'Gentlemen, can I have a word?' The speaker was the slightly goat-faced one that didn't seem quite so unpleasant as the others. The terrible men clustered around him and Six Beneficent Winds heard the strange syllables of a coarse foreign tongue: 'What? But he's a tax collector! That's what they're for!'
'Whut?'
'A firm tax base is the foundation of sound governance, gentlemen. Please trust me.'
'I understood all of that up to ”A firm tax".'
'Nevertheless, no useful purpose will be served by killing this hard-working tax gatherer.'
'He'd be dead. I call that useful.' There was some more of the same. Six Beneficent Winds jumped when the group broke up and the goat-faced man gave him a smile. 'My humble friends are overawed by your . . . variety of plum . . . small knife for cutting seaweed . . . presence, noble sir,' he said, his every word slandered by Truckle's vigorous gesticulations behind his back.
'How about if we just cut a bit off?'
'Whut?'
'How did you get in here?' said Six Beneficent Winds. 'There are many strong guards.'
'I knew we missed something,' said Diamond Teeth. 'We would like you to show us around the For-bidden City,' said Goat Face. 'My name is . . . Mr Stuffed Tube, I think you would call it. Yes. Stuffed Tube, I'm pretty sure—' Six Beneficent Winds glanced hopefully towards the door. '—and we are here to learn more about your won-derful . . . mountain . . . variety of bamboo . . . sound of running water at evening . . . drat . . . civilization.' Behind him, Truckle was energetically demonstrating to the rest of the Horde what he and Bruce the Hoon's Skeletal Riders once did to a tax gatherer. The sweeping arm movements in particular occupied Six Beneficent Winds' attention. He couldn't understand the words but, somehow, you didn't need to. 'Why are you talking to him like that?'
'Ghenghiz, I'm lost. There are no maps of the Forbidden City. We need a guide.' Goat Face turned back to the taxman. 'Perhaps you would like to come with us?' he said. Out, thought Six Beneficent Winds. Yes! There may be guards out there! 'Just a minute,' said Diamond Teeth, as he nodded. 'Pick up your paintbrush and write down what I say.' A minute later, they'd gone. All that remained in the taxman's office was an amended piece of paper, which read as follows: 'Roses are red, violets are blue. Seven Lucky Logs to be given one pig and all the rice he can carry, because he is now One Lucky Peasant. By order of Six Beneficent Winds, Collector of Revenues, Langtang. Help. Help. If anyone reads this I am being held prisoner by an evil eunuch. Help.' Rincewind and Twoflower lay in their separate cells and talked about the good old days. At least, Two-flower talked about the good old days. Rincewind worked at a crack in the stone with a piece of straw, it being all he had to hand. It would take several thousand years to make any kind of impression, but that was no reason to give up. 'Do we get fed in here?' he said, interrupting the flow of reminiscence. 'Oh, sometimes. But it's not like the marvellous food in Ankh-Morpork.'
'Really,' murmured Rincewind, scratching away. A tiny piece of mortar seemed ready to move. 'I'll always remember the taste of Mr Dibbler's sausages.'
'People do.'
'A once-in-a-lifetime experience.'
'Frequently.' The straw broke. 'Damn and blast!' Rincewind sat back. 'What's so important about the Red Army?' he said. 'I mean, they're just a bunch of kids. Just a nuisance!'
'Yes, I'm afraid things got rather confused,' said Twoflower. 'Um. Have you ever heard of the theory that History goes in cycles?'
'I saw a drawing in one of Leonard of Quirm's notebooks—' Rincewind began, trying again with another straw. 'No, I mean . . . like a . . . wheel, spinning. If you stand in the same place it all comes round again?'
'Oh, that. Blast!'
'Well, a lot of people believe it here. They think History starts again every three thousand years.'
'Could be,' said Rincewind, who was looking for another straw and wasn't really listening. Then the words sank in. 'Three thousand years? That's a bit short, isn't it? The whole thing? Stars and oceans and intelligent life evolving from arts graduates, that sort of thing?'
'Oh, no. That's just . . . stuff. Proper history started with the founding of the Empire by One Sun Mirror. The first Emperor. And his servant, the Great Wizard. Just a legend, really. It's the sort of thing peasants believe. They look at something like the Great Wall and say, that's such a marvellous thing it must have been built by magic . . . And the Red Army . . . what it probably was was just a well-organized body of trained fighting men. The first real army, you see. All there was before was just undisciplined mobs. That's what it must have been. Not magical at all. The Great Wizard couldn't really have made . . . What the peasants believe is silly . . .'
'Why, what do they believe?'
'They say the Great Wizard made the earth come alive. When all the armies on the continent faced One Sun Mirror the Great Wizard . . . flew a kite.'
'Sounds sensible to me,' said Rincewind. 'When there's war around take the day off, that's my motto.'
'No, you don't understand. This was a special kite. It trapped the lightning in the sky and the Great Wizard stored it in bottles and then took the mud itself and . . . baked it with the lightning, and made it into an army.'
'Never heard of any spells for that.'
'And they have funny ideas about reincarnation, too . . .' Rincewind conceded that they probably would. It probably whiled away those long water- buffaloid hours: hey, after I die I hope I come back as . . . a man holding a water buffalo, but facing a different way. 'Er . . . no,' said Twoflower. They don't think you come back at all. Er . . . I'm not using the right words, am I? . . . Bit corroded on this language . . . I mean ^reincarnation. It's like reincarnation backwards. They think you're born before you die.'
'Oh, really?' said Rincewind, scratching at the stones. 'Amazing! Born before you die? Life before death? People will get really excited when they hear about that.'
'That's not exactly . . . er. It's all tied in with ancestors. You should always venerate ancestors because you might be them one day, and . . . Are you listening?' The little piece of mortar fell away. Not bad for ten minutes' work, thought Rincewind. Come the next Ice Age, we're out of here . . . It dawned on him that he was working on the wall that led to Twoflower's cell. Taking several thousand years to break into an adjoining cell could well be thought a waste of time. He started on a different wall. Scratch . . . scratch . . . There was a terrible scream. Scratchscratchscratch— 'Sounds like the Emperor has woken up,' said Twoflower's voice from the hole in the wall. 'That's kind of an early morning torture, is it?' said Rincewind. He started to hammer at the huge blocks with a piece of shattered stone. 'It's not really his fault. He just doesn't understand about people.'
'Is that so?'