'Sorry, Ghenghiz. I'm just finishing . . .' Cohen sighed. The Horde were taking advantage of the rest to sit in the shade of a tree and tell one another lies about their exploits, while Mr Saveloy stood on top of a boulder squinting through some kind of home-made device and doodling on his maps. Bits of paper ruled the world now, Cohen told himself. It certainly ruled this part of it. And Teach . . . well, Teach ruled bits of paper. He might not be traditional barbarian hero material,
despite his deeply held belief that all headmasters should be riveted to a cowshed door, but the man was amazing with bits of paper. And he could speak Agatean. Well, speak it better than Cohen, who'd picked it up in a rough and ready way. He said he'd learned it out of some old book. He said it was amazing how much interesting stuff was in old books. Cohen struggled up alongside him. 'What exactly you plannin', Teach?' he said. Mr Saveloy squinted at Hunghung, just visible on the dusty horizon. 'Do you see that hill behind the city?' he said. 'The huge round mound?'
'Looks like my dad's burial mound to me,' said Cohen. 'No, it must be a natural formation. It's far too big. There's some kind of pagoda on top, I see. Interesting. Perhaps, later, I shall take a closer look.' Cohen peered at the big round hill. It was a big round hill. It wasn't threatening him and it didn't look valuable. End of saga as far as he was concerned. There were more pressing matters. 'People appear to be entering and leaving the outer city,' Mr Saveloy continued. 'The siege is more a threat than a reality. So getting inside should not be a problem. Of course, getting into the Forbidden City itself will be a lot more difficult.'
'How about if we kill everyone?' said Cohen. 'A good idea, but impractical,' said Mr Saveloy. 'And liable to cause comment. No, my current methodology is predicated on the fact that Hunghung is some considerable way from the river yet has almost a million inhabitants.'
'Predicated, yeah,' said Cohen. 'And the local geography is quite wrong for artesian wells.'
'Yeah, 's what I thought . . .'
'And yet there is no visible aqueduct, you notice.'
'No aqueduct, right,' said Cohen. 'Prob'ly flown to the Rim for the summer. Some birds do that.'
'Which rather leads me to doubt the saying that not even a mouse can get into the Forbidden City,' said Mr Saveloy, with just a trace of smugness. 'I suspect a mouse could get into the Forbidden City if it could hold its breath.'
'Or ride on one of them invisible ducks,' said Cohen.
'Indeed.' The cart stopped. The sack came off. Instead of the cheesegrater Rincewind was secretly expecting, the view consisted of a couple of young, concerned faces. One of them was female, but Rincewind was relieved to see that she wasn't Pretty Butterfly. This one looked younger, and made Rincewind think a little of potatoes.[20] 'How are you?' she said, in fractured but recognizable Morporkian. 'We are very sorry. All better now? We speak you in language of celestial city of Ankh-More-Pork. Language of freedom and progress. Language of One Man, One Vote!'
'Yes,' said Rincewind. A vision of Ankh-Morpork's Patrician floated across his memory. One man, one vote. Yes. 'I've met him. He's definitely got the vote. But—'
'Extra Luck To The People's Endeavour!' said the boy. 'Advance Judiciously!' He looked as though he'd been built with bricks. 'Excuse me,' said Rincewind, 'but why did you . . . a paper lantern for ceremonial purposes . . . bale of cotton . . . rescue me? Uh, that is, when I say rescue, I suppose I mean: why did you hit me on the head, tie me up, and bring me to wherever this is? Because the worst that could have happened to me in the inn was a ding around the ear for not paying for lunch—'
'The worst that would have happened was an agonizing death over several years,' said the voice of Butterfly. She appeared around the cart and smiled grimly at Rincewind. Her hands were tucked demurely in her kimono, presumably to hide the knives. 'Oh. Hello,' he said. 'Great Wizard,' said Butterfly, bowing. 'I you already know, but these two are Lotus Blossom and Three Yoked Oxen, other members of our cadre. We had to bring you here like this. There are spies everywhere.'
'Timely Demise To All Enemies!' said the boy, beaming. 'Good, yes, right,' said Rincewind. 'All enemies, yes.' The cart was in a courtyard. The general noise level on the other side of the very high walls suggested a large city. Nasty certainty crystallized. 'And you've brought me to Hunghung, haven't you?' he said. Lotus Blossom's eyes widened. 'Then it are true,' she said, in Rincewind's own language. 'You are the Great Wizard!'
'Oh, you'd be amazed at the things I can foresee,' said Rincewind despondently.
'You two, go and stable the horses,' said Butterfly, not taking her eyes off Rincewind. When they'd hurried away, with several backward glances, she walked up to him. 'They believe,' she said. 'Personally, I have my doubts. But Ly Tin Wheedle says an ass may do the work of an ox in a time of no horses. One of his less convincing aphorisms, I've always thought.'
'Thank you. What is a cadre?'
'Have you heard of the Red Army?'
'No. Well. . . I heard someone shout something . . .'
'According to legend, an unknown person known only as the Great Wizard led the first Red Army to an impossible victory. Of course, that was thousands of years ago. But the people believe that he - that is, you - will return to do it again. So . . . there should be a Red Army ready and waiting.'
