Interesting Times - Terry Pratchett [46]
And then it was Cohen’s turn.
“Papers, old man?”
Cohen nodded happily, and handed the guard captain a piece of paper on which was written, in Mr. Saveloy’s best handwriting:
WE ARE WANDERING MADMEN WHO HAVE NO PAPERS. SORRY.
The guard’s gaze lifted from the paper and met Cohen’s cheerful grin.
“Indeed,” he said nastily. “Can’t you speak, grandfather?”
Cohen, still grinning, looked questioningly at Mr. Saveloy. They hadn’t rehearsed this part.
“Foolish dummy,” said the guard.
Mr. Saveloy looked outraged.
“I thought you were supposed to show special consideration for the insane!” he said.
“You cannot be insane without papers to say you’re insane,” said the guard.
“Oh, I’m fed up with this,” said Cohen. “I said it wouldn’t work if we came across a thick guard.”
“Insolent peasant!”
“I’m not as insolent as my friends here,” said Cohen.
The Horde nodded.
“That’s us, flatfoot.”
“Bum to you.”
“Whut?”
“Extremely foolish soldier.”
“Whut?”
The captain was taken aback. Deeply ingrained in the Agatean psyche was the habit of obedience. But even stronger was a veneration of one’s ancestors and a respect for the elderly, and the captain had never seen anyone so elderly while still vertical. They practically were ancestors. The one in the wheelchair certainly smelled like one.
“Take them to the guardhouse!” he shouted.
The Horde let themselves be manhandled, and did it quite well. Mr. Saveloy had spent hours training them in this, since he knew he was dealing with men whose response to a tap on the shoulder was to turn around and hack off someone’s arm.
It was crowded in the guardhouse, with the Horde and the guards and with Mad Hamish’s wheelchair. One of the guards looked down at Hamish, glowering under his blanket.
“What do you have there, grandfather?”
A sword came up through the cloth and stabbed the guard in the thigh.
“Whut? Whut? Whutzeesay?”
“He said, ‘Aargh!,’ Hamish,” said Cohen, a knife appearing in his hand. With one movement his skinny arms had the captain in a lock, the knife at his throat.
“Whut?”
“He said, ‘Aargh!’”
“Whut? I ain’t even married!”
Cohen put a little more pressure on the captain’s neck.
“Now then, friend,” he said. “You can have it the easy way, see, or the hard way. It’s up to you.”
“Blood-sucking pig! You call this the easy way?”
“Well, I ain’t sweatin’.”
“May you live in interesting times! I would rather die than betray my Emperor!”
“Fair enough.”
It took the captain only a fraction of a second to realize that Cohen, being a man of his word, assumed that other people were too. He might, if he had time, have reflected that the purpose of civilization is to make violence the final resort, while to a barbarian it is the first, preferred, only and above all most enjoyable option. But by then it was too late. He slumped forward.
“I always lives in interestin’ times,” said Cohen, in the satisfied voice of someone who did a lot to keep them interesting.
He pointed his knife at the other guards. Mr. Saveloy’s mouth was wide open in horror.
“By rights I should be cleanin’ this,” said Cohen. “But I ain’t goin’ to bother if it’s only goin’ to get dirty again. Now, person’ly, I’d as soon kill you as look at you but Teach here says I’ve got to stop doin’ that and become respectable.”
One of the guards looked sideways at his fellows and then fell on his knees.
“What is your wish, o master?” he said.
“Ah, officer material,” said Cohen. “What’s your name, lad?”
“Nine Orange Trees, master.”
Cohen looked at Mr. Saveloy.
“What do I do now?”
“Take them prisoner, please.”
“How do I do that?”
“Well…I suppose you tie them up, that sort of thing.”
“Ah. And then cut their throats?”
“No! No. You see, once you’ve got them at your mercy, you’re not allowed to kill them.”
The Silver Horde, to a man, stared at the ex-teacher.
“I’m afraid that’s civilization for you,” he added.
“But you said the sods haven’t got any bloody weapons!” said Truckle.
“Yes,” said Mr. Saveloy, shuddering a little. “That’s why you’re not allowed