Interesting Times - Terry Pratchett [50]
“What’ll happen to him?”
“Difficult to say, with the Emperor about to die. Hands and feet cut off, probably.”
“What? Why?”
“’Cos he’s young. That’s leniency. A bit older and it’s his head on a spike over one of the gates.”
“That’s punishment for putting up a poster?”
“Stops ’em doing it again, see,” said D. M. H. Rincewind backed away.
“Thank you,” he said, and hurried off.
“Oh, no,” he said, pushing his way through the crowds. “I’m not getting mixed up in people’s heads getting chopped off—”
And then someone hit him again. But politely.
As he sank to his knees, and then to his chin, he wondered what had happened to the good old-fashioned “Hey, you!”
The Silver Horde wandered through the alleys of Hunghung.
“I don’t call this bloody well sweeping through a city, slaughtering every bugger,” muttered Truckle. “When I was riding with Bruce the Hoon, we never walked in through a front gate like a bunch of soppy mother—”
“Mr. Uncivil,” said Mr. Saveloy hurriedly, “I wonder if this might be a good time to refer you to that list I drew up for you?”
“What bloody list?” said Truckle, sticking out his jaw belligerently.
“The list of acceptable civilized words, yes?” He turned to the others. “Remember I was telling you about civ-il-ized be-hav-ior. Civilized behavior is vital to our long-term strategy.”
“What’s a long-term strategy?” said Caleb the Ripper.
“It’s what we’re going to do later,” said Cohen.
“And what’s that, then?”
“It’s the Plan,” said Cohen.
“Well, I’ll be f—” Truckle began.
“The list, Mr. Uncivil, only the words on the list,” snapped Mr. Saveloy. “Listen, I bow to your expertise when it comes to crossing wilderness, but this is civilization and you must use the right words. Please?”
“Better do what he says, Truckle,” said Cohen.
With bad grace, Truckle fished a grubby piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it.
“‘Dang’?” he said. “Wassat mean? And what’s this ‘darn’ and ‘heck’?”
“They are…civilized swearwords,” said Mr. Saveloy.
“Well, you can take ’em and—”
“Ah?” said Mr. Saveloy, raising a cautionary finger.
“You can shove them up—”
“Ah?”
“You can—”
“Ah?”
Truckle shut his eyes and clenched his fists.
“Dang it all to heck!” he shouted.
“Good,” said Mr. Saveloy. “That’s much better.”
He turned to Cohen, who was grinning happily at Truckle’s discomfort.
“Cohen,” he said, “there’s an apple stall over there. Do you fancy an apple?”
“Yeah, might do,” Cohen conceded, in the cautious manner of someone giving a conjuror his watch while remaining aware that the man is grinning and holding a hammer.
“Right. Now, then, cla—I mean, gentlemen. Ghenghiz wants an apple. There’s a stall over there selling fruit and nuts. What does he do?” Mr. Saveloy looked hopefully at his charges. “Anyone? Yes?”
“Easy. You kill that little”—there was a rustle of unfolding paper again—“chap behind the stall, then—”
“No, Mr. Uncivil. Anyone else?”
“Whut?”
“You set fire to—”
“No, Mr. Vincent. Anyone else…?”
“You rape—”
“No, no, Mr. Ripper,” said Mr. Saveloy. “We take out some muh—muh—?” He looked at them expectantly.
“—money—” chorused the Horde.
“—and we…What do we do? Now, we’ve gone through this hundreds of times. We…”
This was the difficult bit. The Horde’s lined faces creased and puckered still further as they tried to force their minds out of the chasms of habit.
“Gi…?” said Cohen hesitantly. Mr. Saveloy gave him a big smile and a nod of encouragement.
“Give?…it…to…” Cohen’s lips tensed around the word “…him?”
“Yes! Well done. In exchange for the apple. We’ll talk about making change and saying ‘thank you’ later on, when you’re ready for it. Now then, Cohen, here’s the coin. Off you go.”
Cohen wiped his forehead. He was beginning to sweat.
“How about if I just cut him up a bit—”
“No! This is civilization.”
Cohen nodded uncomfortably. He threw back his shoulders and walked over to the stall, where the apple merchant, who had been eying the group suspiciously, nodded at him.
Cohen’s eyes glazed and his lips moved silently, as if he were rehearsing a