Let him just walk down Broadway as owner, and eat the pies of the famous Mr Dibbler. Let him play one game of chess against Lord Vetinari. Of course, it would mean leaving the man one arm. He was shaking with excitement. Not later . . . now. His fingers reached for the secret key on its chain around his neck. It was barely a track. Rabbits would have walked right past it. And you'd have sworn there was a sheer, passless rock wall until you found the gap. Once you did find it, it was hardly worth the bother. It led to a long gully with a few natural caves in it, and a bit of grass, and a spring. And, as it turned out, Cohen's gang. Except that he called it a horde. They were sitting in the sun, complaining about how it wasn't as warm as it used to be. 'I'm back then, lads,' said Cohen. 'Been away, have you?'
'Whut? Whut's he say?'
'He said HE'S BACK.'
'Black what?' Cohen beamed at Rincewind. 'I brought 'em with me,' he said. 'Like I said, no future in going it alone these days.'
'Er,' said Rincewind, after surveying the little scene, 'are any of these men under eighty years old?'
'Stand up, Boy Willie,' said Cohen. A dehydrated man only marginally less wrinkled than the others got to his feet. It was his feet that were particularly noticeable. He wore boots with extremely thick soles. 'So's me feet touch the ground,' he said. 'Don't they . . . er . . . touch the ground in ordinary boots?'
'Nope. Orthopaedic problem, see. Like . . . you know how a lot of people've got one leg shorter than the other? Funny thing, with me it's—'
'Don't tell me,' said Rincewind. 'Sometimes I get these amazing flashes . . . Both legs are shorter than the other, right?'
'Amazing. O' course, I can see you're a wizard,' said Boy Willie. 'You'd know about this sort of thing.' Rincewind gave the next member of the Horde a bright mad smile. It was almost certainly a human being, because wizened little monkeys didn't usually go around in a wheelchair while wearing a helmet with horns on it. It grimaced at Rincewind. 'This is—'
'Whut? Whut?'
'Mad Hamish,' said Cohen. 'Whut? Whozee?'
'I bet that wheelchair terrifies them,' said Rincewind. 'Especially the blades.'
'We had the devil of a job getting it over the wall,' Cohen conceded. 'But you'd be amazed at his turn of speed.'
'Whut?'
'And this is Truckle the Uncivil.'
'Sod off, wizard.' Rincewind beamed at Exhibit B. 'Those walking sticks . . . Fascinating! Very impressive the way you've got LOVE and HATE written on them.' Cohen smiled proprietorially. 'Truckle used to be reckoned one of the biggest badasses in the world,' he said. 'Really? Him?'
'But it's amazing what you can do with a herbal suppository.'
'Up yours, mister,' said Truckle. Rincewind blinked. 'Er. Can I have a word, Cohen?' He drew the ancient barbarian aside. 'I don't want to seem to be making trouble here,' he said, 'but it doesn't strike you, does it, that these men are a bit, well, past their sell-by date? A little, not to put too fine a point on it, old?'
'Whut? Whutzeesayin'?'
'He says IT'S COLD.'
'Whut?'
'What're you saying? There's nearly five hundred years of concentrated barbarian hero experience in 'em,' said Cohen. 'Five hundred years' experience in a fighting unit is good,' said Rincewind. 'It's good. But it should be spread over more than one person. I mean, what are you expecting them to do? Fall over on people?'
'Nothin' wrong with 'em,' said Cohen, indicating a frail man who was staring intently at a large block of teak. 'Look at ole Caleb the Ripper over there. See? Killed more'n four hundred men with his bare hands. Eighty-five now and but for the dust he's marvellous.'
'What the hell is he doing?'
'Ah, see, they're into bare-handed combat here. Very big thing, unarmed combat, on account of most people not being allowed weapons. So Caleb reckons he's on to a good thing. See that big lump of teak? It's amazin'. He just gives this bloodcurdlin' shout and—'
'Cohen, they're all very old men.'
'They're the cream!' Rincewind sighed. 'Cohen, they're the cheese. Why've you brought them all the way here?'
'Gonna help me steal something,' said Cohen. 'What? A jewel or something?'
' 'S something,' said Cohen, sulkily. '
'S in Hung-hung.'