? And don’t tell me about stolen jewels and demon lords. What have you done that’s real?”

Truckle raised a hand again.

“Well, I once killed all four of the—”

“Yes, yes, yes,” said Mr. Saveloy. “You killed this and you stole that and you defeated the giant man-eating avocados of somewhere else, but…it’s all…stuff. It’s just wallpaper, gentlemen! It never changes anything! No one cares! Back in Ankh-Morpork I’ve taught boys who think you are myths. That’s what you’ve achieved. They don’t believe you ever really existed. They think someone made you up. You’re stories, gentlemen. When you die no one will know, because they think you’re already dead.”

He paused for breath, and then continued more slowly. “But here…here you could be real. You could stop playing at your lives. You could take this ancient and somewhat rotten Empire back into the world. At least…” he trailed off. “That’s what I’d hoped. I really thought that, perhaps, we might actually achieve something…”

He sat down.

The Horde stood staring at its various feet or wheels.

“Um. Can I say something? The warlords will all be against you,” said Six Beneficent Winds. “They’re out there now, with their armies. Normally they’d fight amongst themselves, but they’ll all fight you.”

“They’d rather have some poisoner like this Hong instead of me?” said Cohen. “But he’s a bastard!”

“Yes, but…he’s their bastard, you see.”

“We could hold out here. This place has got thick walls,” said Vincent. “The ones not made of paper, that is.”

“Don’t think about that,” said Truckle. “Not a siege. Sieges are messy. I hate eating boots and rats.”

“Whut?”

“He said WE DON’T WANT A SIEGE WHERE WE HAVE TO EAT BOOTS AND RATS, Hamish.”

“Run outa legs, have we?”

“How many soldiers have they got?” said Cohen.

“I think…six or seven hundred thousand,” said the taxman.

“Excuse us,” said Cohen, getting off the throne. “I have to join my Horde.”

The Horde went into a huddle. There was an occasional “Whut?” in the hoarse whispered interchanges. Then Cohen turned round.

“Seas of blood, wasn’t it?” he said.

“Er. Yes,” said the taxman.

The huddle resumed.

After some further exchanges Truckle’s head poked up.

“Did you say mountain of skulls?” he said.

“Yes. Yes, I think that’s what I said,” said the taxman. He glanced nervously at Rincewind and Mr. Saveloy, who shrugged.

Whisper, whisper, Whut…

“Excuse me?”

“Yes?”

“About how big a mountain? Skulls don’t pile up that well.”

“I don’t know how big a mountain! A lot of skulls!”

“Just checking.”

The Horde seemed to reach a decision. They turned to face the other men.

“We’re going to fight,” said Cohen.

“Yes, you should have said all that about skulls and blood before,” said Truckle.

“We’ll show ye whether we’m dead or not!” cackled Hamish.

Mr. Saveloy shook his head.

“I think you must have misheard. The odds are a hundred thousand to one!” he said.

“I reckon that’ll show people we’re still alive,” said Caleb.

“Yes, but the whole point of my plan was to show you that you could get to the top of the pyramid without having to fight your way up,” said Mr. Saveloy. “It really is possible in such a stale society. But if you try to fight hundreds of thousands of men you’ll die.”

And then, to his surprise, he found himself adding: “Probably.”

The Horde grinned at him.

“Big odds don’t frighten us,” said Truckle.

“We like big odds,” said Caleb.

“Y’see, Teach, odds of a thousand to one ain’t a lot worse than ten to one,” said Cohen. “The reasons bein’—” He counted on his fingers. “One, your basic soldier who’s fightin’ for pay rather than his life ain’t goin’ to stick his neck out when there’s all these other blokes around who might as well do the business, and, two, not very many of ’em are goin’ to be able to get near us at one time and they’ll all be pushin’ and shovin’, and…” He looked at his fingers with an expression of terminal calculation.

“…Three…” said Mr. Saveloy, hypnotized by this logic.

“…three, right…Half the time when they swings their swords they’ll hit one of their mates, savin’ us a bit of effort. See?”

“But even if that were true it’d only work for a little while,” Mr. Saveloy protested. “Even if you killed as many as two hundred you’d be tired and there’d be fresh troops attacking you.”

“Oh, they’d be tired, too,” said Cohen cheerfully.

“Why?”

“Because by then, to get to us, they’d have to be running uphill.”

“That’s logic, that is,” said Truckle, approvingly.

Cohen slapped the shaken teacher on the back.

“Don’t you worry about a thing,” he said. “If we’ve got the Empire by your kind of plan, we’ll keep it by our kind of plan. You’ve shown us civilization, so we’ll shown you barbarism.”

He walked a few steps and then turned, an evil glint in his eye. “Barbarism? Hah! When we kills people we do it there and then, lookin’ ’em in the eye, and we’d be happy to buy ’em a drink in the next world, no harm done. I never knew a barbarian who cut up people slowly in little rooms, or tortured women to make ’em look pretty, or put poison in people’s grub. Civilization? If that’s civilization, you can shove it where the sun don’t shine!”

“Whut?”

“He said SHOVE IT WHERE THE SUN DOESN’T SHINE, Hamish.”

“Ah? Bin there.”

“But there is more to civilization than that!” said Mr. Saveloy. “There’s…music, and literature, and the concept of justice, and the ideals of—”

The bamboo doors slid aside. As one man, joints creaking, the Horde turned with weapons raised.

The men in the doorway were taller and much more richly dressed than the peasants, and they moved in the manner of people who are used to there being no one in the way. Ahead of them, though, was a trembling peasant holding a red flag on a stick. He was prodded into the room at swordpoint.

“Red flag?” whispered Cohen.

“It means they want to parley,” said Six Beneficent Winds.

“You know…it’s like our white flag of surrender,” said Mr. Saveloy.

“Never heard of it,” said Cohen.

“It means you mustn’t kill anyone until they’re ready.”

Mr. Saveloy tried to shut out the whispers behind him.

“Why don’t we just invite them to dinner and massacre them all when they’re drunk?”

“You heard the man. There’s seven hundred thousand of them.”

“Ah? So it’d have to be something simple with pasta, then.”

A couple of the lords strode into the middle of the room. Cohen and Mr. Saveloy went to meet them.

“And you, too,” said Cohen, grabbing Rincewind as he tried to back away. “You’re a weasely man with words in a tight spot, so come on.”

Lord Hong regarded them with the expression of a man whose ancestry had bequeathed to him the ability to look down on everything.

“My name is Lord Hong. I am the Emperor’s Grand Vizier. I order you to quit these premises immediately and submit to judgment.”

Mr. Saveloy turned to Cohen.

“Ain’t gonna,” said Cohen.

Mr. Saveloy tried to think.

“Um, how shall I phrase this? Ghenghiz Cohen, leader of the Silver Horde, presents his compliments to Lord Hong but—”

“Tell him he can stuff it,” said Cohen.

“I think, Lord Hong, that perhaps you may have perceived the general flow of opinion here,” said Mr. Saveloy.

“Where are the rest of your barbarians, peasant?” he demanded.

Rincewind watched Mr. Saveloy. The old teacher seemed at a loss for words this time.

The wizard wanted to run away. But Cohen had been right. Mad as it sounded, it was probably safer to be near him. Running away would put him closer, sooner or later, to Lord Hong.

Who believed that there were a lot of other barbarians somewhere…

“I tell you this, and this only,” said Lord Hong. “If you quit the Forbidden City now, your deaths, at least, will be quick. And then your heads and significant parts will be paraded through the cities of the Empire so that people will know of the terrible punishment.”

“Punishment?” said Mr. Saveloy.

“For killing the Emperor.”

“We ain’t killed no Emperor,” said Cohen. “I’ve got nothing against killing Emperors, but we ain’t killed one.”

“He was killed in his bed an hour ago,” said Lord Hong.

“Not by us,” said Mr. Saveloy.

“By you,” said Rincewind. “Only it’s against the rules to kill the Emperor so you wanted it to look as though the Red Army did it.”

Lord Hong looked at him as if seeing him for the first time and less than happy about doing so.

“In the circumstances,” said Lord Hong, “I doubt that anyone will believe you.”

“What will happen if we yield now?” said Mr. Saveloy. “I like to know these things.”

“Then you will die very slowly in…interesting ways.”

“That’s the saga of my life,” said Cohen. “I’ve always been dying very slowly in interesting ways. What’s it to be? Street fighting? House to house? Free for all or what?”

“In the real world,” said one of the other lords, “we battle. We do not scuffle like barbarians. Our armies will meet on the plain before the city.”

“Before the city what?”

“He means in front of the city, Cohen.”

“Ah. Civilized talk again. When?”

“Dawn tomorrow!”

“Okay,” said Cohen. “It’ll give us an appetite for our breakfast. Anything else we can do for you?”

“How big is your army, barbarian?”

“You would not believe how big,” said Cohen, which was probably true. “We have overrun countries. We have wiped whole cities off the map. Where my army passes, nothing grows.”

“That’s true, at least,” said Mr. Saveloy.

“We have not heard of you!” said the warlord.

“Yeah,” said Cohen. “That’s how good we are.”

“There is one other thing about his army, actually,” said someone.

They all turned to Rincewind, who’d been almost as surprised as they were to hear his voice. But a train of thought had just reached the terminus…

“Yes?”

“You may have been wondering why you have only seen the…generals,” Rincewind went on, slowly, as if working it out as he went along. “That is because, you see, the men themselves are…invisible. Er. Yes. Ghosts, in fact. Everyone knows this, don’t they?”

Cohen gaped at him in astonishment.

“Blood-sucking ghosts, as a matter of fact,” said Rincewind. “After all, everyone knows that’s what you get beyond the Wall, don’t they?”

Lord Hong sneered. But the warlords stared at Rincewind with the expressions of people who strongly suspected that the people beyond the Wall were flesh and blood but who also relied on millions of people not believing that this was so.

“Ridiculous! You are not invisible blood-sucking ghosts,” said one of them.

Cohen opened his mouth so that the diamond teeth glinted.

“’S right,” he said. “Fact is…we’re the visible sort.”

“Hah! A pathetic attempt!” said Lord Hong. “Ghosts or no ghosts, we will beat you!”

“Well, that went better than I expected,” Mr. Saveloy remarked as the warlords strode out. “Was that an attempt at a little bit of psychological warfare there, Mr. Rincewind?”

“Is that what it was? I know about that kind of stuff,” said Cohen. “It’s where you bang your shield all night before the fight so’s the enemy can’t get any sleep and you sing, ‘We’re gonna cut yer tonkers off,’ and stuff like that.”

“Similar,” said Mr. Saveloy, diplomatically. “But it failed to work, I’m afraid. Lord Hong and his generals are rather too sophisticated. It’s a great shame you couldn’t try it on the common soldiers.”

There was a faint squeak of rabbit behind them. They turned, and looked at the somewhat under-age cadre of the Red Army that was being ushered in. Butterfly was with them. She even gave Rincewind a very faint smile.

Rincewind had always relied on running away. But sometimes, perhaps, you had to stand and fight, if only because there was nowhere left to run.

But he was no good at all with weapons.

At least, the normal sort.

“Um,” he said, “if we leave the palace now, we’ll be killed, right?”

“I doubt it,” said Mr. Saveloy. “It’s become a matter of the Art of War now. Someone like Hong would probably slit our throats, but now war is declared things have to be done according to custom.”

Rincewind took a deep breath.

“It’s a million-to-one chance,” he said, “but it might just work…”

The Four Horsemen whose Ride presages the end of the world are known to be Death, War, Famine, and Pestilence. But even less significant events have their own Horsemen. For example, the Four Horsemen of the Common Cold are Sniffles, Chesty, Nostril, and Lack of Tissues; the Four Horsemen whose appearance foreshadows any public holiday are Storm, Gales, Sleet, and Contra-flow.

Among the armies encamped in the broad alluvial plain around Hunghung, the invisible horsemen known as Misinformation, Rumor, and Gossip saddled up…

A large army encamped has all the tedious problems of a city without any of the advantages. Its watchfires and picket lines are, after a while, open to local civilians, especially if they have anything to sell and even more so if they are women whose virtue has a certain commercial element and even, sometimes, if they appear to be selling food which is a break from the monotonous army diet. The food currently on sale was certainly such a break.

“Pork balls! Pork balls! Get them while they’re…” There was a pause as the vendor mentally tried out ways of ending the sentence, and gave up. “Pork balls! Onna stick! How about you, shogun, you look like—Here, aren’t you the—?”

“Shutupshutupshutup!”

Rincewind pulled D. M. H. Dibhala into the shadows by a tent.

The trader looked at the anguished face framed between a eunuch outfit and a big straw hat.

“It’s the Wizard, isn’t it? How are—?”

“You know how you seriously wanted to become very rich in international trade?” Rincewind said.

“Yes? Can we start?”

“Soon. Soon. But there’s something you must do. You know this rumor about the army of invisible vampire ghosts that’s heading this way?”

D. M. H. Dibhala’s eyes swivelled nervously. But it was part of his stock in trade never to appear to be ignorant of anything except, perhaps, how to give correct change.

“Yes?” he said.

“The one about there being millions of them?” said Rincewind. “And very hungry on account of not having eaten on the way? And made specially fierce by the Great Wizard?”

“Um…yes?”

“Well, it’s not true.”

“It’s not?”

“You don’t believe me? After all, I ought to know.”

“Good point.”

“And we don’t want people to panic, do we?”

“Very bad for business, panic,” said D. M. H., nodding uncomfortably.

“So make sure you tell people there’s no truth in this rumor, will you? Set their minds at rest.”

“Good idea. Er. These invisible vampire ghosts…Do they carry money of any sort?”

“No. Because they don’t exist.”

“Ah, yes. I forgot.”

“And there are not 2,300,009 of them,” said Rincewind. He was rather proud of this little detail.

“Not 2,300,009 of them…” said D. M. H., a little glassy-eyed.

“Absolutely not. There are not 2,300,009 of them, no matter what anyone says. Nor has the Great Wizard made them twice as big as normal. Good man. Now I’d better be off—”

Rincewind hurried away.

The trader stood in thought for a while. It stole over him that he’d probably sold enough things for now, and he might as well go home and spend a quiet night in a barrel in the root cellar with a sack over his head.

His route led him through quite a large part of the camp. He made sure that soldiers he met knew there was no truth in the rumor, even though this invariably meant that, first of all, he had to tell them what the rumor actually was.

A toy rabbit squeaked nervously.

“And I’m afraid of the big invisible wampire ghosts!” sobbed Favorite Pearl.

The soldiers around this particular campfire tried to comfort her but, unfortunately, there was no one to comfort them.

“An’ I heard they alweady et some men!”

One or two soldiers looked over their shoulders. There was nothing to be seen in the darkness. This wasn’t, however, a reassuring sign.

The Red Army moved obliquely from campfire to campfire.

Rincewind had been very specific. He’d spent all his adult life—at least, those parts of it where he wasn’t being chased by things with more legs than teeth—in Unseen University, and he felt he knew what he was talking about here. Don’t tell people anything, he said. Don’t tell them. You didn’t get to survive as a wizard in UU by believing what people told you. You believed what you were not told.

Don’t tell them. Ask them. Ask them if it’s true. You can beg them to tell you it’s not true. Or you can even tell them you’ve been told to tell them it’s not true, and that is the best of all.

Because Rincewind knew very well that when the Four rather small and nasty Horsemen of Panic ride out there is a good job done by Misinformation, Rumor, and Gossip, but they are as nothing compared to the fourth horseman, whose name is Denial.

After an hour Rincewind felt quite unnecessary.

There were conversations breaking out everywhere, particularly in those areas on the edge of the camps, where the night stretched away so big and dark and, so very obviously, empty.

“All right, so how come they’re saying there’s not 2,300,009 of them, eh? If there’s none of them, then why’s there a number?”

“Look, there’s no such thing as invisible vampire ghosts, all right?”

“Oh, yeah? How do you know? Have you ever seen any?”

“Listen, I went and asked the captain and he says he’s certain there’s no invisible ghosts out there.”

“How can he be certain if he can’t see them?”

“He says there’s no such things as invisible vampire ghosts at all.”

“Oh? How come he’s saying that all of a sudden? My grandfather told me there’s millions of them outside the—”

“Hold on…What’s that out there…?”

“What?”

“Could’ve sworn I heard something…”

“I can’t see anything.”

“Oh, no!”

Things must have filtered through to High Command because, getting on towards midnight, trumpets were sounded around the camps and a special proclamation was read out.

It confirmed the reality of vampire ghosts in general but denied their existence in any specific, here-and-now sense. It was a masterpiece of its type, particularly since it brought the whole subject to the ears of soldiers the Red Army hadn’t been able to reach yet.

An hour later the situation had reached the point of criticality and Rincewind was hearing things he personally hadn’t made up and, on the whole, would much rather not hear.

He’d chat with a couple of soldiers and say: “I’m sure there’s no huge hungry army of vampire ghosts” and get told, “No, there’s seven old men.”

“Just seven old men?”

“I heard they’re very old,” said a soldier. “Like, too old to die. I heard from someone at the palace that they can walk through walls and make themselves invisible.”

“Oh, come on,” said Rincewind. “Seven old men fighting this whole army?”

“Makes you think, eh? Corporal Toshi says the Great Wizard is helping them. Stands to reason. I wouldn’t be fighting a whole army if I didn’t have a lot of magic on my side.”

“Er. Anyone know what the Great Wizard looks like?” said Rincewind.

“They say he’s taller than a house and got three heads.”

Rincewind nodded encouragingly.

“I heard,” said a soldier, “that the Red Army is going to fight on their side, too.”

