Interesting Times - Terry Pratchett [82]
“Something must have gone wrong, my lord.” Herb was hypnotized by the moving hands as they caressed that paper.
“What a pity. I do not like it when things go wrong. Guard? Redeem your miserable self. Take him away. I will have to try a different plan.”
“My lord!”
“Yes, Two Fire Herb?”
“When you…when we agreed…when it was agreed that the Red Army should be turned over to you, you did promise me indemnity.”
Lord Hong smiled.
“Oh, yes. I recall. I said, did I not, that I would neither say nor write any order for your death? And I must keep my word, otherwise what am I?”
He folded the last crease and opened his hands, putting the little paper decoration on the lacquered table beside him.
Herb and the guard stared at it.
“Guard…take him away,” said Lord Hong.
It was a marvellously constructed paper figure of a man.
But there didn’t seem to have been enough paper for a head.
The immediate court turned out to be about eighty men, women, and eunuchs, in various states of sleeplessness.
They were astonished at what sat on the throne.
The Horde were quite astonished at the court.
“Who’re all them vinegar-faced old baggages at the front?” whispered Cohen, who was idly tossing a throwing knife into the air and catching it again. “I wouldn’t even set fire to them.”
“They’re the wives of former Emperors,” hissed Six Beneficent Winds.
“We don’t have to marry them, do we?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why’re their feet so small?” said Cohen. “I like to see big feet on a woman.”
Six Beneficent Winds told him. Cohen’s expression hardened.
“I’m learning a lot about civilization, I am,” he said. “Long fingernails, crippled feet and servants running around without their family jewels. Huh.”
“What is going on here, pray?” said a middle-aged man. “Who are you? Who are these old eunuchs?”
“Who’re you?” said Cohen. He drew his sword. “I need to know so’s it can be put on your gravestone—”
“I wonder if I might effect some introductions at this point?” said Mr. Saveloy. He stepped forward.
“This,” he said, “is Ghenghiz Cohen—put it away, Ghenghiz—who is technically a barbarian, and this is his Horde. They have overrun your city. And you are—?”
“Barbarian invaders?” said the man haughtily, ignoring him. “Barbarian invaders come in their thousands! Big screaming men on little horses!”
“I told you,” said Truckle. “But would anyone listen?”
“—and there is fire, terror, rapine, looting, and blood in the streets!”
“We haven’t had breakfast yet,” said Cohen, tossing his knife into the air again.
“Hah! I would rather die than submit to such as you!”
Cohen shrugged. “Why didn’t you say earlier?”
“Oops,” said Six Beneficent Winds.
It was a very accurate throw.
“Who was he, anyway?” said Cohen, as the body folded up. “Anyone know who he was?”
“Ghenghiz,” said Mr. Saveloy, “I’ve kept meaning to tell you: when people say they’d rather die, they don’t really mean they’d rather die. Not always.”
“Why’d they say it, then?”
“It’s the done thing.”
“Is this civilization again?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Let’s settle this once and for all, shall we?” said Cohen. He stood up. “Hands up those who’d rather die than have me as Emperor.”
“Anyone?” said Mr. Saveloy.
Rincewind trotted along another passage. Was there no outside to this place? Several times he thought he’d found an exit, but it led only to a courtyard within the huge building, filled with tinkling fountains and willow trees.
And the place was waking up. There were—
—running steps behind him.
A voice shouted, “Hey—”
He dived for the nearest door.
The room beyond was full of steam. It roiled in great billowing clouds. He could dimly make out a figure toiling at the huge wheel and the words “torture chamber” crossed his mind until the smell of soap replaced them with the word “laundry.” Rather wan but incredibly clean figures looked up from their vats and watched him with barely a hint