Interesting Times

Rincewind hesitated. It would be hard for a non-wizard to grasp the enormity of the suggestion. A wizard would sooner go without his robe and trousers than forgo his hat. Without his hat, people might think he was an ordinary person.

There was shouting in the distance.

The voice of reason could see that if it wasn't careful it was going to end up as dead as the rest of Rincewind and added sarcastically: all right, keep our wretched hat. Our damn hat is why we're in this mess in the first place. Perhaps you think you're going to have a head left to wear it on?

Rincewind's hands, also aware that times were going to be extremely interesting and very short unless they took matters into themselves, reached out slowly and removed a pair of pants and a shirt and rammed them inside his robe.

The door burst open. There were still guards behind him, and a couple of the tsimo herders had joined in the chase. One of them waved a prod in Rincewind's direction.

He plunged towards an archway and out into a garden.

It had a little pagoda. It had willow trees, and a pretty lady on a bridge feeding the birds.

And a man painting a plate.

Cohen rubbed his hands together.

'No-one? Good. That's all sorted, then.'

'Ahem.'

A small man at the front of the crowd made a great play of keeping his hands to himself, but said:

'Excuse me, but... what would happen in the hypothetical situation of us calling the guards and denouncing you?'

'We'd kill you all before they were halfway through the door,' said Cohen, matter of factly. 'Any more questions?' he added, to a chorus of gasps.

'Er... the Emperor... that is to say, the last Emperor... had some very special guards...'

There was a tinkling sound. Something small and multi-pointed rolled down the steps and spun round on the floor. It was a throwing star.

'Met them,' said Boy Willie.

'Fine, fine,' said the little man. 'That all seems in order. Ten Thousand Years to the Emperor!'

The shout was taken up, a little raggedly.

'What's your name, young man?' said Mr Saveloy.

'Four Big Horns, my lord.'

'Very good. Very good. I can see that you will go a long way. What is your job?'

'I am Grand Assistant to the Lord Chamberlain, my lord.'

'Which one of you is the Lord Chamberlain?'

Four Big Horns pointed to the man who had preferred to die.

'There we are, you see,' said Mr Saveloy. 'Promotion comes fast to adaptable people, Lord Chamberlain. And now, the Emperor will breakfast.'

'And what-is his pleasure?' said the new Lord Chamberlain, endeavouring to look bright and adaptable.

'All sorts of things. But right now, big lumps of meat and lots of beer. You will find the Emperor very easy to cater for.' Mr Saveloy smiled the knowing little smile he sometimes smiled when he knew he was the only one seeing the joke. 'The Emperor doesn't favour what he calls "fiddly foreign muck full of eyeballs and suchlike" and much prefers simple, wholesome food like sausages, which are made of miscellaneous animal organs minced up in a length of intestine. Ahaha. But if you want to please him, just keep up the big lumps of meat. Isn't that so, my lord?'

Cohen had been gazing at the assembled courtiers. When you've survived for ninety years all the attacks that can be thrown at you by men, women, trolls, dwarfs, giants, green things with lots of legs and, on one occasion, an enraged lobster, you can learn a lot by looking at faces.

'Eh?' said Cohen. 'Oh. Yep. Right enough. Big lumps. Here, Mr Taxman... what do these people do all day?'

'What would you like them to do?'

'I'd like them to bugger off.'

'Sorry, my lord?'

'[Complicated pictogram],' said Mr Saveloy. The new Lord Chamberlain looked a little startled.

'What, here?'

'It's a figure of speech, lad. He just means he wants everyone to go away quickly.'

The court scurried out. A sufficiently complicated pictogram is worth a thousand words.

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 endeavoured 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 colours? Did anyone understand how much vermilion cost these days?

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