'Well, of course, a man can get a little stiff after several thousand years—' Her face was suddenly level with his own. 'Personally I suspect there has been a misunderstanding,' she hissed. 'But now you're here you'll be a Great Wizard. If I have to prod you every step of the way!' The other two returned. Butterfly went from snarling tiger to demure doe in an instant. 'And now you must come and meet the Red Army,' she said. 'Won't they be a little smelly—' Rincewind began, and stopped when he saw her expression. 'The original Red Army was clearly only a legend,' she said, in fast and faultless Ankh- Morporkian. 'But legends have their uses. You'd better know the legend . . . Great Wizard. When One Sun Mirror was fighting all the armies of the world the Great Wizard came to his aid and the earth itself rose up and fought for the new Empire. And lightning was involved. The army was made from the earth but in some way driven by the lightning. Now, lightning may kill but I suspect it lacks discipline. And earth cannot fight. But no doubt our army of the earth and sky was nothing more nor less than an uprising of the peasants themselves. Well, now we have a new army, and a name that fires the imagination. And a Great Wizard. I don't believe in legends. But I believe that other people believe.' The younger girl, who had been trying to follow this, stepped forward and gripped his arm. 'You come seeing Red Army now,' she said. 'Forward Motion With Masses!' said the boy, taking Rincewind's other arm. 'Does he always talk like that?' said Rincewind, as he was propelled gently towards a door. 'Three Yoked Oxen does not study,' said the girl.
'Extra Success Attend Our Leaders!'
' “Tuppence A Bucket, Well Stamped Down!” ' said Rincewind encouragingly. 'Much Ownership Of Means Of Production!'
' “How's Your Granny Off For Soap?” ' Three Yoked Oxen beamed. Butterfly opened the door. That left Rincewind outside with the other two. 'Very useful slogans,' he said, moving sideways just a little. 'But I would draw your attention to the famous saying of the Great Wizard Rincewind.'
'Indeed, I am all ear,' said Lotus Blossom politely. 'Rincewind, he say . . . Goodbyeeeeeeeee—' His sandals skidded on the cobbles but he was already travelling fast when he hit the doors, which turned out to be made of bamboo and smashed apart easily. There was a street market on the other side. That was something Rincewind remembered later about Hunghung; as soon as there was a space, any kind of space, even the space created by the passage of a cart or a mule, people flowed into it, usually arguing with one another at the tops of their voices over the price of a duck which was being held upside down and quacking. His foot went through a wicker cage containing several chickens, but he pressed on, scattering people and produce. In an Ankh-Morpork street market something like this would have caused some comment, but since everyone around him already seemed to be screaming into other people's faces Rincewind was merely a momentary and unremarked nuisance as he half ran, half limped with one squawking foot past the stalls. Behind him, the people flowed back. There may have been some cries of pursuit, but they were lost in the hubbub. He didn't stop until he found an overlooked alcove between a stall selling songbirds and another purveying something that bubbled in bowls. His foot crowed. He smashed it against cobbles until the cage broke; the cockerel, maddened by the heady air of freedom, pecked him on the knee and fluttered away. There were no sounds of pursuit. However, a battalion of trolls in tin boots would have had trouble making themselves heard above a normal Hunghung street market. He let himself get his breath back. Well, he was his own man again. So much for the Red Army. Admittedly he was in the capital city, where he didn't want to be, and it was only a matter of time before something else unpleasant happened to him, but it wasn't actually happening at the moment. Let him
find his bearings and five minutes' start and they could watch his dust. Or mud. There was a lot of both, here. So . . . this was Hunghung . . . There didn't seem to be streets in the sense Rince-wind understood the term. Alleys opened on to alleys, all of them narrow and made narrower by the stalls that lined them. There was a large animal population in the marketplace. Most of the stalls had their share of caged chickens, ducks in sacks and strange wriggling things in bowls. From one stall a tortoise on top of a struggling heap of other tortoises under a sign saying: 3r, each, good for Ying gave Rincewind a slow, 'You think you've got troubles?' look. But it was hard to tell where the stalls ended and the buildings began in any case. Dried-up things hanging on a string might be merchandise or someone's washing or quite possibly next week's dinner. The Hunghungese were an outdoor kind of people; from the look of it, they conducted most of their lives on the street and at the top of their voice. Progress was made by viciously elbowing and shoving people until they got out of the way. Standing still and saying, 'Er, excuse me' was a recipe for immobility. The crowds did part, though, at the banging of a gong and a succession of loud 'pops'. A group of people in white robes danced past, throwing fireworks around and banging on gongs, saucepans and odd bits of metal. The din contrived to be louder than the street noise, but only by very great effort. Rincewind had been getting the occasional puzzled glance from people who stopped screaming long enough to notice him. Perhaps it was time to act like a native. He turned to the nearest person and screamed. 'Pretty good, eh?' The person, a little old lady in a straw hat, stared at him in distaste. 'It's Mr Whu's funeral,' she snapped, and walked off. There were a couple of soldiers nearby. If this had been Ankh-Morpork, then they'd have been sharing a cigarette and trying not to see anything that might upset them. But these had an alert look. Rincewind backed into another alley. An untutored visitor could clearly find himself in big trouble here. This alley was quieter and, at the far end, opened into something much wider and empty looking. On the basis that people also meant trouble, Rincewind headed in that direction. Here, at last, was an open space. It was very open indeed. It was a paved square, big enough to hold a couple of armies. It had cherry trees growing along the verges. And, given the heaving mob everywhere else, a surprising absence of anyone . . .