“So what? Corporal Toshi says they’re just a bunch of kids.”

“No, I heard…the real Red Army…you know…”

“The Red Army ain’t gonna side with barbarian invaders! Anyway, there’s no such thing as the Red Army. That’s just a myth.”

“Like the invisible vampire ghosts,” said Rincewind, giving the clockwork of anxiety another little turn.

“Er…yeah.”

He left them arguing.

No one was deserting. Running off into a night full of non-specific terrors was worse than staying in camp. But that was all to the good, he decided. It meant that the really frightened people were staying put and seeking reassurance from their comrades. And there was nothing like someone repeating “I’m sure there’s no vampire wizards” and going to the latrine four times an hour to put backbone into a platoon.

Rincewind crept back towards the city, rounded a tent in the shadows, and collided with a horse, which trod heavily on his foot.

“Your wife is a big hippo!”

SORRY.

Rincewind froze, both hands clutching his aching foot. He knew only one person with a voice like a cemetery in midwinter.

He tried to hop backwards, and collided with another horse.

RINCEWIND, ISN’T IT? said Death. YES. GOOD EVENING. I DON’T BELIEVE YOU HAVE MET WAR. RINCEWIND, WAR. WAR, RINCEWIND.

War touched his helmet in salute.

“Pleasure’s all mine,” he said. He indicated the other three riders. “Like to introduce you to m’sons, Terror and Panic. And m’daughter, Clancy.”

The children chorused a “hello.” Clancy was scowling, looked about seven years old and was wearing a hard hat and a Pony Club badge.

I WASN’T EXPECTING TO SEE YOU HERE, RINCEWIND.

“Oh. Good.”

Death pulled an hourglass out of his robe, held it up to the moonlight, and sighed. Rincewind craned to see how much sand was left.

HOWEVER, I COULD—

“Don’t you make any special arrangement just on my account,” said Rincewind hurriedly. “I, er…I expect you’re all here for the battle?”

YES. IT PROMISES TO BE EXTREMELY—SHORT.

“Who’s going to win?”

NOW, YOU KNOW I WOULDN’T TELL YOU THAT, EVEN IF I KNEW.

“Even if you knew?” said Rincewind. “I thought you were supposed to know everything!”

Death held up a finger. Something fluttered down through the night. Rincewind thought it was a moth, although it looked less fluffy and had a strange speckled pattern on its wings.

It settled on the extended digit for a moment, and then flew up and away again.

ON A NIGHT LIKE THIS, said Death, THE ONLY CERTAIN THING IS UNCERTAINTY. TRITE, I KNOW, BUT TRUE.

Somewhere on the horizon, thunder rumbled.

“I’ll, er, just be sort of going, then,” said Rincewind.

DON’T BE A STRANGER, said Death, as the wizard hurried off.

“Odd person,” said War.

WITH HIM HERE, EVEN UNCERTAINTY IS UNCERTAIN. AND I’M NOT SURE EVEN ABOUT THAT.

War pulled a large paper-wrapped package out of his saddlebag.

“We’ve got…let’s see now…Egg and Cress, Chicken Tikka, and Mature Cheese with Crunchy Pickle, I think.”

THEY DO SUCH MARVELOUS THINGS WITH SANDWICHES THESE DAYS.

“Oh…and Bacon Surprise.”

REALLY? WHAT IS SO SURPRISING ABOUT BACON?

“I don’t know. I suppose it comes as something of a shock to the pig.”

Ridcully had been having a long wrestle with himself, and had won.

“We’re going to bring him back,” he said. “It’s been four days. And then we can send them back their bloody tube thing. It gives me the willies.”

The senior wizards looked at one another. No one was very keen on a university with a Rincewind component, but the metal dog did give them the willies. No one had wanted to go near it. They’d piled some tables around it and tried to pretend it wasn’t there.

“All right,” said the Dean. “But Stibbons kept going on about things weighing the same, right? If we send that back, won’t it mean Rincewind arrives here going very fast?”

“Mr. Stibbons says he’s working on the spell,” said Ridcully. “Or we could pile some mattresses up at one end of the hall or something.”

The Bursar raised a hand.

“Yes, Bursar?” said Ridcully encouragingly.

“Ho, landlord, a pint of your finest ale!” said the Bursar.

“Good,” said Ridcully. “That’s settled, then. I’ve already told Mr. Stibbons to start looking…”

“On that demonic device?”

“Yes.”

“Then nothing can possibly go wrong,” said the Dean sourly.

“A trumpet of lobsters, if you would be so good.”

“And the Bursar agrees.”

The warlords had gathered in Lord Hong’s chambers. They carefully kept a distance from one another, as befitted enemies who were in the most shaky of alliances. Once the barbarians were dealt with, the battle might still continue. But they wanted assurance on one particular point.

“No!” said Lord Hong. “Let me make this absolutely clear! There is no invisible army of blood-sucking ghosts, do you understand? The people beyond the Wall are just like us—except vastly inferior in every respect, of course. But totally visible.”

One or two of the lords did not look convinced.

“And all this talk about the Red Army?” said one of them.

“The Red Army, Lord Tang, is an undisciplined rabble that shall be put down with resolute force!”

“You know what Red Army the peasants are talking about,” said Lord Tang. “They say that thousands of years ago it—”

“They say that thousands of years ago a wizard who did not exist took mud and lightning and made soldiers that couldn’t die,” said Lord Hong. “Yes. It’s a story, Lord Tang. A story made up by peasants who did not understand what really happened. One Sun Mirror’s army just had”—Lord Hong waved a hand vaguely—“better armor, better discipline. I am not frightened of ghosts and I am certainly not afraid of a legend that probably never existed.”

“Yes, but—”

“Soothsayer!” snapped Lord Hong. The soothsayer, who hadn’t been expecting it, gave a start.

“Yes, my lord?”

“How’re those entrails coming along?”

“Er—they’re about ready, my lord,” said the soothsayer.

The soothsayer was rather worried. This must have been the wrong kind of bird, he told himself. About the only thing the entrails were telling him was that if he got out of this alive he, the soothsayer, might be lucky enough to enjoy a nice chicken dinner. But Lord Hong sounded like a man with the most dangerous kind of impatience.

“And what do they tell you?”

“Er—the future is…the future is…”

Chicken entrails had never looked like this. For a moment he thought they were moving.

“Er…it is uncertain,” he hazarded.

“Be certain,” said Lord Hong. “Who will win in the morning?”

Shadows flickered across the table.

Something was fluttering around the light.

It looked like an undistinguished yellow moth, with black patterns on its wings.

The soothsayer’s precognitive abilities, which were considerably more powerful than he believed, told him: this is not a good time to be a clairvoyant.

On the other hand, there was never a good time to be horribly executed, so…

“Without a shadow of doubt,” he said, “the enemy will be most emphatically beaten.”

“How can you be so certain?” said Lord McSweeney.

The soothsayer bridled.

“You see this wobbly bit near the kidneys? You want to argue with this green trickly thing? You know all about liver suddenly? All right?”

“So there you are,” said Lord Hong. “Fate smiles upon us.”

“Even so—” Lord Tang began. “The men are very—”

“You can tell the men—” Lord Hong began. He stopped. He smiled.

“You can tell the men,” he said, “that there is a huge army of invisible vampire ghosts.”

“What?”

“Yes!” Lord Hong began to stride up and down, snapping his fingers. “Yes, there is a terrible army of foreign ghosts. And this has so enraged our own ghosts…yes, a thousand generations of our ancestors are riding on the wind to repel this barbaric invasion! The ghosts of the Empire are arising! Millions and millions of them! Even our demons are furious at this intrusion! They will descend like a mist of claws and teeth to—Yes, Lord Sung?”

The warlords were looking at one another nervously.

“Are you sure, Lord Hong?”

Lord Hong’s eyes gleamed behind his tiny spectacles.

“Make the necessary proclamations,” he said.

“But only a few hours ago we told the men there were no—”

“Tell them differently!”

“But will they believe that there—”

“They will believe what they are told!” shouted Lord Hong. “If the enemy thinks his strength lies in deceit, then we will use their deceit against them. Tell the men that behind them will be a billion ghosts of the Empire!”

The other warlords tried to avoid his gaze. No one was actually going to suggest that your average soldier would not be totally happy with ghosts front and rear, especially given the capriciousness of ghosts.

“Good,” said Lord Hong. He looked down.

“Are you still here?” he said.

“Just clearing up my giblets, my lord!” squealed the soothsayer.

He picked up the remains of his stricken chicken and ran for it.

After all, he told himself as he pelted back home, it’s not as though I said whose enemy.

Lord Hong was left alone.

He realized he was shaking. It was probably fury. But perhaps…perhaps things could be turned to his advantage, even so. Barbarians came from outside, and to most people everywhere outside was the same. Yes. The barbarians were a minute detail, easily disposed of, but carefully managed, perhaps, might figure in his overall strategy.

He was breathing heavily, too.

He walked into his private study and shut the door.

He pulled out the key.

He opened the box.

There was a few minutes’ silence, except for the rustle of cloth.

Then Lord Hong looked at himself in the mirror.

He’d gone to great lengths to achieve this. He had used several agents, none of whom knew the whole plan. But the Ankh-Morpork tailor had been good at his work and the measurements had been followed exactly. From pointy boots to hose to doublet, cloak, and hat with a feather in it, Lord Hong knew he was a perfect Ankh-Morpork gentleman. The cloak was lined with silk.

The clothes felt uncomfortable and touched him in unfamiliar ways, but those were minor details. This was how a man looked in a society that breathed, that moved, that could really go somewhere…

He’d walk through the city on that first great day and the people would be silent when they saw their natural leader.

It never crossed his mind that anyone would say, “’Ere, wot a toff! ’Eave ’arf a brick at ’im!”

The ants scurried. The thing that went “parp” went parp.

The wizards stood back. There wasn’t much else to do when Hex was working at full speed, except watch the fish and oil the wheels from time to time. There were occasional flashes of octarine from the tubes.

Hex was spelling several hundred times a minute. It was as simple as that. It would take a human more than an hour to do an ordinary finding spell. But Hex could do them faster. Over and over again. It was netting the whole occult sea in the search for one slippery fish.

It achieved, after ninety-three minutes, what would otherwise have taken the faculty several months.

“You see?” said Ponder, his voice shaking a little as he took the line of blocks out of the hopper. “I said he could do it.”

“Who’s he?” said Ridcully.

“Hex.”

“Oh, you mean it.”

“That’s what I said, sir…er…yes.”

Another thing about the Horde, Mr. Saveloy had noticed, was their ability to relax. The old men had the catlike ability to do nothing when there was nothing to do.

They’d sharpened their swords. They’d had a meal—big lumps of meat for most of them, and some kind of gruel for Mad Hamish, who’d dribbled most of it down his beard—and assured its whole-someness by dragging the cook in, nailing him to the floor by his apron, and suspending a large axe on a rope that crossed a beam in the roof and was held at the other end by Cohen, while he ate.

Then they’d sharpened their swords again, out of habit, and…stopped.

Occasionally one of them would whistle a snatch of a tune, through what remained of his teeth, or search a bodily crevice for a particularly fretful louse. Mainly, though, they just sat and stared at nothing.

After a long while, Caleb said, “Y’know, I’ve never been to XXXX. Been everywhere else. Often wondered what it’s like.”

“Got shipwrecked there once,” said Vincent. “Weird place. Lousy with magic. There’s beavers with beaks and giant rats with long tails that hops around the place and boxes with one another. Black fellas wanderin’ around all over the place. They say they’re in a dream. Bright, though. Show ’em a bit of desert with one dead tree in it, next minute they’ve found a three-course meal with fruits and nuts to follow. Beer’s good, too.”

“Sounds like it.”

There was another long pause.

Then:

“I suppose they’ve got minstrels here? Be a bit of a bloody waste, wouldn’t it, if we all got killed and no one made up any songs about it.”

“Bound to have loads of minstrels, a city like this.”

“No problem there, then.”

“No.”

“No.”

There was another lengthy pause.

“Not that we’re going to get killed.”

“Right. I don’t intend to start getting killed at my time of life, haha.”

Another pause.

“Cohen?”

“Yep?”

“You a religious man at all?”

“Well, I’ve robbed loads of temples and killed a few mad priests in my time. Don’t know if that counts.”

“What do your tribe believe happens to you when you die in battle?”

“Oh, these big fat women in horned helmets take you off to the halls of Io where there is fighting and carousing and quaffing for ever.”

Another pause.

“You mean, like, really for ever?”

“S’pose so.”

“’Cos generally you get fed up even with turkey by about day four.”

“All right, what do your lot believe?”

“I think we go off to Hell in a boat made of toenail clippings. Something like that, anyway.”

Another pause.

“But it’s not worth talking about ’cos we’re not going to get killed today.”

“You said it.”

“Hah, it’s not worth dying if all you’ve got to look forward to is leftover meat and floating around in a boat smelling of your socks, is it, eh?”

“Haha.”

Another pause.

“Down in Klatch they believe if you lead a good life you’re rewarded by being sent to a paradise with lots of young women.”

“That’s your reward, is it?”

“Dunno. Maybe it’s their punishment. But I do remember you eat sherbet all day.”

“Hah. When I was a lad we had proper sherbet, in little tube things and a liquorice straw to suck it up with. You don’t get that sort of thing today. People’re too busy rushin’ about.”

“Sounds a lot better than quaffing toenails, though.”

Another pause.

“Did you ever believe that business about every enemy you killed becoming your servant in the next world?”

“Dunno.”

“How many you killed?”

“What? Oh. Maybe two, three thousand. Not counting dwarfs and trolls, o’ course.”

“Definitely not going to be short of a hairbrush or someone to open doors for you after you’re dead, then.”

A pause.

“We’re definitely not going to die, right?”

“Right.”

“I mean, odds of 100,000 to one…hah. The difference is just a lot of zeroes, right?”

“Right.”

“I mean, stout comrades at our side, a strong right arm…What more could we want?”

Pause.

“A volcano’d be favorite.”

Pause.

“We’re going to die, aren’t we?”

“Yep.”

The Horde looked at one another.

“Still, to look on the bright side, I recall I still owe Fafa the dwarf fifty dollars for this sword,” said Boy Willie. “Looks as though I could end up ahead of the game.”

Mr. Saveloy put his head in his hands.

“I’m really sorry,” he said.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Cohen.

The grey light of dawn was just visible in the high windows.

“Look,” said Mr. Saveloy, “you don’t have to die. We could…well, we could sneak out. Back along the pipe, maybe. Perhaps we could carry Hamish. People are coming and going all the time. I’m sure we could get out of…the city…without…any…”

His voice faded away. No voice could keep going under the pressure of those stares. Even Hamish, whose gaze was generally focused on some point about eighty years away, was glaring at him.

“Ain’t gonna run,” said Hamish.

“It’s not running away,” he managed. “It’s a sensible withdrawal. Tactics. Good grief, it’s common sense!”

“Ain’t gonna run.”

“Look, even barbarians can count! And you’ve admitted you’re going to die!”

“Ain’t gonna run.”

Cohen leaned forward and patted Mr. Saveloy on the hand.

“It’s the heroing, see,” he said. “Who’s ever heard of a hero running away? All them kids you was telling us about…you know, the ones who think we’re stories…you reckon they’d believe we ran away? Well, then. No, it’s not part of the whole deal, running away. Let someone else do the running.”

“Besides,” said Truckle, “where’d we get another chance like this? Six against five armies! That’s bl—that’s fantastic! We’re not talking legends here, I reckon we’ve got a good crack at some mythology as well.”

“But…you’ll…die.”

“Oh, that’s part of it, I’ll grant you, that’s part of it. But what a way to go, eh?”

Mr. Saveloy looked at them and realized that they were speaking another language in another world. It was one he had no key to, no map for. You could teach them to wear interesting pants and handle money but something in their soul stayed exactly the same.

“Do teachers go anywhere special when they die?” said Cohen.

“I don’t think so,” said Mr. Saveloy gloomily. He wondered for a moment whether there really was a great Free Period in the sky. It didn’t sound very likely. Probably there would be some marking to do.

“Well, whatever happens, when you’re dead, if you ever feel like a good quaff, you’re welcome to drop in at any time,” said Cohen. “It’s been fun. That’s the important thing. And it’s been an education, hasn’t it, boys?”

There was a general murmur of assent.

“Amazing, all those long words.”

“And learnin’ to buy things.”

“And social intercourse, hur, hur…sorry.”

“Whut?”

“Shame it didn’t work out, but I’ve never been one for plans,” said Cohen.

Mr. Saveloy stood up.

“I’m going to join you,” he said grimly.

“What, to fight?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know how to handle a sword?” said Truckle.

“Er. No.”

“Then you’ve wasted all your life.”

Mr. Saveloy looked offended at this.

“I expect I’ll get the hang of it as we go along,” he said.

“Get the hang of it? It’s a sword!”

“Yes, but…when you’re a teacher, you have to pick things up fast.” Mr. Saveloy smiled nervously. “I once taught practical alchemy for a whole term when Mr. Schism was off sick after blowing himself up, and up until then I’d never seen a crucible.”

“Here.” Boy Willie handed the teacher a spare sword. He hefted it.

“Er. I expect there’s a manual, or something?”

“Manual? No. You hold the blunt end and poke the other end at people.”

“Ah? Really? Well, that seems quite straightforward. I thought there was rather more to it than that.”

“You sure you want to come with us?” said Cohen.

