Interesting Times - Terry Pratchett [34]
He felt hands rummaging in his pockets.
Another person—Rincewind was not able to see much beyond a few inches of alluvial soil, but from context it appeared to be an unsympathetic person—joined in the shouting.
Rincewind was hauled upright.
The guards were pretty much like guards as Rincewind had experienced them everywhere. They had exactly the amount of intellect required to hit people and drag them off to the scorpion pit. They were league champions at shouting at people a few inches from their face.
The effect was made surreal by the fact that the guards themselves had no faces, or at least no faces they could call their own. Their ornate, black-enameled helmets had huge moustached visages painted on them, leaving only the owner’s mouth uncovered so that he could, for example, call Rincewind’s grandfather a box of inferior goldfish droppings.
What I Did On My Holidays was waved in front of his face.
“Bag of rotted fish!”
“I don’t know what it means,” said Rincewind. “Someone just gave it to—”
“Feet of extreme decayed milk!”
“Could you perhaps not shout quite so loud? I think my eardrum has just exploded.”
The guard subsided, possibly only because he had run out of breath. Rincewind had a moment to look at the scenery.
There were two carts on the road. One of them seemed to be a cage on wheels; he made out faces watching him in terror. The other was an ornate palanquin carried by eight peasants; rich curtains covered the sides but he could see where they had been twitched aside so that someone within could look at him.
The guards were aware of this. It seemed to make them awkward.
“If I could just expl—”
“Silence, mouth of—” The guard hesitated.
“You’ve used turtle, goldfish, and what you probably meant to be cheese,” said Rincewind.
“Mouth of chicken gizzards!”
A long, thin hand emerged from the curtains and beckoned, just once.
Rincewind was hustled forward. The hand had the longest fingernails he’d ever seen on something that didn’t purr.
“Kowtow!”
“Sorry?” said Rincewind.
“Kowtow!”
Swords were produced.
“I don’t know what you mean!” Rincewind wailed.
“Kowtow, please,” whispered a voice by his ear. It was not a particularly friendly voice but compared to all the other voices it was positively affectionate. It sounded as though it belonged to quite a young man. And it was speaking very good Morporkian.
“How?”
“You don’t know that? Kneel down, press your forehead on the ground. That’s if you want to be able to wear a hat again.”
Rincewind hesitated. He was a free-born Morporkian, and on the list of things a citizen didn’t do was bow down to any, not to put too fine a point on it, foreigner.
On the other hand, right at the top of the list of things a citizen didn’t do was get their head chopped off.
“That’s better. That’s good. How did you know you ought to tremble?”
“Oh, I thought up that bit myself.”
The hand beckoned with a finger.
A guard slapped Rincewind in the face with the mud-encrusted What I Did…Rincewind clutched it guiltily as the guard scurried towards his master’s digit.
“Voice?” said Rincewind.
“Yes?”
“What happens if I claim immunity because I’m a foreigner?”
“There’s a special thing they do with a wiremesh waistcoat and a cheesegrater.”
“Oh.”
“And there are torturers in Hunghung who can keep a man alive for years.”
“I suppose you’re not talking about healthy early morning runs and a high-fiber diet?”
“No. So keep quiet and with any luck you’ll be sent to be a slave in the palace.”
“Luck is my middle name,” said Rincewind, indistinctly. “Mind you, my first name is Bad.”
“Remember to gibber and grovel.”
“I’ll do my very best.”
The white hand emerged bearing a scrap of paper. The guard took it, turned towards Rincewind, and cleared his throat.
“Harken to the wisdom and justice