Interesting Times

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

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

Except this…

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

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

'Why?'

'Whut?'

'It's — a kind of magic.'

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

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

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

'Whut?'

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

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

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

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

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

Well, he'd definitely scored a hit with the Emperor. For some reason this did not reassure him. The man gave Rincewind the distinct impression of being the kind of person who is at least as dangerous to his friends as to his enemies.

He remembered Noodle Jackson, back in the days when he was a very young student. Everyone wanted to be friends with Noodle but somehow, if you were in his gang, you found yourself being trodden on or chased by the Watch or being hit in fights you didn't start, while Noodle was somewhere on the edge of things, laughing.

Besides, the Emperor wasn't simply at Death's door but well inside the hallway, admiring the carpet and commenting on the hatstand. And you didn't have to be a political genius to know that when someone like that died, scores were being settled before he'd even got cold. Anyone he'd publicly called a friend would have a life expectancy more normally associated with things that hover over trout streams at sunset.

Rincewind moved aside a skull and sat down. There was the possibility of rescue, he supposed, but the Red Army would be hard put to it to rescue a rubber duck from drowning. Anyway, that'd put him back in the clutches of Butterfly, who terrified him almost as much as the Emperor.

He had to believe that the gods didn't intend for Rincewind, after all his adventures, to rot in a dungeon.

No, he added bitterly, they probably had something much more inventive in mind.

What light reached the dungeon came from a very small grille and had a second-hand look. The rest of the furnishing was a pile of what had possibly once been straw. There was—

— a gentle tapping at the wall.

Once, twice, three times.

Rincewind picked up the skull and returned the signal.

One tap came back.

He repeated it.

Then there were two.

He tapped twice.

Well, this was familiar. Communication without meaning… it was just like being back at Unseen University.

'Fine,' he said, his voice echoing in the cell. 'Fine. Tres prisoner. But what are we saying?'

There was a gentle scraping noise and one of the blocks in the wall very gently slid out of the wall, dropping on to Rincewind's foot.

'Aargh!'

'What big hippo?' said a muffled voice.

'What?'

'Sorry?'

'What?'

'You wanted to know about the tapping code? It's how we communicate between cells, you see. One tap means—'

'Excuse me, but aren't we communicating now?'

'Yes, but not formally. Prisoners are not… allowed… to talk…' The voice slowed down, as if the speaker had suddenly remembered something important.

'Ah, yes,' said Rincewind. 'I was forgetting. This is… Hunghung. Everyone… obeys… the rules…'

Rincewind's voice died away too.

On either side of the wall there was a long, thoughtful silence.

'Rincewind?'

'Twoflower?'

'What are you doing here?' said Rincewind.

'Rotting in a dungeon!'

'Me too!'

'Good grief! How long has it been?' said the muffled voice of Twoflower.

'What? How long has what been?'

'But you… why are…'

'You wrote that damn book!'

'I just thought it would be interesting for people!'

'Interesting? Interesting?'

'I thought people would find it an interesting account of a foreign culture. I never meant it to cause trouble.'

Rincewind leaned against his side of the wall. No, of course, Twoflower never wanted to cause any trouble. Some people never did. Probably the last sound heard before the Universe folded up like a paper hat would be someone saying, 'What happens if I do this?'

'It must have been Fate that brought you here,' said Twoflower.

'Yes, it's the sort of thing he likes to do,' said Rincewind.

'You remember the good times we had?'

'Did we? I must have had my eyes shut.'

'The adventures!'

'Oh, them. You mean hanging from high places, that sort of thing…?'

'Rincewind?'

'Yes? What?'

'I feel a lot happier about things now you're here.'

'That's amazing.'

Rincewind enjoyed the comfort of the wall. It was rust rock. He felt he could rely on it.

'Everyone seems to have a copy of your book,' he said. 'It's a revolutionary document. And I do mean copy. It looks as though they make their own copy and pass it on.'

'Yes, it's called samizdat.'