'Well, dang you too!'
'Whut?'
'Anyone out there?' Cohen stuck his head out of the pipe. The room was dark, damp and full of pipes and runnels. Water went off in every direction to feed fountains and cisterns. 'No,' he said, in a disappointed voice. 'Very well. Everyone out of the pipe.' There was some echoey swearing and the scrape of metal as Hamish's wheelchair was manoeuvred into the long, low cellar. Mr Saveloy lit a match as the Horde spread out and examined their surroundings. 'Congratulations, gentlemen,' he said. 'I believe we are in the palace.'
'Yeah,' said Truckle. 'We've conquered a f— a lovemaking pipe. What good is that?'
'We could rape it,' said Caleb hopefully. 'Hey, this wheel thing turns . . . '
'What's a lovemaking pipe?'
'What does this lever do?'
'Whut?'
'How about we find a door, rush out, and kill everyone?' Mr Saveloy closed his eyes. There was something familiar about this situation, and now he realized what it was. He'd once taken an entire class on a school trip to the city armoury. His right leg still hurt him on wet days. 'No, no, no!' he said. 'What good would that do? Boy Willie, please don't pull that lever.'
'Well, I'd feel better, for one,' said Cohen. 'Ain't killed anyone all day except a guard, and they hardly count.'
'Remember that we're here for theft, not murder,' said Mr Saveloy. 'Now, please, out of all that wet leather and into your nice new clothes.'
'I don't like this part,' said Cohen, pulling on a shirt. 'I like people to know who I was.'
'Yeah,' said Boy Willie. 'Without our leather and mail people'll just think we're a load of old men.'
'Exactly,' said Mr Saveloy. 'That is part of the subterfuge.'
'Is that like tactics?' said Cohen. 'Yes.'
'All right, but I don't like it,' said Old Vincent. 'S'posing we win? What kind of song will the minstrels sing about people who invaded through a pipe?'
'An echoey one,' said Boy Willie. 'They won't sing anything like that,' said Cohen firmly. 'You pay a minstrel enough, he'll sing whatever you want.' A flight of damp steps led to a door. Mr Saveloy was already at the top, listening. 'That's right,' said Caleb. 'They say that whoever pays the piper calls the tune.'
'But, gentlemen,' said Mr Saveloy, his eyes bright, 'whoever holds a knife to the piper's throat writes the symphony.' The assassin moved slowly through Lord Hong's chambers. He was one of the best in Hunghung's small but very select guild, and he certainly was not a rebel. He disliked rebels. They were invariably poor people, and therefore unlikely to be customers. His mode of movement was unusual and cautious. It avoided the floor; Lord Hong was known to tune his floorboards. It made considerable use of furniture and decorative screens, and occasionally of the ceiling as well. And the assassin was very good at it. When a messenger entered the room through a distant door he froze for an instant, and then moved in perfect rhythm towards his quarry, letting the newcomer's clumsy footsteps mask his own. Lord Hong was making another sword. The folding of the metal and all the tedious yet essential bouts of heating and hammering were, he found, conducive to clear thinking. Too much pure cerebration was bad for the mind. Lord Hong liked to use his hands sometimes. He plunged the sword back into the furnace and pumped the bellows a few times. 'Yes?' he said. The messenger looked up from his prone position near the floor. 'Good news, o lord. We have captured the Red Army!'
'Well, that is good news,' said Lord Hong, watching the blade carefully for the change of colour. 'Including the one they call the Great Wizard?'
'Indeed! But he is not that great, o lord!' said the messenger. His cheerfulness faded when Lord Hong raised an eyebrow. 'Really? On the contrary, I suspect him of being in possession of huge and dangerous powers.'
'Yes, o lord! I did not mean—'
'See that they are all locked up. And send a message to Captain Five Hong Man to undertake the orders I gave him today.'
'Yes, o lord!'
'And now, stand up!' The messenger stood up, trembling. Lord Hong pulled on a thick glove and reached for the sword handle. The furnace roared. 'Chin up, man!'
'My lord!'
'Now open your eyes wide!' There was no need for that order. Lord Hong peered into the mask of terror, noted the flicker of movement, nodded, and then in one almost balletic movement pulled the spitting blade from the furnace, turned, thrust . . . There was a very brief scream, and a rather longer hiss. Lord Hong let the assassin sag. Then he tugged the sword free and inspected the steaming blade. 'Hmm,' he said. 'Interesting . . .' He caught sight of the messenger. 'Are you still here?'
'No, my lord!'
'See to it.' Lord Hong turned the sword so that the light caught it, and examined the edge. 'And, er, shall I send some servants to clear away the, er, body?'
'What?' said Lord Hong, lost in thought. 'The body, Lord Hong?'
'What body? Oh. Yes. See to it.' The walls were beautifully decorated. Even Rincewind noticed this, though they went past in a blur. Some had marvellous birds painted on them, or mountain scenes, or sprays of foliage, every leaf and bud done in exquisite detail with just a couple of brush strokes. Ceramic lions reared on marble pedestals. Vases bigger than Rincewind lined the corridors. Lacquered doors opened ahead of the guards. Rincewind was briefly aware of huge, ornate and empty rooms stretching away on either side. Finally they passed through yet another set of doors and he was flung down on a wooden floor. In these circumstances, he always found, it was best not to look up. Eventually an officious voice said, 'What do you have to say for yourself, miserable louse?'