Mr. Saveloy looked firm. “Absolutely. I very much doubt if I’ll survive if you lose and…well, it seems that you heroes get a better class of Heaven. I must say I rather suspect you get a better class of life, too. And I really don’t know where teachers go when they’re dead, but I’ve got a horrible suspicion it’ll be full of sports masters.”

“It’s just that I don’t know if you could really go properly berserk,” said Cohen. “Have you ever had the red mist come down and woke up to find you’d bitten twenty people to death?”

“I used to be reckoned a pretty ratty man if people made too much noise in class,” said Mr. Saveloy. “And something of a dead shot with a piece of chalk, too.”

“How about you, taxman?”

Six Beneficent Winds backed away hurriedly.

“I…I think I’m probably more cut out for undermining the system from within,” he said.

“Fair enough.” Cohen looked at the others. “I’ve never done this official sort of warring before,” he said. “How’s it supposed to go?”

“I think you just line up in front of one another and then charge,” said Mr. Saveloy.

“Seems straightforward enough. All right, let’s go.”

They strode, or in one case wheeled and in another case moved at Mr. Saveloy’s gentle trot, down the hall. The taxman trailed after them.

“Mr. Saveloy!” he shouted. “You know what’s going to happen! Have you lost your senses?”

“Yes,” said the teacher, “but I may have found some better ones.”

He grinned to himself. The whole of his life, so far, had been complicated. There had been timetables and lists and a whole basket of things he must do and things he shouldn’t do, and the life of Mr. Saveloy had been this little wriggly thing trying to survive in the middle of it all. But now it had suddenly all become very simple. You held one end and you poked the other into people. A man could live his whole life by a maxim like that. And, afterwards, get a very interesting afterlife—

“Here, you’ll need this, too,” said Caleb, poking something round at him as they stepped into the grey light. “It’s a shield.”

“Ah. It’s to protect myself, yes?”

“If you really need to, bite the edge.”

“Oh, I know about that,” said Mr. Saveloy. “That’s when you go berserk, right?”

“Could be, could be,” said Caleb. “That’s why a lot of fighters do it. But personally I do it ’cos it’s made of chocolate.”

“Chocolate?”

“You can never get a proper meal in these battles.”

And this is me, thought Mr. Saveloy, marching down the street with heroes. They are the great fi—

“And when in doubt, take all your clothes off,” said Caleb.

“What for?”

“Sign of a good berserk, taking all your clothes off. Frightens the hell out of the enemy. If anyone starts laughing, stab ’em one.”

There was a movement among the blankets in the wheelchair.

“Whut?”

“I said, STAB ’EM ONE, Hamish.”

Hamish waved an arm that looked like bone with skin on it, and apparently far too thin to hold the axe it was in fact holding.

“That’s right! Right in the nadgers!”

Mr. Saveloy nudged Caleb.

“I ought to be writing this down,” he said. “Where exactly are the nadgers?”

“Small range of mountains near the Hub.”

“Fascinating.”

The citizens of Hunghung were ranged along the city walls. It was not every day you saw a fight like this.

Rincewind elbowed and kicked his way through the people until he reached the cadre, who’d managed to occupy a prime position over the main gate.

“What’re you hanging around here for?” he said. “You could be miles away!”

“We want to see what happens, of course,” said Twoflower, his spectacles gleaming.

“I know what happens! The Horde will be instantly slaughtered!” said Rincewind. “What did you expect to happen?”

“Ah, but you’re forgetting the invisible vampire ghosts,” said Twoflower.

Rincewind looked at him.

“What?”

“Their secret army. I heard that we’ve got some, too. Should be interesting to watch.”

“Twoflower, there are no invisible vampire ghosts.”

“Ah, yes, everyone’s going round denying it,” said Lotus Blossom. “So there must be some truth in it.”

“But I made it up!”

“Ah, you may think you made it up,” said Twoflower. “But perhaps you are a pawn of Fate.”

“Listen, there’s no—”

“Same old Rincewind,” said Twoflower, in a jolly way. “You always were so pessimistic about everything, but it always worked out all right in the end.”

“There are no ghosts, there are no magic armies,” said Rincewind. “There’s just—”

“When seven men go out to fight an army 100,000 times bigger there’s only one way it can end,” said Twoflower.

“Right. I’m glad you see sense.”

“They’ll win,” said Twoflower. “They’ve got to. Otherwise the world’s just not working properly.”

“You look educated,” said Rincewind to Butterfly. “Explain to him why he’s wrong. It’s because of a little thing we have in our country. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of it—it’s called mathematics.”

The girl smiled at him.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” said Rincewind flatly. “You’re just like him. What d’you think this is, homeopathic warfare? The smaller your side the more likely you are to win? Well, it’s not like that. I wish it was like that, but it isn’t. Nothing is. There are no amazing strokes of luck, no magic solutions, and the good people don’t win because they’re small and plucky!” He waved his hand irritably at something.

“You always survived,” said Twoflower. “We had amazing adventures and you always survived.”

“That was just coincidence.”

“You kept on surviving.”

“And you got us safely out of prison,” said Lotus Blossom.

“There were just a lot of coinci—Will you go away!”

A butterfly skittered away from his flailing hand.

“Damn things,” he mumbled. And added: “Well, that’s it. I’m off. I can’t watch. I’ve got things to do. Besides, afterwards I think nasty people are going to be looking for me.”

And then he realized there were tears in Lotus Blossom’s eyes.

“We…we thought you would do something,” she said.

“Me? I can’t do anything! Especially not magic! I’m famous for it! Don’t go around believing that Great Wizards solve all your problems, because there aren’t any and they don’t and I should know because I’m not one!”

He backed away. “This is always happening to me! I’m just minding my own business and everything goes wrong and suddenly everyone’s relying on me and saying, ‘Oh, Rincewind, what are you going to do about it?’ Well, what Mrs. Rincewind’s little boy, if she was a Mrs. Rincewind of course, what he’s going to do about it is nothing, right? You have to sort it all out yourselves! No mysterious magical armies are going to—Will you stop looking at me like that? I don’t see why it’s my fault! I’ve got other things to do! It’s not my business!”

And then he turned and ran.

The crowds didn’t take much notice of him.

The streets were deserted by Hunghung standards, which meant you could quite often see the cobbles. Rincewind pushed and shoved his way along the alleys nearest the Wall, looking for another gateway with guards too busy to ask questions.

There were footsteps behind him.

“Look,” he said, spinning round, “I told you, you can all—”

It was the Luggage. It contrived to look a little ashamed of itself.

“Oh, turned up at last, have we?” said Rincewind savagely. “What happened to the following-master-everywhere thing?”

The Luggage shuffled its feet. From out of an alleyway came a slightly larger and far more ornate version of itself. Its lid was inset with decorative wood and, it seemed to Rincewind, its feet were rather more dainty than the horny-nailed, calloused ones of the Luggage. Besides, the toenails had been painted.

“Oh,” he said. “Well. Good grief. Fair enough, I suppose. Really? I mean…yes. Well. Come on, then.”

He reached the end of the alley and turned round. The Luggage was gently bumping the larger chest, urging it to follow him.

Rincewind’s own sexual experiences were not excessive although he had seen diagrams. He hadn’t the faintest idea about how it applied to travel accessories. Did they say things like “What a chest!” or “Get a load of the hinges on that one!”?

If it came to that, he had no real reason for considering that the Luggage was male. Admittedly it had a homicidal nature, but so had a lot of the women that Rincewind had met, and they had often become a little more homicidal as a result of meeting him. Capacity for violence, Rincewind had heard, was unisexual. He wasn’t certain what unisex was, but expected that it was what he normally experienced.

There was a small gate ahead. It seemed to be unguarded.

Despite his fear he walked through it, and refrained from running. Authority always noticed a running man. The time to start running was around about the “e” in “Hey, you!”

No one paid him any attention. The attention of the people along the Wall was all on the armies.

“Look at them,” he said bitterly, to the generality of the universe. “Stupid. If it was seven against seventy, everyone’d know who’d lose. Just because it’s seven against 700,000, everyone’s not sure. As though suddenly numbers don’t mean anything any more. Huh! Why should I do anything? It’s not as if I even know the guy all that well. Admittedly he saved my life a couple of times, but that’s no reason to die horribly just because he can’t count. So you can stop looking at me like that!”

The Luggage backed away a little. The other Luggage…

…Rincewind supposed it just looked female. Women had bigger luggage than men, didn’t they? Because of the—he moved into unknown territory—extra frills and stuff. It was just one of those things, like the fact that they had smaller handkerchiefs than men even though their noses were generally the same size. The Luggage had always been the Luggage. Rincewind wasn’t mentally prepared for there to be more than one. There was the Luggage and…the other Luggage.

“Come on, both of you,” he said. “We’re getting out of here. I’ve done what I can. I just don’t care any more. It’s nothing to do with me. I don’t see why everyone depends on me. I’m not dependable. Even I don’t depend on me, and I’m me.”

Cohen looked at the horizon. Gray-blue clouds were piling up.

“There’s a storm coming,” he said.

“It’s a mercy that we won’t be alive to get wet, then,” said Boy Willie, cheerfully.

“Funny thing, though. It looks like it’s coming from every direction at once.”

“Filthy foreign weather. You can’t trust it.”

Cohen turned his attention to the armies of the five warlords.

There seemed to have been some agreement.

They’d arranged themselves around the position that Cohen had taken up. The tactic seemed quite clear. It was simply to advance. The Horde could see the commanders riding up and down in front of their legions.

“How’s it supposed to start?” said Cohen, the rising wind whipping at what remained of his hair. “Does someone blow a whistle or something? Or do we just scream and charge?”

“Commencement is generally by agreement,” said Mr. Saveloy.

“Oh.”

Cohen looked at the forest of lances and pennants. Hundreds of thousands of men looked like quite a lot of men when you saw them close to.

“I suppose,” he said, slowly, “that none of you has got some amazing plan you’ve been keeping quiet about?”

“We thought you had one,” said Truckle.

Several riders had now left each army and approached the Horde in a group. They stopped a little more than a spear’s throw away, and sat and watched.

“All right, then,” said Cohen. “I hate to say this, but perhaps we should talk about surrender.”

“No!” said Mr. Saveloy, and then stopped in embarrassment at the loudness of his own voice. “No,” he repeated, a little more quietly. “You won’t live if you surrender. You just won’t die immediately.”

Cohen scratched his nose. “What’s that flag…you know…when you want to talk to them without them killing you?”

“It’s got to be red,” said Mr. Saveloy. “But look, it’s no good you—”

“I don’t know, red for surrender, white for funerals…” muttered Cohen. “All right. Anyone got something red?”

“I’ve got a handkerchief,” said Mr. Saveloy, “but it’s white and anyway—”

“Give it here.”

The barbarian teacher very reluctantly handed it over.

Cohen pulled a small, worn knife from his belt.

“I don’t believe this!” said Mr. Saveloy. He was nearly in tears. “Cohen the Barbarian talking surrender with people like that!”

“Influence of civilization,” said Cohen. “’S probably made me go soft in the head.”

He pulled the knife over his arm, and then clamped the handkerchief over the cut.

“There we are,” he said. “Soon have a nice red flag.”

The Horde nodded approvingly. It was an amazingly symbolic, dramatic and above all stupid gesture, in the finest traditions of barbarian heroing. It didn’t seem to be lost on some of the nearer soldiers, either.

“Now,” Cohen went on, “I reckon you, Teach, and you, Truckle…you two come with me and we’ll go and talk to these people.”

“They’ll drag you off to their dungeons!” said Mr. Saveloy. “They’ve got torturers that can keep you alive for years!”

“Whut? Whutzeesay?”

“He said THEY CAN KEEP YOU ALIVE FOR YEARS IN THEIR DUNGEONS, Hamish.”

“Good! Fine by me!”

“Oh, dear,” said Mr. Saveloy.

He trailed after the other two towards the warlords.

Lord Hong raised his visor and stared down his nose at them as they approached.

“Red flag, look,” said Cohen, waving the rather damp object on the end of his sword.

“Yes,” said Lord Hong. “We saw that little show. It may impress the common soldiers but it does not impress me, barbarian.”

“Please yourself,” said Cohen. “We’ve come to talk about surrender.”

Mr. Saveloy noticed some of the lesser lords relax a little. Then he thought: a real soldier probably doesn’t like this sort of thing. You don’t want to go to soldier Heaven or wherever you go and say, I once led an army against seven old men. It wasn’t medal-winning material.

“Ah. Of course. So much for bravado,” said Lord Hong. “Then lay down your arms and you will be escorted back to the palace.”

Cohen and Truckle looked at one another.

“Sorry?” said Cohen.

“Lay down your arms.” Lord Hong snorted. “That means put down your weapons.”

Cohen gave him a puzzled look. “Why should we put down our weapons?”

“Are we not talking about your surrender?”

“Our surrender?”

Mr. Saveloy’s mouth opened in a mad, slow grin.

Lord Hong stared at Cohen.

“Hah! You can hardly expect me to believe that you have come to ask us…”

He leaned from the saddle and glared at them.

“You do, don’t you?” he said. “You mindless little barbarians. Is it true that you can only count up to five?”

“We just thought that it might save people getting hurt,” said Cohen.

“You thought it would save you getting hurt,” said the warlord.

“I daresay a few of yours might get hurt, too.”

“They’re peasants,” said the warlord.

“Oh, yes. I was forgetting that,” said Cohen. “And you’re their chief, right? It’s like your game of chess, right?”

“I am their lord,” said Lord Hong. “They will die at my bidding, if necessary.”

Cohen gave him a big, dangerous grin.

“When do we start?” he said.

“Return to your…band,” said Lord Hong. “And then I think we shall start…shortly.”

He glared at Truckle, who was unfolding his bit of paper. The barbarian’s lips moved awkwardly and he ran a horny finger across the page.

“Misbegotten…wretch, so you are,” he said.

“My word,” said Mr. Saveloy, who’d created the look-up table.

As the three returned to the Horde Mr. Saveloy was aware of a grinding sound. Cohen was wearing several carats off his teeth.

“‘Die at my bidding’,” he said. “The bugger doesn’t even know what a chief is meant to be, the bastard! Him and his horse!”

Mr. Saveloy looked around. There seemed to be some arguing among the warlords.

“You know,” he said, “they probably will try to take us alive. I used to have a headmaster like him. He liked to make people’s lives a misery.”

“You mean they’ll be trying not to kill us?” said Truckle.

“Yes.”

“Does that mean we have to try not to kill them?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Sounds okay to me.”

“What do we do now?” said Mr. Saveloy. “Do we do a battle chant or something?”

“We just wait,” said Cohen.

“There’s a lot of waiting in warfare,” said Boy Willie.

“Ah, yes,” said Mr. Saveloy. “I’ve heard people say that. They say there’s long periods of boredom followed by short periods of excitement.”

“Not really,” said Cohen. “It’s more like short periods of waiting followed by long periods of being dead.”

“Blast.”

The fields were crisscrossed with drainage ditches. There seemed to be no straight path anywhere. And the ditches were too wide to jump; they looked shallow enough to wade, but only because eighteen inches of water overlay a suffocating depth of rich thick mud. Mr. Saveloy said that the Empire owed its prosperity to the mud of the plains, and right now Rincewind was feeling extremely rich.

He was also quite close to the big hill that dominated the city. It really was rounded, with a precision apparently far too accurate for mere natural causes; Saveloy had said that hills like that were drumlins, great piles of topsoil left behind by glaciers. Trees covered the lower slopes of this one, and there was a small building on the top.

Cover. Now, that was a good word. It was a big plain and the armies weren’t too far away. The hill looked curiously peaceful, as if it belonged to a different world. It was strange that the Agateans, who otherwise seemed to farm absolutely everywhere a water buffalo could stand, had left it alone.

Someone was watching him.

It was a water buffalo.

It would be wrong to say it watched him with interest. It just watched him, because its eyes were open and had to be facing in some direction, and it had randomly chosen one which included Rincewind.

Its face held the completely serene expression of a creature that had long ago realized that it was, fundamentally, a tube on legs and had been installed in the universe to, broadly speaking, achieve throughput.

At the other end of the string was a man, ankle-deep in the mud of the field. He had a broad straw hat, like every other buffalo holder. He had the basic pyjama suit of the Agatean man-in-the-field. And he had an expression not of idiocy, but of preoccupation. He was looking at Rincewind. As with the buffalo, this was only because his eyes had to be doing something.

Despite the pressing dangers, Rincewind found himself overcome by a sudden curiosity.

“Er. Good morning,” he said.

The man gave him a nod. The water buffalo made the sound of regurgitating cud.

“Er. Sorry if this is a personal question,” said Rincewind, “but…I can’t help wondering…why do you stand out in the fields all day with the water buffalo?”

The man thought about it.

“Good for soil,” he said eventually.

“But doesn’t it waste a lot of time?” said Rincewind.

The man gave this due appraisal also.

“What’s time to a cow?” he said.

Rincewind reversed back on to the highway of reality.

“You see those armies over there?” he said.

The buffalo holder concentrated his gaze.

“Yes,” he decided.

“They’re fighting for you.”

The man did not appear moved by this. The water buffalo burped gently.

“Some want to see you enslaved and some want you to run the country, or at least to let them run the country while telling you it’s you doing it really,” said Rincewind. “There’s going to be a terrible battle. I can’t help wondering…What do you want?”

The buffalo holder absorbed this one for consideration, too. And it seemed to Rincewind that the slowness of the thought process wasn’t due to native stupidity, but more to do with the sheer size of the question. He could feel it spreading out so that it incorporated the soil and the grass and the sun and headed on out into the universe.

Finally the man said:

“A longer piece of string would be nice.”

“Ah. Really? Well, well. There’s a thing,” said Rincewind. “Talking to you has been an education. Goodbye.”

The man watched him go. Beside him, the buffalo relaxed some muscles and contracted others and lifted its tail and made the world, in a very small way, a better place.

Rincewind headed on towards the hill. Random as the animal tracks and occasional plank bridges were, they seemed to head right for it. If Rincewind had been thinking clearly, an activity he last remembered doing around the age of twelve, he might have wondered about that.

The trees of the lower slopes were sapient pears, and he didn’t even think about that. Their leaves turned to watch him as he scrambled past. What he needed now was a cave or a handy—

He paused.

“Oh, no,” he said. “No, no, no. You don’t catch me like that. I’ll go into a handy cave and there’ll be a little door or some wise old man or something and I’ll be dragged back into events. Right. Stay out in the open, that’s the style.”

He half climbed, half walked to the rounded top of the hill, which rose above the trees like a dome. Now he was closer he could see that it wasn’t as smooth as it looked from below. Weather had worn gullies and channels in the soil, and bushes had colonized every sheltered slope.

The building on the top was, to Rincewind’s surprise, rusty. It had been made of iron—pointed iron roof, iron walls, iron doorway. There were a few old nests and some debris on the floor, but it was otherwise empty. And not a good place to hide. It’d be the first place anyone would look.

There was a cloud wall around the world now. Lightning crackled in its heart, and there was the sound of thunder—not the gentle rumble of summer thunder but the crackackack of splitting sky.

And yet the heat wrapped the plain like a blanket. The air felt thick. In a minute it was going to rain cats and food.

“Find somewhere where I won’t be noticed,” he muttered. “Keep head down. Only way. Why should I care? Other people’s problem.”

Panting in the oppressive heat, he wandered on.

Lord Hong was enraged. Those who knew him could tell, by the way he spoke more slowly and smiled continuously.

“And how do the men know the lightning dragons are angry?” he said. “It may be mere high spirits.”

“Not with a sky that color,” said Lord Tang. “That is not an auspicious color for a sky. It looks like a bruise. A sky like that is portentous.”

“And what, pray, do you think it portends?”

“It’s just generally portentous.”

“I know what’s behind this,” Lord Hong snarled. “You’re too frightened to fight seven old men, is that it?”

“The men say they’re the legendary Seven Indestructible Sages,” said Lord Fang. He tried to smile. “You know how superstitious they are…”

“What Seven Sages?” said Lord Hong. “I am extremely familiar with the history of the world and there are no legendary Seven Indestructible Sages.”

“Er…not yet,” said Lord Fang. “Uh. But…a day like this…Perhaps legends have to start somewhere…”

“They’re barbarians! Oh, gods! Seven men! Can I believe we’re afraid of seven men?”

“It feels wrong,” said Lord McSweeney. He added, quickly, “That’s what the men say.”

“You have made the proclamation about our celestial army of ghosts? All of you?”

The warlords tried to avoid his gaze.

“Er…yes,” said Lord Fang.

“That must have improved morale.”

“Uh. Not…entirely…”

“What do you mean, man?”

“Uh. Many men have deserted. Uh. They’ve been saying that foreign ghosts were bad enough, but…”

“But what?”

“They are soldiers, Lord Hong,” said Lord Tang sharply. “They all have people they do not want to meet. Don’t you?”

Just for a second, there was the suggestion of a twitch on Lord Hong’s cheek. It was only for a second, but those who saw it took note. Lord Hong’s renowned glaze had shown a crack.

“What would you do, Lord Tang? Let these insolent barbarians go?”

“Of course not. But…you don’t need an army against seven men. Seven ancient old men. The peasants say…they say…”

Lord Hong’s voice was slightly higher.

“Come on, man who talks to peasants. I’m sure you’re going to tell us what they say about these foolish and foolhardy old men?”

“Well, that’s it, you see. They say, if they’re so foolish and foolhardy…how did they manage to become so old?”

“Luck!”

It was the wrong word. Even Lord Hong realized it. He’d never believed in luck. He’d always taken pains, usually those of other people, to fill life with certainties. But he knew that others believed in luck. It was a foible he’d always been happy to make use of. And now it was turning and stinging him on the hand.

“There is nothing in the Art of War to tell us how five armies attack seven old men,” said Lord Tang. “Ghosts or no ghosts. And this, Lord Hong, is because no one ever thought such a thing would be done.”

“If you feel so frightened I’ll ride out against them with my mere 250,000 men,” he said.

“I am not frightened,” said Lord Tang. “I am ashamed.”

“Each man armed with two swords,” Lord Hong went on, ignoring him. “And I shall see how lucky these…sages…are. Because, my lords, I will only have to be lucky once. They will have to be lucky a quarter of a million times.”

He lowered his visor.

“How lucky do you feel, my lords?”

The other four warlords avoided one another’s gaze.

Lord Hong noticed their resigned silence.

“Very well, then,” he said. “Let the gongs be sounded and the firecrackers lit—to ensure good luck, of course.”

There were a large number of ranks in the armies of the Empire, and many of them were untranslatable. Three Pink Pig and Five White Fang were, loosely speaking, privates, and not just because they were pale, vulnerable, and inclined to curl up and hide when danger threatened.

In fact they were so private as to be downright secretive. Even the army’s mules ranked higher than them, because good mules were hard to come by whereas men like Pink Pig and White Fang are found in every army, somewhere where a latrine is in need of cleaning.

They were so insignificant that they had, privately, decided that it would be a waste of an invisible foreign blood-sucking ghost’s valuable time to attack them. They felt it only fair, after it had come all this way, to give it the chance of fiendishly killing someone superior.

They had therefore hospitably decamped just before dawn and were now hiding out. Of course, if victory threatened they could always recamp. It was unlikely that they’d be missed in all the excitement, and both men were somewhat expert at turning up on battlefields in time to join in the victory celebrations. They lay in the long grass, watching the armies maneuver.

From this height, it looked like an impressive war. The army on one side was so small as to be invisible. Of course, if you accepted the very strong denials of last night, it was so invisible as to be invisible.

It was also their elevation which meant that they were the first to notice the ring around the sky.

It was just above the thunderous wall on the horizon. Where stray shafts of sunlight hit it, it glowed golden. Elsewhere it was merely yellow. But it was continuous, and thin as a thread.

“Funny-looking cloud,” said White Fang.

“Yeah,” said Pink Pig. “So what?”

It was while they were thus engaged, and sharing a small bottle of rice wine liberated by Pink Pig from an unsuspecting comrade the previous evening, that they heard a groan.

“Oooooohhhhhh…”

Their drinks froze in their throats.

“Did you hear that?” said Pink Pig.

“You mean the—”

“Ooooohhhh…”

“That’s it!”

They turned, very slowly.

Something had pulled itself out of a gully behind them. It was humanoid, more or less. Red mud dripped from it. Strange noises issued from its mouth.

“Oooooohhhhshit!”

Pink Pig grabbed White Fang’s arm.

“It’s an invisible blood-sucking ghost!”

“But I can see it!”

Pink Pig squinted.

“It’s the Red Army! They’ve come up outa the earth like everybody says!”

White Fang, who had several brain cells more than Pink Pig, and more importantly was only on his second cup of wine, took a closer look.

“It could be just one ordinary man with mud all over him,” he suggested. He raised his voice. “Hey, you!”

The figure turned and tried to run.

Pink Pig nudged his friend.

“Is he one of ours?”

“Looking like that?”

“Let’s get him!”

“Why?”

“’Cos he’s running away!”

“Let him run.”

“Maybe he’s got money. Anyway, what’s he running away for?”

Rincewind slid down into another gully. Of all the luck! Soldiers should be where they were expected to be. What had happened to duty and honor and stuff like that?

The gully had dead grass and moss in the bottom.

He stood still and listened to the voices of the two men.

The air was stifling. It was as if the oncoming storm was pushing all the hot air in front of it, turning the plain into a pressure cooker.

And then the ground creaked, and sagged suddenly.

The faces of the absentee soldiers appeared over the edge of the gully.

There was another creak and the ground sank another inch or two. Rincewind didn’t dare breathe in, in case the extra weight of air made him too heavy. And it was very clear that the least activity, such as jumping, was going to make things worse…

Very carefully, he looked down.

The dead moss had given way. He seemed to be standing on a baulk of timber buried in the ground, but dirt pouring around it suggested that there was a hole beneath.

It was going to give way any second n—

Rincewind threw himself forward. The ground fell away underneath so that, instead of standing on a slowly breaking piece of timber, he was hanging with his arms over what felt like another concealed log and, by the feel of it, one which was as riddled with rot as the first one.

This one, possibly out of a desire to conform, began to sag.

And then jolted to a stop.

The faces of the soldiers vanished backwards as the sides of the gully began to slide. Dry earth and small stones slid past Rincewind. He could feel them rattle on his boots and drop away.

He felt, as an expert in these things, that he was over a depth. From his point of view, it was also a height.

The log began to shift again.

This left Rincewind with, as he saw it, two options. He could let go and plunge to an uncertain fate in the darkness, or he could hang on until the timber gave way, and then plunge to an uncertain fate in the darkness.

And then, to his delight, there was a third option. The toe of his boot touched something, a root, a protruding rock. It didn’t matter. It took some of his weight. It took at least enough to put him in precarious equilibrium—not exactly safe, not exactly falling. Of course, it was only a temporary measure, but Rincewind had always considered that life was no more than a series of temporary measures strung together.

A pale yellow butterfly with interesting patterns on its wings fluttered along the gully and settled on the only bit of color available, which turned out to be Rincewind’s hat.

The wood sagged slightly.

“Push off!” said Rincewind, trying not to use heavy language. “Go away!”

The butterfly flattened its wings and sunned itself.

Rincewind pursed his lips and tried to blow up his own nostrils.

Startled, the creature skittered into the air…

“Hah!” said Rincewind.

…and, in response to its instincts in the face of a threat, moved its wings like this and this.

The bushes shivered. And around the sky, the towering clouds curved into unusual patterns.

Another cloud formed. It was about the size of an angry gray balloon. And it started to rain. Not rain generally, but specifically. Specifically on about a square foot of ground which contained Rincewind; specifically, on his hat.

A very small bolt of lightning stung Rincewind on the nose.

“Ah! So we have”—Pink Pig, appearing around the curve of the gully, hesitated a bit before continuing slightly more thoughtfully—“a head in a hole…with a very small thunderstorm above it.”

And then it dawned on him that, storm or no storm, nothing was preventing him from cutting off significant parts. The only significant part available was a head, but that was fine by him.

At which point, Rincewind’s hat having absorbed enough moisture, the ancient wood gave way under the strain and plunged him to an uncertain fate in the darkness.

It was utterly dark.

There had been a painful confusion of tunnels and sliding dirt. Rincewind assumed—or the small part of him that was not sobbing with fear assumed—that the earth had caved in after him. Cave. That was a significant word. He was in a cave. Reaching out carefully, in case he felt something, he felt for something to feel.

There was a straight edge. It led to three more straight edges, going off at right angles. So…this meant slab.

The darkness was still a choking velvet shroud.

Slab meant that there was some other entrance, some proper entrance. Even now guards were probably hurrying towards him.

Perhaps the Luggage was hurrying towards them. It had been acting very funny lately, that was for certain. He was probably better off without it. Probably.

He patted his pockets, saying the mantra that even non-wizards invoke in order to find matches; that is, he said, “Matches, matches, matches,” madly to himself, under his breath.

He found some, and scratched one desperately with his thumbnail.

“Ow!”

The smoky yellow flame lit nothing except Rincewind’s hand and part of his sleeve.

He ventured a few steps before it burned his fingers, and when it died it left a blue afterglow in the darkness of his vision.

There were no sounds of vengeful feet. There were no sounds at all. In theory there should be the drip of water, but the air felt quite dry.

He tried another match, and this time raised it as high as he could and peered ahead.

A seven-foot warrior smiled at him.

Cohen looked up again.

“It’s going to piss down in a minute,” he said. “Will you look at that sky?”

There were hints of purple and red in the mass, and the occasional momentary glow of lightning somewhere inside the clouds.

“Teach?”

“Yes?”

“You know everything. Why’s that cloud looking like that?”

Mr. Saveloy looked where Cohen was pointing. There was a yellowish cloud low on the horizon. Right around the horizon—one thin streak, as though the sun was trying to find a way through.

“Could be the lining?” said Boy Willie.

“What lining?”

“Every cloud’s supposed to have a silver one.”

“Yeah, but that’s more like gold.”

“Well, gold’s cheaper here.”

“Is it me,” said Mr. Saveloy, “or is it getting wider?”

Caleb was staring at the enemy lines.

“There’s been a lot of blokes galloping about on their little horses,” he said. “I hope they get a move on. We don’t want to be here all day.”

“I vote we rushes ’em while they’re not expectin’ it,” said Hamish.

“Hold on…hold on…” said Truckle. There was the sound of many gongs being beaten, and the crackling of fireworks. “Looks like the bas—the lovechilds are moving.”

“Thank goodness for that,” said Cohen. He stood up and stubbed out his cigarette.

Mr. Saveloy trembled with excitement.

“Do we sing a song for the gods before we go into battle?” he said.

“You can if you like,” said Cohen.

“Well, do we say any heathen chants or prayers?”

“Shouldn’t think so,” said Cohen. He glanced up at the horizon-girdling band. It was unsettling him far more than the approaching enemy. It was wider now, but slightly paler. For just a moment he found himself wishing that there was one god or goddess somewhere whose temple he hadn’t violated, robbed, or burned down.

“Don’t we bang our swords on our shields and utter defiance?” said the teacher hopefully.

“Too late for that, really,” said Cohen.

Mr. Saveloy looked so crestfallen at the lack of pagan splendor that the ancient barbarian was, to his own surprise, moved to add: “But feel free, if that’s what you want.”

The Horde drew their various swords. In Hamish’s case, another axe was produced from under his rug.

“See you in Heaven!” said Mr. Saveloy excitedly.

“Yeah, right,” said Caleb, eyeing the line of approaching soldiers.

“Where there’s feasting and young ladies and so forth!”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Boy Willie, testing the blade of his sword.

“And carousing and quaffing, I believe!”

“Could be,” said Vincent, trying to ease the tendonitis in his arm.

“And we’ll do that thing, you know, where you throw the axes and cut ladies’ plaits off!”

“Yeah, if you like.”

“But—”

“Whut?”

“The actual feasting…Do they do anything vegetarian?”

And the advancing army screamed and charged.

They rushed at the Horde, almost as fast as the clouds boiling in from every direction.

Rincewind’s brain unfroze slowly, in the darkness and silence of the hill.

It’s a statue, he told himself. That’s all it is. No problem there. Not even a particularly good one. Just a big statue of a man in armor. Look, there’s a couple more, you can just see them at the edge of the light…

“Ow!”

He dropped the match and sucked his fingers.

What he needed now was a wall. Walls had exits. True, they could also be entrances, but now there did not seem much danger of any guards hurrying in here. The air had an ancient smell, with a hint of fox and a slight trace of thunderstorms, but above all it tasted unused.

He crept forward, testing each step with his foot.

Then there was light. A small blue spark jumped off Rincewind’s finger.

Cohen grabbed at his beard. It was straining away from his face.

Mr. Saveloy’s fringe of hair stood out from his head and sparked at the ends.

“Static discharges!” he shouted, above the crackle.

Ahead of them the spears of the enemy glowed at the tips. The charge faltered. There was the occasional shriek as sparks leaped from man to man.

Cohen looked up.

“Oh, my,” he said. “Will you look at that!”

Tiny sparks flickered around Rincewind as he eased himself over the unseen floor.

The word tomb had presented itself for his consideration, and one thing Rincewind knew about large tombs was that their builders were often jolly inventive in the traps and spikes department. They also put in things like paintings and statues, possibly so that the dead had something to look at if they became bored.

Rincewind’s hand touched stone, and he moved carefully sideways. Now and again his feet touched something yielding and soft. He very much hoped it was mud.

And then, right at hand height, was a lever. It stuck out fully two feet.

Now…it could be a trap. But traps were generally, well, traps. The first you knew about them was when your head was rolling along the corridor several yards away. And trap builders tended to be straightforwardly homicidal and seldom required victims to actively participate in their own destruction.

Rincewind pulled it.

The yellow cloud sailed overhead in its millions, moving much faster on the wind they’d created than the slow beating of their wings would suggest. Behind them came the storm.

Mr. Saveloy blinked.

“Butterflies?”

Both sides stopped as the creatures sleeted past. It was even possible to hear the rustle of their wings.

“All right, Teach,” said Cohen. “Explain this one.”

“It, it, it could be a natural phenomenon,” said Mr. Saveloy. “Er…Monarch butterflies, for example, have been known to…er…to tell you the truth, I don’t know…”

The cloud swarmed on towards the hill.

“Not some kind of sign?” said Cohen. “There must have been some temple I didn’t rob.”

“The trouble with signs and portents,” said Boy Willie, “is you never know who they’re for. This’n could be a nice one for Hong and his pals.”

“Then I’m nicking it,” said Cohen.

“You can’t steal a message from the gods!” said Mr. Saveloy.

“Can you see it nailed down anywhere? No? Sure? Right. So it’s mine.”

He raised his sword as the stragglers fluttered past overhead.

“The gods smile on us!” he bellowed. “Hahaha!”

“Hahaha?” whispered Mr. Saveloy.

“Just to worry ’em,” said Cohen.

He glanced at the other members of the Horde. Each man nodded, very slightly.

“All right, lads,” he said quietly. “This is it.”

“Er…what do I do?” said Mr. Saveloy.

“Think of something to make yourself good and angry. That gets the ole blood boiling. Imagine the enemy is everything you hate.”

“Head teachers,” said Mr. Saveloy.

“Good.”

“Sports masters!” shouted Mr. Saveloy.

“Yep.”

“Boys who chew gum!” screamed Mr. Saveloy.

“Look at him, steam coming out of his ears already,” said Cohen. “First one to the afterlife gets ’em in. Charge!”

The yellow cloud thronged up the slopes of the hill and then, carried on the uprising wind, rose.

Above it the storm rose, too, piling up and up and spreading into a shape something like a hammer—

It struck.

Lightning hit the iron pagoda so hard that it exploded into white-hot fragments.

It is confusing for an entire army to be attacked by seven old men. No book of tactics is up to the task of offering advice. There is a tendency towards bafflement.

The soldiers backed away in the face of the rush and then, driven by currents in the great mass of men, closed in behind.

A solid circle of shields surrounded the Horde. It buckled and swayed under the press of men, and also under the blows rained on it by Mr. Saveloy’s sword.

“Come on, fight!” he shouted. “Smoke pipes at me, would you? You! That boy there! Answer me back, eh! Take that!”

Cohen looked at Caleb, who shrugged. He’d seen berserk rages in his time, but nothing quite so incandescent as Mr. Saveloy.

The circle broke as a couple of men tried to dart backwards and cannoned into the rank behind and then rebounded on to the swords of the Horde. One of Hamish’s wheels caught a soldier a vicious blow on the knee and, as he bent over, one of Hamish’s axes met him coming the other way.

It wasn’t speed. The Horde couldn’t move very fast. But it was economy. Mr. Saveloy had remarked on it. They were simply always where they wanted to be, which was never where someone’s sword was. They let everyone else do the running around. A soldier would risk a slash in the direction of Truckle and find Cohen rising in front of him, grinning and swinging, or Boy Willie giving him a nod of acknowledgement and a stab. Occasionally one of the Horde took time to parry a blow aimed at Mr. Saveloy, who was far too excited to defend himself.

“Pull back, you bloody fools!”

Lord Hong appeared behind the throng, his horse rearing, his helmet visor flung back.

The soldiers tried to obey. Finally, the press eased a little, and then opened. The Horde were left in a widening ring of shields. There was something like silence, broken only by the endless thunder and the crackle of lightning on the hill.

And then, pushing their way angrily through the soldiers, came an altogether different breed of warrior. They were taller, and heavier armored, with splendid helmets and moustaches that looked like a declaration of war in themselves.

One of them glared at Cohen.

“Orrrrr! Itiyorshu! Yutimishu!”

“Wassat?” said Cohen.

“He’s a samurai,” said Mr. Saveloy, wiping his forehead. “The warrior caste. I think that’s their formal challenge. Er. Would you like me to fight him?”

One samurai glared at Cohen. He pulled a scrap of silk out of his armor and tossed it into the air. His other hand grabbed the hilt of his long, thin sword…

There was hardly even a hiss, but three shreds of silk tumbled gently to the ground.

“Get back, Teach,” said Cohen slowly. “I reckon this one’s mine. Got another hanky? Thanks.”

The samurai looked at Cohen’s sword. It was long, heavy and had so many notches it could have been used as a saw.

“You’ll never do it,” he said. “With that sword? Never.”

Cohen blew his nose noisily.

“You say?” he said. “Watch this.”

The handkerchief soared into the air. Cohen gripped his sword…

He’d beheaded three upward-staring samurai before the handkerchief started to tumble. Other members of the Horde, who tended to think in much the same way as their leader, had accounted for half a dozen more.

“Got the idea from Caleb,” said Cohen. “And the message is: either fight or muck about, it’s up to you.”

“Have you no honor?” screamed Lord Hong. “Are you just a ruffian?”

“I’m a barbarian,” shouted Cohen. “And the honor I got, see, is mine. I didn’t steal it off’f someone else.”

“I had wanted to take you alive,” said Lord Hong. “However, I see no reason to stick to this policy.”

He drew his sword.

“Back, you scum!” he screamed. “Right back! Let the bombardiers come forward!” He looked back at Cohen. His face was flushed. His spectacles were askew.

Lord Hong had lost his temper. And, as is always the case when a dam bursts, it engulfs whole countries.

The soldiers pulled back.

The Horde were, once again, in a widening circle.

“What’s a bombardier?” said Boy Willie.

“Er, I believe it must mean people who fire some sort of projectile,” said Mr. Saveloy. “The word derives from—”

“Oh, archers,” said Boy Willie, and spat.

“Whut?”

“He said THEY’RE GOING TO USE ARCHERS, Hamish!”

“Heheh, we never let archers stop us at the Battle of Koom Valley!” cackled the antique barbarian.

Boy Willie sighed.

“That was between dwarfs and trolls, Hamish,” he said. “And you ain’t either. So whose side were you on?”

“Whut?”

“I said WHOSE SIDE WERE YOU ON?”

“I were on the side of being paid money to fight,” said Hamish.

“Best side there is.”

Rincewind lay on the floor with his hands over his ears.

The sound of thunder filled the underground chamber. Blue and purple light shone so brightly that he could see it through his eyelids.

Finally the cacophony subsided. There were still the sounds of the storm outside, but the light had faded to a blue-white glow, and the sound into a steady humming.

Rincewind risked rolling over and opening his eyes.

Hanging from rusted chains in the roof were big glass globes. Each one was the size of a man, and lightning crackled and sizzled inside, stabbing at the glass, seeking a way out.

At one time there must have been many more. But dozens of the big globes had fallen down over the years, and lay in pieces on the floor. There were still scores up there, swaying gently on their chains as the imprisoned thunderstorms fought for their freedom.

The air felt greasy. Sparks crawled over the floor and crackled on each angle.

Rincewind stood up. His beard streamed out as a mass of individual hairs.

The lightning globes shone down on a round lake of, to judge from the ripples, pure quicksilver. In the center was a low, five-sided island. As Rincewind stared, a boat came drifting gently around to his side of the pool, making little slupslup noises as it moved through the mercury.

It was not a lot larger than a rowing boat and, lying on its tiny deck, was a figure in armor. Or possibly just the armor. If it was just empty armor, then it was lying in the arms-folded position of a suit of armor that has passed away.

Rincewind sidled around the silver lake until he reached a slab of what looked very much like gold, set in the floor in front of a statue.

He knew you got inscriptions in tombs, although he was never sure who it was who was supposed to read them. The gods, possibly, although surely they knew everything already? He’d never considered that they’d cluster round and say things like, “Gosh, ‘Dearly Beloved’ was he? I never knew that.”

This one simply said, in pictograms: One Sun Mirror.

There wasn’t anything about mighty conquests. There was no list of his tremendous achievements. There was nothing down there about wisdom or being the father of his people. There was no explanation. Whoever knows this name, it seemed to say, knows everything. And there was no admitting the possibility that anyone getting this far would not have heard the name of One Sun Mirror.

The statue looked like porcelain. It had been painted quite realistically. One Sun Mirror seemed an ordinary sort of man. You would not have pointed him out in a crowd as Emperor material. But this man, with his little round hat and little round shield and little round men on little round ponies, had glued together a thousand warring factions into one great Empire, often using their own blood to do it.

Rincewind looked closer. Of course, it was just an impression, but around the set of the mouth and the look of the eyes there was an expression he’d last seen on the face of Ghenghiz Cohen.

It was the expression of someone who was absolutely and totally unafraid of anything.

The little boat headed towards the far side of the lake.

One of the globes flickered a little and then faded to red. It winked out. Another followed it.

He had to get out.

There was something else, though. At the foot of the statue, lying as if they’d just been dropped there, were a helmet, a pair of gauntlets, and two heavy-looking boots.

Rincewind picked up the helmet. It didn’t look very strong, but it did look quite light. Normally he didn’t bother with protective clothing, reasoning that the best defense against threatening danger was to be on another continent, but right now the idea of armor had its attractions.

He removed his hat, put the helmet on, pulled down the visor, and then wedged the hat on top of the helmet.

There was a flicker in front of his eyes and Rincewind was staring at the back of his own head. It was a grainy picture, and it was in shades of green rather than proper colors, but it was definitely the back of his own head he was looking at. People had told him what it looked like.

He raised the visor and blinked.

The pool was still in front of him.

He lowered the visor.

There he was, about fifty feet away, with this helmet on his head.

He waved a hand up and down.

The figure in the visor waved a hand up and down.

He turned around and faced himself. Yep. That was him.

Okay, he thought. A magic helmet. It lets you see yourself a long way away. Great. You can have fun watching yourself fall into holes you can’t see because they’re right up close.

He turned around again, raised the visor and inspected the gloves. They seemed as light as the helmet but quite clumsy. You could hold a sword, but not much else.

He tried one on. Immediately, with a faint sizzling noise, a row of little pictures lit up on the wide cuff. They showed soldiers. Soldiers digging, soldiers fighting, soldiers climbing…

Ah. So…magic armor. Perfectly normal magic armor. It had never been very popular in Ankh-Morpork. Of course, it was light. You could make it as thin as cloth. But it tended to lose its magic without warning. Many an ancient lord’s last words had been, “You can’t kill me because I’ve got magic aaargh.”

Rincewind looked at the boots, with suspicious recollection of the trouble there had been with the University’s prototype Seven League Boots. Footwear which tried to make you take steps twenty-one miles long imposed unfortunate groinal strains; they’d got the things off the student just in time, but he’d still had to wear a special device for several months, and ate standing up.

All right, but even old magic armor would be useful now. It wasn’t as if it weighed much, and the mud of Hunghung hadn’t improved what was left of his own boots. He put his feet into them.

He thought: Well, so what is supposed to happen now?

He straightened up.

And behind him, with the sound of seven thousand flower pots smashing together, the lightning still crackling over them, the Red Army came to attention.

Hex had grown a bit during the night. Adrian Turnipseed, who had been on duty to feed the mice and rewind the clockwork and clean out the dead ants, had sworn that he’d done nothing else and that no one had come in.

But now, where there had been the big clumsy arrangement of blocks so that the results could be read, was a quill pen in the middle of a network of pulleys and levers.

“Watch,” said Adrian, nervously tapping out a very simple problem. “It’s come up with this after doing all those spells at suppertime…”

The ants scuttled. The clockwork spun. The springs and levers jerked so sharply that Ponder took a step back.

The quill pen wobbled over to an inkwell, dipped, returned to the sheet of paper Adrian had put under the levers, and began to write.

“It blots a bit,” he said, in a helpless tone of voice. “What’s happening?”

Ponder had been thinking further about this. The latest conclusions hadn’t been comforting.

“Well…we know that books containing magic become a little bit…sapient…” he began. “And we’ve made a machine for…”

“You mean it’s alive?”

“Come on, let’s not get all occult about this,” said Ponder, trying to sound jovial. “We’re wizards, after all.”

“Listen, you know that long problem in thaumic fields you wanted me to put in?”

“Yes. Well?”

“It gave me the answer at midnight,” said Adrian, his face pale.

“Good.”

“Yes, good, except that I didn’t actually give it the problem until half past one, Ponder.”

“You’re telling me you got the answer before you asked the question?”

“Yes!”

“Why did you ask the question, then?”

“I thought about it, and I thought maybe I had to. I mean, it couldn’t have known what the answer was going to be if I didn’t give it the problem, yes?”

“Good point. Er. You waited ninety minutes, though.”

Adrian looked at his pointy boots.

“I…was hiding in the privy. Well, Redo from Start could—”

“All right, all right. Go and have something to eat.”

“Are we meddling with things we don’t understand, Ponder?”

Ponder looked up at the gnomic bulk of the machine. It didn’t seem threatening, merely…other.

He thought: meddle first, understand later. You had to meddle a bit before you had anything to try to understand. And the thing was never, ever, to go back and hide in the Lavatory of Unreason. You have to try to get your mind around the Universe before you can give it a twist.

Perhaps we shouldn’t have given you a name. We didn’t think about that. It was a joke. But we should have remembered that names are important. A thing with a name is a bit more than a thing.

“Off you go, Adrian,” he said firmly.

He sat down and carefully typed:

Hello.

Things whirred.

The quill wrote:

+++ ?????? +++ Hello +++ Redo From Start +++

Far above, a butterfly—its wings an undistinguished yellow, with black markings—fluttered through an open window.

Ponder began the calculations for the transfer between Hunghung and Ankh-Morpork.

The butterfly alighted for a moment on the maze of glass pipes. When it rose again, it left behind a very small blob of nectar.

Ponder typed carefully, far below.

A small but significant ant, one of the scurrying thousands, emerged from a break in the tube and spent a few seconds sucking at the sweet liquid before going back to work.

After a while, Hex gave an answer. Apart from one small but significant point, it was entirely correct.

Rincewind turned around.

With an echoing chorus of creaks and groans, the Red Army turned around, too.

And it was red. It was the same color, Rincewind realized, as the soil.

He’d bumped into a few statues in the darkness. He hadn’t realized that there were this many. They stretched, rank on rank, into the distant shadows.

Experimentally, he turned around. Behind him, there was another chorus of stampings.

After a few false starts he found that the only way to end up facing them was to take off the boots, turn, and put the boots on again.

He lowered the visor for a moment, and saw himself lowering the visor for a moment.

He stuck up an arm. They stuck out their arms. He jumped up and down. They jumped up and down, with a crash that made the globes swing. Lightning sizzled from their boots.

He felt a sudden hysterical urge to laugh.

He touched his nose. They touched their noses. He made, with terrible glee, the traditional gesture for the dismissal of demons. Seven thousand terracotta middle fingers stabbed towards the ceiling.

He tried to calm down.

The word his mind had been groping for finally surfaced, and it was golem.

There were one or two of them, even in Ankh-Morpork. You were bound to get them in any area where you had wizards or priests of an experimental turn of mind. They were usually just figures made out of clay and animated with some suitable spell or prayer. They pottered about doing simple odd jobs, but they were not very fashionable these days. The problem was not putting them to work but stopping them from working; if you set a golem to digging the garden and then forgot about it, you’d come back to find it’d planted a row of beans 1500 miles long.

Rincewind looked down at one of the gloves.

He cautiously touched the little picture of a fighting soldier.

The sound of seven thousand swords being simultaneously unsheathed was like the tearing of a thick sheet of steel. Seven thousand points were pointed right at Rincewind.

He took a step back. So did the army.

He was in a place with thousands of artificial soldiers wearing swords. The fact that he appeared to have control of them was no great comfort. He’d theoretically had control of Rincewind for the whole of his life, and look what had happened to him.

He looked at the little pictures again. One of them showed a soldier with two heads. When he touched it, the army turned about smartly. Ah.

Now to get out of here…

The Horde watched the bustle among Lord Hong’s men. Objects were being dragged to the front line.

“They don’t look like archers to me,” said Boy Willie.

“Those things are Barking Dogs,” said Cohen. “I should know. Seen ’em before. They’re like a barrel full of fireworks, and when the fireworks are lit a big stone comes rushing out of the other end.”

“Why?”

“Well, would you hang around if someone had just lit a firework by your arse?”

“Here, Teach, he said ‘arse’,” complained Truckle. “Look, on my bit of paper here it says you mustn’t say—”

“We’ve got shields, haven’t we?” said Mr. Saveloy. “I’m sure if we keep close together and put the shields over our heads we’ll be as right as rain.”

“The stone’s about a foot across and going very fast and it’s red hot.”

“Not shields, then?”

“No,” said Cohen. “Truckle, you push Hamish—”

“We won’t get fifty yards, Ghenghiz,” said Caleb.

“Better fifty yards now than six feet in a minute, yes?” said Cohen.

“Bravo!” said Mr. Saveloy.

“Whut?”

Lord Hong watched them. He saw the Horde hang their shields around the wheelchair to form a crude traveling wall, and saw the wheels begin to turn.

He raised his sword.

“Fire!”

“Still tamping the charges, o lord!”

“I said fire!”

“Got to prime the Dogs, o lord!”

The bombardiers worked feverishly, spurred on less by terror of Lord Hong than by the onrushing Horde.

Mr. Saveloy’s hair streamed in the wind. He bounded through the dust, waving his sword and screaming.

He’d never been so happy in all his life.

So this was the secret at the heart of it all: to look death right in the face and charge…It made everything so utterly simple.

Lord Hong threw down his helmet. “Fire, you wretched peasants! You scum of the earth! Why must I ask twice! Give me that torch!”

He pushed a bombardier aside, crouched down beside a Dog, heaved on it so that the barrel was pointing at the oncoming Cohen, lifted the torch—

The earth heaved. The Dog reared and rolled sideways.

A round red head, smiling faintly, rose out of the ground.

There were screams in the ranks as the soldiers looked down at the moving dirt under their boots, tried to run on a surface that was just shifting soil, and disappeared in the rising cloud of dust.

The ground caved in.

Then it caved out again as stricken soldiers climbed up one another to escape because, rising gently through the turmoil, was the soil in human shape.

The Horde skidded to a halt.

“What’re they? Trolls?” said Cohen. Ten of the figures were visible now, industriously digging at the air.

Then they stopped. One of them turned its gently smiling head this way and that.

A sergeant must have screamed a handful of archers into line, because a few arrows shattered on the terracotta armor, with absolutely no effect.

Other red warriors were climbing up behind the former diggers. They collided with them, with a sound of crockery. Then, as one man—or troll, or demon—they drew their swords, turned around, and headed towards Lord Hong’s army.

A few soldiers tried to fight them simply because there was too great a crowd behind them to run away. They died.

It wasn’t that the red guards were good fighters. They were very mechanical, each one performing the same thrust, parry, slash, regardless of what their opponent was doing. But they were simply unstoppable. If their opponent escaped one of the blows but didn’t get out of the way then he was just trodden on—and by the looks of things, the warriors were extremely heavy.

And it was the way the things smiled all the time that added to the terror.

“Well, now, there’s a thing,” Cohen said, feeling for his tobacco pouch.

“Never seen trolls fight like that,” said Truckle. Rank after rank was walking up out of the hole, stabbing happily at the air.

The front row were moving in a cloud of dust and screams. It is hard for a big army to do anything quickly, and divisions trying to move forward to see what the trouble was were getting in the way of fleeing individuals seeking a hole to hide in and permanent civilian status. Gongs were banging and men were trying to shout orders, but no one knew what the gongs were meant to mean or how the orders should be obeyed, because there didn’t seem to be enough time.

Cohen finished rolling his cigarette, and struck a match on his chin.

“Right,” he said, to the world in general. “Let’s get that bloody Hong.”

The clouds overhead were less fearsome now. There was less lightning. But there were still a lot of them, greeny-black, heavy with rain.

“But this is amazing!” said Mr. Saveloy.

A few drops hit the ground, leaving wide craters in the dirt.

“Yeah, right,” said Cohen.

“A most strange phenomenon! Warriors rising out of the ground!”

The craters joined up. It felt as though the drops were joining up as well. The rain began to pour down.

“Dunno,” said Cohen, watching a ragged platoon flee past. “Never been here before. P’raps this happens a lot.”

“I mean, it’s just like that myth about the man who sowed dragons’ teeth and terrible fighting skeletons came up!”

“I don’t believe that,” said Caleb, as they jogged after Cohen.

“Why not?”

“If you sow dragons’ teeth, you should get dragons. Not fighting skeletons. What did it say on the packet?”

“I don’t know! The myth never said anything about them coming in a packet!”

“Should’ve said ‘Comes up Dragons’ on the packet.”

“You can’t believe myths,” said Cohen. “I should know. Right…there he is…” he added, pointing to a distant horseman.

The whole plain was in turmoil now. The red warriors were only the start. The alliance of the five warlords was glass fragile in any case, and panicky flight was instantly interpreted as sneak attack. No one paid any attention to the Horde. They didn’t have any colored pennants or gongs. They weren’t traditional enemies. And, besides, the soil was now mud, and the mud flew, and everyone from the waist down was the same color and this was rising.

“What’re we doing, Ghenghiz?” said Mr. Saveloy.

“We’re heading back for the palace.”

“Why?”

“’Cos that’s where Hong’s gone.”

“But there’s this astonishing—”

“Look, Teach, I’ve seen walking trees and spider gods and big green things with teeth,” said Cohen. “It’s no good goin’ around saying ‘astonishing’ all the time, ain’t that so, Truckle?”

“Right. D’you know, when I went after that Five-Headed Vampire Goat over in Skund they said I shouldn’t on account of it being an endangered species? I said, yes, that was down to me. Were they grateful?”

“Huh,” said Caleb. “Should’ve thanked you, giving them all those endangered species to worry about. Turn around and go home right now, soldier boy!”

A group of soldiers, fighting to get away from the red warriors, skidded in the mud, stared in terror at the Horde, and headed off in a new direction.

Truckle stopped for breath, rain streaming off his beard.

“I can’t be having with this running, though,” he said. “Not and push Hamish’s wheelchair in all this mud. Let’s have a breather.”

“Whut?”

“Stopping for a breather?” said Cohen. “My gods! I never thought I’d see the day! A hero having a rest? Did Voltan the Indestructible have a bit of a rest?”

“He’s having one now. He’s dead, Ghenghiz,” said Caleb.

Cohen hesitated.

“What, old Voltan?”

“Didn’t you know? And the Immortal Jenkins.”

“Jenkins isn’t dead, I saw him only last year.”

“But he’s dead now. All the heroes are dead, ’cept us. And I ain’t too sure about me, too.”

Cohen splashed forward and snatched Caleb upright by his shirt.

“What about Hrun? He can’t be dead. He’s half our age!”

“Last I heard he got a job. Sergeant of the Guard somewhere.”

“Sergeant of the Guard?” said Cohen. “What, for pay?”

“Yep.”

“But…what, like, for pay?”

“He told me he might make Captain next year. He said…he said it’s a job with a pension.”

Cohen released his grip.

“There’s not many of us now, Cohen,” said Truckle.

Cohen spun around.

“All right, but there’s never been many of us! And I ain’t dyin’! Not if it means the world’s taken over by bastards like Hong, who don’t know what a chieftain is. Scum. That’s what he called his soldiers. Scum. It’s like that bloody civilized game you showed us, Teach!”

“Chess?”

“Right. The prawns are just there to be slaughtered by the other side! While the king just hangs around at the back.”

“Yeah, but the other side’s you, Cohen.”

“Right! Right…well, yes, that’s fine when I’m the enemy. But I don’t shove men in front of me to get killed instead of me. And I never use bows and them dog things. When I kill someone it’s up close and personal. Armies? Bloody tactics? There’s only one way to fight, and that’s everyone charging all at once, waving their swords and shouting! Now on your feet and let’s get after him!”

“It’s been a long morning, Ghenghiz,” said Boy Willie.

“Don’t give me that!”

“I could do with the lavatory. It’s all this rain.”

“Let’s get Hong first.”

“If he’s hiding in the privy that’s fine by me.”

They reached the city gates. They had been shut. Hundreds of people, citizens as well as guards, watched them from the walls.

Cohen waved a finger at them.

“Now I ain’t gonna say this twice,” he said. “I’m coming in, okay? It can be the easy way, or it can be the hard way.”

Impassive faces looked down at the skinny old man, and up at the plain, where the armies of the warlords fought one another and, in terror, the terracotta warriors. Down. Up. Down. Up.

“Right,” said Cohen. “Don’t say afterwards I didn’t warn youse.”

He raised his sword and prepared to charge.

“Wait,” said Mr. Saveloy. “Listen…”

There was shouting behind the walls, and some confused orders, and then more shouting. And then a couple of screams.

The gates swung open, pulled by dozens of citizens.

Cohen lowered his sword.

“Ah,” he said, “they’ve seen reason, have they?”

Wheezing a little, the Horde limped through the gates. The crowd watched them in silence. Several guards lay dead. Rather more had removed their helmets and decided to opt for a bright new future in Civvy Street, where you were less likely to get beaten to death by an angry mob.

Every face watched Cohen, turning to follow him as flowers follow the sun.

He ignored them.

“Crowdie the Strong?” he said to Caleb.

“Dead.”

“Can’t be. He was a picture of health when I saw him a coupla months ago. Going on a new quest and everything.”

“Dead.”

“What happened?”

“You know the Terrible Man-eating Sloth of Clup?”

“The one they say guards the giant ruby of the mad snake god?”

“The very same. Well…it was.”

The crowd parted to let the Horde through. One or two people tried a cheer, but were shushed into silence. It was a silence that Mr. Saveloy had only heard before in the most devout of temples.^*

There was a whispering, though, growing out of that watchful silence like bubbles in a pot of water on a hot fire.

It went like this.

The Red Army. The Red Army.

“How about Organdy Sloggo? Still going strong down in Howondaland, last I heard.”

“Dead. Metal poisoning.”

“How?”

“Three swords through the stomach.”

The Red Army!

“Slasher Mungo?”

“Presumed dead in Skund.”

“Presumed?”

“Well, they only found his head.”

The Red Army!

The Horde approached the inner gates of the Forbidden City. The crowd followed them at a distance.

These gates were shut, too. A couple of heavyset guards were standing in front of them. They wore the expressions of men who’d been told to guard the gates and were going to guard the gates come what may. The military depends on people who will guard gates or bridges or passes come what may and there are often heroic poems written in their honor, invariably posthumously.

“Gosbar the Wake?”

“Died in bed, I heard.”

“Not old Gosbar!”

“Everyone’s got to sleep some time.”

“That’s not the only thing they’ve got to do, mister,” said Boy Willie. “I really need the wossname.”

“Well, there’s the Wall.”

“Not with everyone watching! That ain’t…civilized.”

Cohen strode up to the guards.

“I’m not mucking about,” he said. “Okay? Would you rather die than betray your Emperor?”

The guards stared ahead.

“Right, fair enough.” Cohen drew his sword. A thought seemed to strike him.

“Nurker?” he said. “Big Nurker? Tough as old boots, him.”

“Fishbone,” said Caleb.

“Nurker? He once killed six trolls with a—”

“Choked on a fishbone in his gruel. I thought you knew. Sorry.”

Cohen stared at him. And then at his sword. And then at the guards. For a moment there was silence, broken only by the sound of the rain.

“Y’know, lads,” he said, in a voice so suddenly full of weariness that Mr. Saveloy felt a pit opening up, here, at the moment of triumph, “I was goin’ to chop your heads off. But…what’s the point, eh? I mean, when you get right down to it, why bother? What sort of difference does it make?”

The guards still stared straight ahead. But their eyes were widening.

Mr. Saveloy turned.

“You’ll end up dead anyway, sooner or later,” Cohen went on. “Well, that’s about it. You live your life best way you can and then it don’t actually matter, ’cos you’re dead—”

“Er. Cohen?” said Mr. Saveloy.

“I mean, look at me. Been chopping heads off my whole life and what’ve I got to show for it?”

“Cohen…”

The guards weren’t just staring now. Their faces were dragging themselves into very creditable grimaces of fear.

“Cohen?”

“Yeah, what?”

“I think you should look round, Cohen.”

Cohen turned.

Half a dozen red warriors were advancing up the street. The crowd had pulled right back and were watching in silent terror.

Then a voice shouted: “Extended Duration To The Red Army!”

Cries rose up here and there in the crowd. A young woman raised her hand in a clenched fist.

“Advance Necessarily With The People While Retaining Due Regard For Traditions!”

Others joined her.

“Deserved Correction To Enemies!”

“I’ve lost Mr. Bunny!”

The red giants clonked to a halt.

“Look at them!” said Mr. Saveloy. “They’re not trolls! They move like some kind of engine! Doesn’t that interest you?”

“No,” said Cohen, vacantly. “Abstract thinking is not a major aspect of the barbarian mental process. Now then, where was I?” He sighed. “Oh, yes. You two…you’d rather die than betray your Emperor, would you?”

The two men were rigid with fear now.

Cohen raised his sword.

Mr. Saveloy took a deep breath, grabbed Cohen’s sword arm and shouted:

“Then open the gates and let him through!”

There was a moment of utter silence.

Mr. Saveloy nudged Cohen.

“Go on,” he hissed. “Act like an Emperor!”

“What…you mean giggle, have people tortured, that sort of thing? Blow that!”

“No! Act like an Emperor ought to act!”

Cohen glared at Saveloy. Then he turned to the guards.

“Well done,” he said. “Your loyalty does you…wossname…credit. Keep on like this and I can see it’s promotion for both of you. Now let us all go inside or I will have my flowerpot men chop off your feet so you’ll have to kneel in the gutter while you’re looking for your head.”

The men looked at one another, threw down their swords and tried to kowtow.

“And you can bloody well get up, too,” said Cohen, in a slightly nicer tone of voice. “Mr. Saveloy?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Emperor now, am I?”

“The…earth soldiers seem to be on our side. The people think you’ve won. We’re all alive. I’d say we’ve won, yes.”

“If I’m Emperor, I can tell everyone what to do, right?”

“Oh, indeed.”

“Properly. You know. Scrolls and stuff. Buggers in uniform blowing trumpets and saying, ‘This is what he wants you to do.’”

“Ah. You want to make a proclamation.”

“Yeah. No more of this bloody kowtowing. It makes me squirm. No kowtowing by anyone to anyone, all right? If anyone sees me they can salute, or maybe give me some money. But none of this banging your head on the ground stuff. It gives me the willies. Now, dress that up in proper writing.”

“Right away. And—”

“Hang on, haven’t finished yet.” Cohen bit his lip in unaccustomed cogitation, as the red warriors lurched to a stop. “Yeah. You can add that I’m letting all prisoners go free, unless they’ve done something really bad. Like attempted poisoning, for a start. You can work out the details. All torturers to have their heads cut off. And every peasant can have a free pig, something like that. I’ll leave you to put in all the proper curly bits about ‘by order’ and stuff.”

Cohen looked down at the guards.

“Get up, I said. I swear, the next bastard that kisses the ground in front of me is gonna get kicked in the antique chicken coops. Okay? Now open the gates.”

The crowd cheered. As the Horde stepped inside the Forbidden City they followed, in a sort of cross between a revolutionary charge and a respectful walk.

The red warriors stood outside. One of them raised a terracotta foot, which groaned a little, and walked towards the wall until it bumped into it.

The warrior staggered drunkenly for a while and then managed to get within a yard or two of the wall without colliding with it.

It raised a finger and wrote, shakily, in red dust that turned to a kind of paint on the wet plaster:

HELP HELP ITS ME IM OUT HERE ON THEE PLAIN HELP I CANT GET THIS BLODY ARMER OFF.

The crowd surged along behind Cohen, shouting and singing. If he’d had a surfboard, he could have ridden on it. The rain drummed heavily on the roof and poured into the courtyards.

“Why’re they all so excited?” he said.

“They think you’re going to sack the palace,” said Mr. Saveloy. “They’ve heard about barbarians, you see. They want some of it. Anyway, they like the idea about the pig.”

“Hey, you!” shouted Cohen to a boy struggling past under the weight of a huge vase. “Get your thieving paws off my stuff! That’s valuable, that is! It’s a…a…”

“It’s S’ang Dynasty,” said Mr. Saveloy.

“That’s right,” said the vase.

“That’s a S’ang Dynasty, that is! Put it back! And you lot back there—” He turned and waved his sword. “Get those shoes off! You’re scratching the floor! Look at the state of it already!”

“You never bothered about the floor yesterday,” Truckle grumbled.

“’Tweren’t my floor then.”

“Yes, it was,” said Mr. Saveloy.

“Not properly,” said Cohen. “Rite of conquest, that’s the thing. Blood. People understand blood. You just walk in and take over and no one takes it seriously. But seas of blood…Everyone understands that.”

“Mountains of skulls,” said Truckle approvingly.

“Look at history,” said Cohen. “Whenever you—Hey, you, the man with the hat, that’s my…”

“Inlaid mahogany Shibo Yangcong-san table,” murmured Mr. Saveloy.

“—so put it back, d’you hear? Yes, whenever you comes across a king where everyone says, ‘Oo, he was a good king all right,’ you can bet your sandals he was a great big bearded bastard who broke heads a lot and laughed about it. Hey? But some king who just passed decent little laws and read books and tried to look intelligent…‘Oh,’ they say, ‘oh, he was all right, a bit wet, not what I’d call a proper king.’ That’s people for you.”

Mr. Saveloy sighed.

Cohen grinned at him and slapped him on the back so hard he stumbled into two women trying to carry off a bronze statue of Ly Tin Wheedle.

“Can’t quite face it, Teach, can you? Can’t get your mind round it? Don’t worry about it. Basically, you ain’t a barbarian. Put the damn statue back, missus, or you’ll feel the flat of my sword, so you will!”

“But I thought we could do it without anyone getting hurt. By using our brains.”

“Can’t. History don’t work like that. Blood first, then brains.”

“Mountains of skulls,” said Truckle.

“There’s got to be a better way than fighting,” said Mr. Saveloy.

“Yep. Lots of ’em. Only none of ’em work. Caleb, take those…those…”

“—fine Bhong jade miniatures—” muttered Mr. Saveloy.

“—take them off that feller. He’s got one under his hat.”

Another set of carved doors was swung open. This room was already crowded, but the people shuffled backwards as the doors parted and tried to look keen while avoiding catching Cohen’s eye.

As they pulled away they left Six Beneficent Winds standing all alone. The court had become very good at this maneuver.

“Mountains of skulls,” said Truckle, not a man to let go in a hurry.

“Er. We saw the Red Army rise out of the ground, er, just as the legend foretold. Er. Truly you are the preincarnation of One Sun Mirror.”

The little taxman had the decency to look embarrassed. As speeches went it was on a dramatic level with the one that traditionally began, “As you know, your father—the king—” Besides, he’d never believed in legends up to now—not even the one about the peasant who every year filed a scrupulously honest tax return.

“Yeah, right,” said Cohen.

He strode to the throne and stuck his sword in the floor, where it vibrated.

“Some of you are going to get your heads cut off for your own good,” he said. “But I haven’t decided who yet. And someone show Boy Willie where the privy is.”

“No need,” said Boy Willie. “Not after them big red statues turned up behind me so sudden.”

“Mountains of—” Truckle began.

“Dunno about mountains,” said Cohen.

“And where,” said Six Beneficent Winds tremulously, “is the Great Wizard?”

“Great Wizard,” said Cohen.

“Yes, the Great Wizard who summoned the Red Army from the earth,” said the taxman.

“Don’t know anything about him,” said Cohen.

The crowd staggered forward as more people piled into the room.

“They’re coming!”

A terracotta warrior clomped its way into the room, its face still wearing a very faint smile.

It stopped, rocking a little, while water dripped off it.

People had crouched back in terror. Except the Horde, Mr. Saveloy noticed. Faced with unknown yet terrible dangers, the Horde were either angry or puzzled.

Then he cheered up. They weren’t better, just different. They’re all right facing huge terrible creatures, he told himself, but ask them to go down the street and buy a bag of rice and they go all to pieces…

“What’s my move now, Teach?” Cohen whispered.

“Well, you’re Emperor,” said Mr. Saveloy. “I think you talk to it.”

“Okay.”

Cohen stood up and nodded cheerfully at the terracotta giant.

“’Morning,” he said. “Nice bit of work out there. You and the rest of your lads can have the day off to plant geraniums in yourselves or whatever you do. Er. You got a Number One giant I ought to speak to?”

The terracotta warrior creaked as it raised one finger.

Then it pressed two fingers against one forearm, then raised a finger again.

Everyone in the crowd started talking at once.

The giant tugged one vestigial ear with two fingers.

“What can this mean?” said Six Beneficent Winds.

“I find this a little hard to credit,” said Mr. Saveloy, “but it is an ancient method of communication used in the land of blood-sucking vampire ghosts.”

“You can understand it?”

“Oh, yes. I think so. You have to try to guess the word or phrase. It’s trying to tell us…er…one word, two syllables. First syllable sounds like…”

The giant cupped one hand and made circular, handle-turning motions with the other alongside it.

“Turning,” said Mr. Saveloy. “Winding? Reeling? Revolve? Grind? Grind? Chop? Mince—”

The giant tapped its nose hurriedly and did a very heavy, noisy dance, bits of terracotta armor clanking.

“Sounds like mince,” said Mr. Saveloy. “First syllable sounds like mince.”

“Er…”

A ragged figure pushed its way through the crowd. It wore glasses, one lens of which was cracked.

“Er,” it said, “I’ve got an idea about that…”

Lord Fang and some of his more trusted warriors had clustered on the side of the hill. A good general always knows when to leave the battlefield, and as far as Lord Fang was concerned, it was when he saw the enemy coming towards him.

The men were shaken. They hadn’t tried to face the Red Army. Those who had were dead.

“We…regroup,” panted Lord Fang. “And then we’ll wait until nightfall and—What’s that?”

There was a rhythmic noise coming from the bushes further up the slope, where sliding earth had left another bush-filled ravine.

“Sounds like a carpenter, m’lord,” said one of the soldiers.

“Up here? In the middle of a war? Go and see what it is!”

The man scrambled away. After a while there was a pause in the sawing noise. Then it started again.

Lord Fang had been trying to work out a fresh battle plan according to the Nine Useful Principles. He threw down his map.

“Why is that still going on? Where is Captain Nong?”

“Hasn’t come back, m’lord.”

“Then go and see what has happened to him!”

Lord Fang tried to remember if the great military sage had ever had anything to say about fighting giant invulnerable statues. He—

The sawing paused. Then it was replaced by the sound of hammering.

Lord Fang looked around.

“Can I have an order obeyed around here?” he bellowed.

He picked up his sword and scrambled up the muddy slope. The bushes parted ahead of him. There was a clearing. There was a rushing shape, on hundreds of little le—

There was a snap.

The rain was coming down so fast that the drops were having to queue.

The red earth was hundreds of feet deep in places. It produced two or three crops a year. It was rich. It was fecund. It was, when wet, extremely sticky.

The surviving armies had squelched from the field of battle, as red from head to toe as the terracotta men. Not counting those merely trodden on, the Red Army had not in fact killed very many people. Terror had done most of their work. Rather more soldiers had been killed in the brief inter-army battles and, in the scramble to escape, by their own sides.^*

The terracotta army had the field to itself. It was celebrating victory in various ways. Many guards were walking around in circles, wading through the clinging mud as if it was so much dirty air. A number were digging a trench, the sides of which were washing in on them in the thundering rain. A few were trying to climb walls that weren’t there. Several, possibly as a result of the exertion following centuries of zero maintenance, had spontaneously exploded in a shower of blue sparks, the red-hot clay shrapnel being a major factor in the opposition’s death count.

And all the time the rain fell, a solid curtain of water. It didn’t look natural. It was as though the sea had decided to reclaim the land by air drop.

Rincewind shut his eyes. Mud covered the armor. He couldn’t make out the pictures any more, and that was something of a relief because he was pretty certain he was messing things up. You could see what any warrior was seeing—at least, presumably you could, if you knew what some of the odder pictures actually did and how to press them in the right order. Rincewind didn’t, and in any case whoever had made the magic armor hadn’t assumed it would be used in knee-deep mud during a vertical river. Every now and again it sizzled. One of the boots was getting hot.

It had started out so well! But there had been what he was coming to think of as the Rincewind factor. Probably some other wizard would have marched the army out and wouldn’t have been rained on and even now would be parading through the streets of Hunghung while people threw flowers and said, “My word, there’s a Great Wizard and no mistake.”

Some other wizard wouldn’t have pressed the wrong picture and started the things digging.

He realized he was wallowing in self-pity. Rather more pertinently, he was also wallowing in mud. And he was sinking. Trying to pull a foot out was no use—it didn’t work, and the other foot only went deeper, and got hotter.

Lightning struck the ground nearby. He heard it sizzle, saw the steam, felt the tingle of electricity and tasted the taste of burning tin.

Another bolt hit a warrior. Its torso exploded, raining a sticky black tar. The legs kept going for a few steps, and then stopped.

Water poured past him, thick and red now that the river Hung was overflowing. And the mud continued to suck on his feet like a hollow tooth.

Something swirled past on the muddy water. It looked like a scrap of paper.

Rincewind hesitated, then reached out awkwardly with a gloved hand and scooped it up.

It was, as he’d expected, a butterfly.

“Thank you very much,” he said, bitterly.

The water drained through his fingers.

He half closed his hand and then sighed and, as gently as he could, maneuvered the creature on to a finger. Its wings hung damply.

He shielded it with his other hand and blew on the wings a few times.

“Go on, push off.”

The butterfly turned. Its multi-faceted eyes glinted green for a moment and then it flapped its wings experimentally.

It stopped raining.

It started to snow, but only where Rincewind was.

“Oh, yes,” said Rincewind. “Yes indeed. Oh, thank you so very much.”

Life was, he had heard, like a bird which flies out of the darkness and across a crowded hall and then through another window into the endless night again. In Rincewind’s case it had managed to do something incontinent in his dinner.

The snow stopped. The clouds pulled back from the dome of the sky with astonishing speed, letting in hot sunlight which almost immediately made the mud steam.

“There you are! We’ve been looking everywhere!”

Rincewind tried to turn, but the mud made that impossible. There was a wooden thump, as of a plank being laid down on wet ooze.

“Snow on his head? In bright sunshine? I said to myself, that’s him all right.”

There was the thump of another plank.

A small avalanche slid off the helmet and slid down Rincewind’s neck.

Another thump, and a plank squelched into the mud beside him.

“It’s me, Twoflower. Are you all right, old friend?”

“I think my foot is being cooked, but apart from that I’m as happy as anything.”

“I knew it would be you doing the charades,” said Twoflower, sticking his hands under the wizard’s shoulders and hauling.

“You got the ‘Wind’ syllable?” said Rincewind. “That was very hard to do, by remote control.”

“Oh, none of us got that,” said Twoflower, “but when it did ‘ohshitohshitohshit I’m going to die’ everyone got that first go. Very inventive. Er. You seem to be stuck.”

“I think it’s the magic boots.”

“Can’t you wiggle them off? This mud dries like—well, like terracotta in the sun. Someone can come along and dig them out afterwards.”

Rincewind tried to move his feet. There was some sub-mud bubblings and he felt his feet come free, with a muffled slurping noise.

Finally, with considerable effort, he was sitting on the plank.

“Sorry about the warriors,” he said. “It looked so simple when I started out, and then I got confused with all the pictures and it was impossible to stop some of them doing things—”

“But it was a famous victory!” said Twoflower.

“Was it?”

“Mr. Cohen’s been made Emperor!”

“He has?”

“Well, not made, no one made him, he just came along and took it. And everyone says he’s the preincarnation of the first Emperor and he says if you want to be the Great Wizard that’s fine by him.”

“Sorry? You lost me there…”

“You led the Red Army, didn’t you? You made them rise up in the Empire’s hour of need?”

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly say that I—”

“So the Emperor wants to reward you. Isn’t that nice?”

“How do you mean, reward?” said Rincewind, with deep suspicion.

“Not sure, really. Actually, what he said was…” Twoflower’s eyes glazed as he tried to recall. “He said, ‘You go and find Rincewind and say he might be a bit of a pillock but at least he’s straight so he can be Chief Wizard of the Empire or whatever he wants to call it, ’cos I don’t trust you foreign…’” Twoflower squinted upwards as he tried to remember Cohen’s precise words “‘…house of auspicious aspect…scent of pine trees…buggers.’”

The words trickled into Rincewind’s ear, slid up into his brain, and started to bang on the walls.

“Chief Wizard?” he said.

“That’s what he said. Well…actually what he said was he wanted you to be a blob of swallow’s vomit, but that was because he used the low sad tone rather than the high questioning one. He definitely meant wizard.”

“Of the whole Empire?”

Rincewind stood up.

“Something very bad is about to happen,” he said flatly.

The sky was quite blue now. A few citizens had ventured on to the battlefield to tend the wounded and retrieve the dead. Terracotta warriors stood at various angles, motionless as rocks.

“Any minute now,” said Rincewind.

“Shouldn’t we get back?”

“Probably a meteorite strike,” said Rincewind.

Twoflower looked up at the peaceful sky.

“You know me,” said Rincewind. “Just when I’m getting a grip on something Fate comes along and jumps on my fingers.”

“I don’t see any meteorites,” said Twoflower. “How long do we wait?”

“It’ll be something else, then,” said Rincewind. “Someone will come leaping out, or there’ll be an earthquake, or something.”

“If you insist,” said Twoflower, politely. “Um. Do you want to wait for something horrible here or would you like to go back to the palace and have a bath and change your clothes and then see what happens?”

Rincewind conceded that he might as well await a dreadful fate in comfort.

“There’s going to be a feast,” said Twoflower. “The Emperor says he’s going to teach everyone how to quaff.”

They made their way, plank by plank, back towards the city.

“You know, I swear you never told me that you were married.”

“I’m sure I did.”

“I was, er, I was sorry to hear that your wife, er—”

“Things happen in war. I have two dutiful daughters.”

Rincewind opened his mouth to say something but Twoflower’s bright, brittle smile froze the words in his throat.

They worked without speaking, picking up the planks behind them and extending the walkway in front.

“Looking on the bright side,” said Twoflower, breaking the silence, “the Emperor said you could start your own University, if you wanted.”

“No! No! Someone hit me with an iron bar, please!”

“He said he’s well in favor of education provided no one makes him have one. He’s been making proclamations like mad. The eunuchs have threatened to go on strike.”

Rincewind’s plank dropped on to the mud.

“What is it that eunuchs do,” he said, “that they stop doing when they go on strike?”

“Serve food, make the beds, things like that.”

“Oh.”

“They run the Forbidden City, really. But the Emperor talked them round to his point of view.”

“Really?”

“He said if they didn’t get cracking right now he’d cut off everything else. Um, I think the ground’s firm enough now.”

His own University. That’d make him…Archchancellor. Rincewind the Archchancellor pictured himself visiting Unseen University. He could have a hat with a really big point. He’d be able to be rude to everyone. He’d—

He tried to stop himself from thinking like that. It’d all go wrong.

“Of course,” said Twoflower, “it might be that the bad things have already happened to you. Have you considered that? Perhaps you’re due something nice?”

“Don’t give me any of that karma stuff,” said Rincewind. “The wheel of fortune has lost a few spokes where I’m concerned.”

“It’s worth considering, though,” said Twoflower.

“What, that the rest of my life will be peaceful and enjoyable? Sorry. No. You wait. When my back’s turned and—bang!”

Twoflower looked around with some interest.

“I don’t know why you think your life has been so bad,” he said. “We had a lot of fun when we were younger. Hey, do you remember the time when we went over the edge of the world?”

“Often,” said Rincewind. “Usually around 3 A.M.”

“And that time we were on a dragon and it disappeared in midair?”

“You know,” said Rincewind, “sometimes a whole hour will go by when I don’t remember that.”

“And that time we were attacked by those people who wanted to kill us?”

“Which of those one hundred and forty-nine occasions are you referring to?”

“Character building, that sort of thing,” said Twoflower, happily. “Made me what I am today.”

“Oh, yes,” said Rincewind. It was no effort, talking to Twoflower. The little man’s trusting nature had no concept of sarcasm and a keen ability not to hear things that might upset him. “Yes, I can definitely say it was that sort of thing that made me what I am today, too.”

They stepped inside the city. The streets were practically empty. Most people had flocked to the huge square in front of the palace. New Emperors tended towards displays of generosity. Besides, the news had got around that this one was different and was giving away free pigs.

“I heard him talking about sending envoys to Ankh-Morpork,” said Twoflower, as they dripped up the street. “I expect there’s going to be a bit of a fuss about that.”

“Was that man Disembowel-Meself-Honorably present at the time?” said Rincewind.

“Yes, as a matter of fact.”

“When you visited Ankh-Morpork, did you ever meet a man called Dibbler?”

“Oh, yes.”

“If those two ever shake hands I think there might be some sort of explosion.”

“But you could go back, I’m sure,” said Twoflower. “I mean, your new University will need all sorts of things and, well, I seem to recall that people in Ankh-Morpork were very keen on gold.”

Rincewind gritted his teeth. The image wouldn’t go away—of Archchancellor Rincewind buying the Tower of Art and getting them to number all the stones and send it back to Hunghung, of Archchancellor Rincewind hiring all the faculty as college porters, of Archchancellor Rincewi…

“No!”

“Pardon?”

“Don’t encourage me to think like that! The moment I think that it’s all going to be worthwhile something dreadful will happen!”

There was a movement behind him, and a knife suddenly pressed against his throat.

“The Great Blob of Swallow’s Vomit?” said a voice by his ear.

“There,” said Rincewind. “You see? Run away! Don’t stand there, you bloody idiot! Run!”

Twoflower stared for a moment and then turned and scampered away.

“Let him go,” said the voice. “He doesn’t matter.”

Hands pulled him into the alley. He had a vague impression of armor, and mud; his captors were skilled in the way of dragging a prisoner so that he had no chance to get a foothold anywhere.

Then he was flung on to the cobbles.

“He does not look so great to me,” said an imperious voice. “Look up, Great Wizard!”

There was some nervous laughter from the soldiers.

“You fools!” raged Lord Hong. “He is just a man! Look at him! Does he look so powerful? He is just a man who has found some old trickery! And we will find out how great he is without his arms and legs.”

“Oh,” said Rincewind.

Lord Hong leaned down. There was mud on his face and a wild glint in his eyes. “We shall see what your barbarian Emperor can do then, won’t we?” He indicated the sullen group of mud-encrusted soldiers. “You know, they half believe you really are a great wizard? That’s superstition, I’m afraid. Very useful most of the time, damn inconvenient on occasion. But when we march you into the square and show them how great you really are, I think your barbarian will not have so very long left. What are these?”

He snatched the gloves off Rincewind’s hands.

“Toys,” he said. “Made things. The Red Army are just machines, like mills and pumps. There’s no magic there.”

He tossed them aside and nodded at one of the guards.

“And now,” said Lord Hong, “let us go to the Imperial Square.”

“How’d you like to be governor of Bhangbhangduc and all these islands around here?” said Cohen, as the Horde pored over a map of the Empire. “You like the seaside, Hamish?”

“Whut?”

The doors of the Throne Room were flung open. Twoflower scuttled in, trailed by One Big River.

“Lord Hong’s got Rincewind! He’s going to kill him!”

Cohen looked up.

“He can wizard himself out of it, can’t he?”

“No! He hasn’t got the Red Army anymore! He’s going to kill him! You’ve got to do something!”

“Ach, well, you know how it is with wizards,” said Truckle. “There’s too many of ’em as it is—”

“No.” Cohen picked up his sword and sighed.

“Come on,” he said.

“But, Cohen—”

“I said come on. We ain’t like Hong. Rincewind’s a weasel, but he’s our weasel. So are you coming or what?”

Lord Hong and his group of soldiers had almost reached the bottom of the wide steps to the palace when the Horde emerged. The crowd surrounded them, held back by the soldiers.

Lord Hong held Rincewind tightly, a knife at his throat.

“Ah, Emperor,” he said, in Ankh-Morporkian. “We meet again. Check, I think.”

“What’s he mean?” Cohen whispered.

“He thinks he has you cornered,” said Mr. Saveloy.

“How’s he know I won’t just let the wizard die?”

“Psychology of the individual, I’m afraid.”

“It doesn’t make any sense!” Cohen shouted. “If you kill him, you’ll be dead yourself in seconds. I shall see to it pers’nally!”

“Indeed, no,” said Lord Hong. “When your…Great Wizard…is dead, when people see how easily he dies…how long will you be Emperor? You won by trickery!”

“What are your terms?” said Mr. Saveloy.

“There are none. You can give me nothing I cannot take myself.” Lord Hong grabbed Rincewind’s hat from one of the guards and rammed it on to Rincewind’s head.

“This is yours,” he hissed. “‘Wizzard’ hah! You can’t even spell! Well, wizzard? Aren’t you going to say something?”

“Oh, no!”

Lord Hong smiled. “Ah, that’s better,” he said.

“Oh, noooooo!”

“Very good!”

“Aarrgh!”

Lord Hong blinked. For a moment the figure in front of him appeared to stretch to twice its height and then have its feet snap up under its chin.

And then it disappeared, with a small thunderclap.

There was silence in the square, except for the sound of several thousand people being astonished.

Lord Hong waved his hand vaguely in the air.

“Lord Hong?”

He turned. There was a short man behind him, covered in grime and mud. He wore a pair of spectacles, one lens of which was cracked.

Lord Hong hardly glanced at him. He prodded the air again, unwilling to believe his own senses.

“Excuse me, Lord Hong,” said the apparition, “but do you by any chance remember Bes Pelargic? About six years ago? I think you were quarreling with Lord Tang? There was something of a skirmish. A few streets destroyed. Nothing very major.”

Lord Hong blinked.

“How dare you address me!” he managed.

“It doesn’t really matter,” said Twoflower. “But it’s just that I’d have liked you to have remembered. I got…quite angry about it. Er. I want to fight you.”

“You want to fight me? Do you know who you are talking to? Have you any idea?”

“Er. Yes. Oh, yes,” said Twoflower.

Lord Hong’s attention finally focused. It had not been a good day.

“You foolish, stupid little man! You don’t even have a sword!”

“Oi! Four-eyes!”

They both turned. Cohen threw his sword. Twoflower caught it clumsily and was almost knocked over by the weight.

“Why did you do that?” said Mr. Saveloy.

“Man wants to be a hero. That’s fine by me,” said Cohen.

“He’ll be slaughtered!”

“Might do. Might do. Might do. He might do that, certainly,” Cohen conceded. “That’s not up to me.”

“Father!”

Lotus Blossom grabbed Twoflower’s arm.

“He will kill you! Come away!”

“No.”

Butterfly took her father’s other arm.

“No good purpose will be served,” she said. “Come on. We can find a better time—”

“He killed your mother,” said Twoflower flatly.

“His soldiers did.”

“That makes it worse. He didn’t even know. Please get back, both of you.”

“Look, Father—”

“If you don’t both do what you’re told I shall get angry.”

Lord Hong drew his long sword. The blade gleamed.

“Do you know anything about fighting, clerk?”

“No, not really,” said Twoflower. “But the important thing is that someone should stand up to you. Whatever happens to them afterwards.”

The Horde were watching with considerable interest. Hardened as they were, they had a soft spot for pointless bravery.

“Yes,” said Lord Hong, looking around at the silent crowd. “Let everyone see what happens.”

He raised his sword.

The air crackled.

The Barking Dog dropped on to the flagstones in front of him.

It was very hot. Its string was alight.

There was a brief sizzle.

Then the world went white.

After some time, Twoflower picked himself up. He seemed to be the first one upright; those people who hadn’t flung themselves to the ground had fled.

All that remained of Lord Hong was one shoe, which was smouldering. But there was a smoking trail all the way up the steps behind it.

Staggering a little, Twoflower followed the trail.

A wheelchair was on its side, one wheel spinning.

He peered over it.

“You all right, Mr. Hamish?”

“Whut?”

“Good.”

The rest of the Horde were crouched in a circle at the top of the steps. Smoke billowed around them. In its continuing passage, the ball had set fire to part of the palace.

“Can you hear me, Teach?” Cohen was saying.

“’Course he can’t hear you! How can he hear you, looking like that?” said Truckle.

“He could still be alive,” said Cohen defiantly.

“He is dead, Cohen. Really, really dead. Alive people have more body.”

“But you’re all alive?” said Twoflower. “I saw it bark straight at you!”

“We got out of the way,” said Boy Willie. “We’re good at getting out of the way.”

“Poor ole Teach didn’t have our experience of not dyin’,” said Caleb.

Cohen stood up.

“Where’s Hong?” he said grimly. “I’m going to—”

“He’s dead, too, Mr. Cohen,” said Twoflower.

Cohen nodded, as if this was all perfectly normal.

“We owe it to ole Teach,” he said.

“He was a good sort,” Truckle conceded. “Funny ideas about swearing, mind you.”

“He had brains. He cared about stuff! And he might not have lived like a barbarian, but he’s bloody well going to be buried like one, all right?”

“In a longship, set on fire,” suggested Boy Willie.

“My word,” said Mr. Saveloy.

“In a big pit, on top of the bodies of his enemies,” suggested Caleb.

“Good heavens, all of 4B?” said Mr. Saveloy.

“In a burial mound,” suggested Vincent.

“Really, I wouldn’t put you to the trouble,” said Mr. Saveloy.

“In a longship set on fire, on top of a heap of the bodies of his enemies, under a burial mound,” said Cohen flatly. “Nothing’s too good for ole Teach.”

“But I assure you, I feel fine,” said Mr. Saveloy. “Really, I—er…Oh…”

RONALD SAVELOY?

Mr. Saveloy turned.

“Ah,” he said. “Yes. I see.”

IF YOU WOULD CARE TO STEP THIS WAY?

The palace and the Horde froze and faded gently, like a dream.

“It’s funny,” said Mr. Saveloy, as he followed Death. “I didn’t expect it to be this way.”

FEW PEOPLE EVER EXPECT IT TO BE ANY WAY.

Gritty black sand crunched under what Mr. Saveloy supposed he should still call his feet.

“Where is this?”

THE DESERT.

It was brilliantly lit, and yet the sky was midnight-black. He stared at the horizon.

“How big is it?”

FOR SOME, VERY BIG. FOR LORD HONG, FOR INSTANCE, IT CONTAINS A LOT OF IMPATIENT GHOSTS.

“I thought Lord Hong didn’t believe in ghosts.”

HE MAY DO SO NOW. A LOT OF GHOSTS BELIEVE IN LORD HONG.

“Oh. Er. What happens now?”

“Come on, come on, haven’t got all day! Step lively, man!”

Mr. Saveloy turned around and looked up at the woman on the horse. It was a big horse but, then, it was a big woman. She had plaits, a hat with horns on it, and a breastplate that must have been a week’s work for an experienced panelbeater. She gave him a look that was not unkind but had impatience in every line.

“I’m sorry?” he said.

“Says here Ronald Saveloy,” she said. “The what?”

“The what?”

“Everyone I pick up,” said the woman, leaning down, “is called ‘Someone the Something.’ What the are you?”

“I’m sorry, I—”

“I’ll put you down as Ronald the Apologetic, then. Come on, hop up, there’s a war on, got to be going.”

“Where to?”

“Says here quaffing, carousing, throwing axes at young women’s hair?”

“Ah, er, I think perhaps there’s been a bit of a—”

“Look, old chap, are you coming or what?”

Mr. Saveloy looked around at the black desert. He was totally alone. Death had gone about his essential business.

He let her pull him up behind her.

“Have they got a library, perhaps?” he asked hopefully, as the horse rose into the dark sky.

“Don’t know. No one’s ever asked.”

“Evening classes, perhaps. I could start evening classes?”

“What in?”

“Um. Anything, really. Table manners, perhaps. Is that allowed?”

“I suppose so. I don’t think anyone’s ever asked that, either.” The Valkyrie turned in the saddle.

“You sure you’re coming to the right afterlife?”

Mr. Saveloy considered the possibilities.

“On the whole,” he said, “I think it’s worth a try.”

The crowd in the square were getting to their feet.

They looked at all that remained of Lord Hong, and at the Horde.

Butterfly and Lotus Blossom joined their father. Butterfly ran her hand over the cannon, looking for the trick.

“You see,” said Twoflower, a little indistinctly because he couldn’t quite hear the sound of his own voice yet, “I told you he was the Great Wizard.”

Butterfly tapped him on the shoulder.

“What about those?” she said.

A small procession was picking its way through the square. In front, Twoflower recognized, was something he’d once owned.

“It was a very cheap one,” he said, to no one in particular. “I always thought there was something a little warped about it, to tell you the truth.”

It was followed by a slightly larger Luggage. And then, in descending order of size, four little chests, the smallest being about the size of a lady’s handbag. As it passed a prone Hunghungese who’d been too stunned to flee, it paused to kick him in the ear before hurrying after the others.

Twoflower looked at his daughters.

“Can they do that?” he said. “Make new ones? I thought it needed carpenters.”

“I suppose it learned many things in Ankh-More-Pork,” said Butterfly.

The Luggages clustered together in front of the steps. Then the Luggage turned around and, after one or two sad backward glances, or what might have been glances if it had eyes, cantered away. By the time it reached the far side of the square it was a blur.

“Hey, you! Four-eyes!”

Twoflower turned. Cohen was advancing down the steps.

“I remember you,” he said. “D’you know anything about Grand Viziering?”

“Not a thing, Mr. Emperor Cohen.”

“Good. The job’s yours. Get cracking. First thing, I want a cup of tea. Thick enough to float a horseshoe. Three sugars. In five minutes. Right?”

“A cup of tea in five minutes?” said Twoflower. “But that’s not long enough for even a short ceremony!”

Cohen put a companionable arm around the little man’s shoulders.

“There’s a new ceremony,” he said. “It goes: ‘Tea up, luv. Milk? Sugar? Doughnut? Want another one?’ And you could tell the eunuchs,” he added, “that the Emperor is a lit’ral-minded man and used the phrase ‘heads will roll’.”

Twoflower’s eyes gleamed behind his cracked glasses. Somehow, he liked the sound of that.

It looked as though he was living in interesting times—

The Luggages sat quietly, and waited.

Fate sat back.

The gods relaxed.

“A draw,” he announced. “Oh, yes. You have appeared to win in Hunghung but you have had to lose your most valuable piece, is that not so?”

“I’m sorry?” said the Lady. “I don’t quite follow you.”

“Insofar as I understand this…physics…” said Fate, “I cannot believe that anything could be materialized in the University without dying almost instantly. It is one thing to hit a snowdrift, but quite another to hit a wall.”

“I never sacrifice a pawn,” said the Lady.

“How can you hope to win without sacrificing the occasional pawn?”

“Oh, I never play to win.” She smiled. “But I do play not to lose. Watch…”

The Council of Wizards gathered in front of the wall at the far end of the Great Hall and stared up at the thing which now covered half of it.

“Interesting effect,” said Ridcully, eventually. “How fast do you think it was going?”

“About five hundred miles an hour,” said Ponder. “I think perhaps we were a little enthusiastic. Hex says—”

“From a standing start to five hundred miles an hour?” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “That must have come as a shock.”

“Yes,” said Ridcully, “but I suppose it’s a mercy for the poor creature that it was such a brief one.”

“And, of course, we must all be thankful that it wasn’t Rincewind.”

A couple of the wizards coughed.

The Dean stood back.

“But what is it?” he said.

“Was,” said Ponder Stibbons.

“We could have a look in the Bestiaries,” said Ridcully. “Shouldn’t be hard to find. Gray. Long hind feet like a clown’s boots. Rabbit ears. Tail long and pointy. And, of course, not many creatures are twenty feet across, one inch thick and deep fried, so that narrows it down a bit.”

“I don’t want to cast a shadow on things,” said the Dean, “but if this isn’t Rincewind, then where is he?”

“I’m sure Mr. Stibbons can give us an explanation as to why his calculations went wrong,” said Ridcully.

Ponder’s mouth dropped open.

Then he said, as sourly as he dared, “I probably forgot to take into account that there’s three right angles in a triangle, didn’t I? Er. I’ll have to try and work everything back, but I think that somehow a lateral component was introduced into what should have been a bidirectional sortilegic transfer. It’s probably that this was most pronounced at the effective median point, causing an extra node to appear in the transfers at a point equidistant to the other two as prediction in Flume’s Third Equation, and Turffe’s Law would see to it that the distortion would stabilize in such a way as to create three separate points, each moving a roughly equal mass one jump around the triangle. I’m not sure why the third mass arrived here at such speed, but I think the increased velocity might have been caused by the sudden creation of the node. Of course, it might have been going quite fast anyway. But I shouldn’t think it is cooked in its natural state.”

“Do you know,” said Ridcully, “I think I actually understood some of that? Certainly some of the shorter words.”

“Oh, it’s perfectly simple,” said the Bursar brightly. “We sent the…dog thing to Hunghung. Rincewind was sent to some other place. And this creature was sent here. Just like Pass the Parcel.”

“You see?” said Ridcully to Stibbons. “You’re using language the Bursar can understand. And he’s been chasing the dried frog all morning.”

The Librarian staggered into the hall under the weight of a large atlas.

“Oook.”

“At least you can show us where you think our man is,” said Ridcully.

Ponder took a ruler and a pair of compasses out of his hat.

“Well, if we assume Rincewind was in the middle of the Counterweight Continent,” he said, “then all we need do is draw—”

“Oook!”

“I assure you, I was only going to use pencil—”

“Eeek.”

“All we have to do is imagine, all right, a third point equidistant from the other two…er…that looks like somewhere in the Rim Ocean to me, or probably over the Edge.”

“Can’t see that thing in the sea,” said Ridcully, glancing up at the recently laminated corpse.

“In that case, it must have been in the other direction—”

The wizards crowded round.

There was something there.

“’S not even properly drawn in,” said the Dean.

“That’s because no one’s sure it really exists,” said the Senior Wrangler.

It floated in the middle of the sea, a tiny continent by Discworld standards.

“‘XXXX,’” Ponder read.

“They only put that on the map because no one knows what it’s really called,” said Ridcully.

“And we’ve sent him there,” said Ponder. “A place that we’re not even certain exists?”

“Oh, we know it exists now,” said Ridcully. “Must do. Must do. Must be a pretty rich land, too, if the rats grow that big.”

“I’ll go and see if we can bring—” Ponder began.

“Oh, no,” said Ridcully firmly. “No, thank you very much. Next time it might be an elephant whizzing over our heads, and those things make a splash. No. Give the poor chap a rest. We’ll have to think of something else…”

He rubbed his hands together. “Time for dinner, I feel,” he said.

“Um,” said the Senior Wrangler. “Do you think we were wise to light that string when we sent the thing back?”

“Certainly,” said Ridcully, as they strolled away. “No one could say we didn’t return it in exactly the same state as it arrived…”

Hex dreamed gently in its room.

The wizards were right. Hex couldn’t think.

There weren’t words, yet, for what it could do.

Even Hex didn’t know what it could do.

But it was going to find out.

The quill pen scritched and blotted its way over a fresh sheet of paper and drew, for no good reason, a calendar for the year surmounted by a rather angular picture of a beagle, standing on its hind legs.

The ground was red, just like at Hunghung. But whereas that was a kind of clay so rich that leaving a chair on the lawn meant that you had four small trees by nightfall, this ground was sand that looked as if it had got red by being baked in a million-year summer.

There were occasional clumps of yellowed grass and low stands of gray-green trees. But what there was everywhere was heat.

This was especially noticeable in the pond under the ghost gums. It was steaming.

A figure emerged from the clouds, absentmindedly picking the burnt bits off his beard.

Rincewind waited until his own personal world had stopped spinning and concentrated on the four men who were watching him.

They were black with lines and whorls painted on their faces and had, between them, about two square feet of clothing.

There were three reasons why Rincewind was no racist. He’d ended up in too many places too suddenly to develop that kind of mind. Besides, if he’d thought about it much, most of the really dreadful things that had happened to him had been done by quite pale people with big wardrobes. Those were two of the reasons.

The third was that these men, who were just rising from a half-crouching position, were all holding spears pointing at Rincewind and there is something about the sight of four spears aimed at your throat that causes no end of respect and the word “sir” to arise spontaneously in the mind.

One of the men shrugged, and lowered his spear.

“G’day, bloke,” he said.

This meant only three spears, which was an improvement.

“Er. This isn’t Unseen University, is it, sir?” said Rincewind.

The other spears stopped pointing at him. The men grinned. They had very white teeth.

“Klatch? Howondaland? It looks like Howondaland,” said Rincewind hopefully.

“Don’t know them blokes, bloke,” said one of the men.

The other three clustered around him.

“What’ll we call him?”

“He’s Kangaroo Bloke. No worries there. One minute a kangaroo, next minute a bloke. The old blokes say that sort of thing used to happen all the time, back in the Dream.”

“I reckoned he’d look better than that.”

“Yeah.”

“One way to tell.”

The man who was apparently the leader of the group advanced on Rincewind with the kind of grin reserved for imbeciles and people holding guns, and held out a stick.

It was flat, and had a bend in the middle. Someone had spent a long time making rather nice designs on it in little colored dots. Somehow, Rincewind wasn’t at all surprised to see a butterfly among them.

The hunters watched him expectantly.

“Er, yes,” he said. “Very good. Very good workmanship, yes. Interesting pointillistic effect. Shame you couldn’t find a straighter bit of wood.”

One of the men laid down his spear, and squatted down and picked up a long wooden tube, covered with the same designs. He blew into it. The effect was not unpleasant. It sounded like bees would sound if they’d invented full orchestration.

“Um,” said Rincewind. “Yes.”

It was a test, obviously. They’d given him this bent piece of wood. He had to do something with it. It was clearly very important. He’d—

Oh, no. He’d say something or do something, wouldn’t he, and then they’d say, yes, you are the Great Bloke or something, and they’d drag him off and it’d be the start of another Adventure, i.e., a period of horror and unpleasantness. Life was full of tricks like that.

Well, this time Rincewind wasn’t going to fall for it.

“I want to go home,” he said. “I want to go back home to the Library where it was nice and quiet. And I don’t know where I am. And I don’t care what you do to me, right? I’m not going to have any kind of adventure or start saving the world again and you can’t trick me into it with mysterious bits of wood.”

He gripped the stick and flung it away from him with all the force he could still muster.

They stared at him as he folded his arms.

“I’m not playing,” he said. “I’m stopping right here.”

They were still staring. And now they were grinning, too, at something behind him.

He felt himself getting quite annoyed.

“Do you understand? Are you listening?” he said. “That’s the last time the universe is going to trick Rincewi—”