'We number many thousands,' said Butterfly, defiantly. 'In Hunghung?'
'Oh, no. There is a cadre in every city.'
'You know that, do you? You've met them?'
'That would be dangerous. Only Two Fire Herb knows how to contact them . . .'
'Fancy that. Well, do you know what I think? I think someone wants a revolution. And you're all so damn respectful and polite he's having his work cut out trying to organize one! But once you've got rebels you can do anything.'
'That can't be true . . .' The rebels in other cities, they do great revolutionary deeds, do they?'
'We hear reports all the time!'
'From our friend Herb?' Butterfly frowned. 'Yes . . .'
'You're thinking, aren't you?' said Rincewind. 'The old brain cells are finally banging together, yes? Good. Have I convinced you?'
'I . . . don't know.'
'Now let's go back.'
'No. Now I've got to find out if what you're suggesting is true.'
'Dying to find out, eh? Good grief, you people make me so angry. Look, watch this . . .' Rincewind strode to the end of the corridor. There was a pair of wide doors, flanked by a pair of jade dragons. He flung them back. The room inside was low-ceilinged but large. In the centre, under a canopy, was a bed. It was hard to make out the figure lying there, but it had that certain stillness that suggests the kind of sleep from which there is unlikely to be any kind of awakening. 'You see?' he said. 'He's been . . . killed . . . already . . .' A dozen soldiers were staring at Rincewind in amazement.
Behind him he heard the creaking of the floor and then some whooshing sounds followed by a noise like wet leather being hit against rock. Rincewind looked at the nearest soldier. The man was holding a sword. One drop of blood coursed down the blade and, with a brief pause for dramatic effect, fell on to the floor. Rincewind looked up and raised his hat. 'I do beg your pardon,' he said, brightly. 'Isn't this room 3B?' And ran for it. The floors screamed under him, and behind him someone screamed Rincewind's nickname, which was: 'Don't let him get away!' Let me get away, Rincewind prayed, oh, please, let me get away. He slipped as he turned the corner, skidded through a paper wall and landed in an ornamental fish pond. But Rincewind in full flight had catlike, even messianic abilities. The water barely rippled under his feet as he bounced off the surface and headed away. Another wall erupted and he was in what was possibly the same corridor. Behind him, someone landed heavily on a valuable koi. Rincewind shot forward again. From; that was the most important factor in any mindless escape. You were always running from. To could look after itself. He cleared a long flight of shallow stone steps, rolled upright at the bottom and set off at random along another corridor. His legs had sorted themselves out now. First the mad, wild dash to get you out of immediate danger and then the good solid strides to put as much distance as possible between you and it. That was the trick. History told of a runner who'd run forty miles after a battle to report its successful outcome to those at home. He was traditionally regarded as the greatest runner of all time, but if he'd been reporting news of an impending battle he'd have been overtaken by Rincewind. And yet . . . someone was gaining. A knife poked through the wall of the throne room and cut a hole large enough to afford space for an upright man or one wheelchair.
There was muttering from the Horde. 'Bruce the Hoon never went in the back way.'
'Shut up.'
'Never one for back gates, Bruce the Hoon.'
'Shut up.'
'When Bruce the Hoon attacked Al Khali, he did it right at the main guard tower, with a thousand screaming men on very small horses.'
'Yeah, but. . . last I saw of Bruce the Hoon, his head was on a spike.'
'All right, I'll grant you that. But at least it was over the main gate. I mean, at least he got in.'
'His head did.'
'Oh, my . . . ' Mr Saveloy was gratified. The room they'd stepped into was enough to silence the Horde, if only briefly. It was large, of course, but that hadn't been its only purpose. One Sun Mirror, as he welded the tribes and countries and little island nations together, had wanted a room built which said to chieftains and ambassadors: this is the biggest space you've ever been in, it is more splendid than anything you could ever imagine, and we've got a lot more rooms like this. He had wanted it to be impressive. He had very clearly wanted it to intimidate mere barbarians so much that they'd give in there and then. Let there be huge statues, he'd said. And vast decorative hangings. Let there be pillars and carvings. Let the visitor be silenced by the sheer magnificence. Let it say to him, 'This is civilization, and you can join it or die. Now drop to your knees or be shortened some other way.' The Horde gave it the benefit of their inspection. Finally Truckle said, 'It's all right, I suppose, but not a patch on our chieftain's longhouse back in Skund. It hasn't even got a fire in the middle of the floor, look.'
'Gaudy, to my mind.'
'Whut?'
'Typically foreign.'
'I'd do away with most of this and get some decent straw on the floor, a few shields round the walls.'
'Whut?'
'Mind you, get in a few hundred tables and you could have a helluva carouse in here.' Cohen walked across the huge expanse towards the throne, which was under a vast ornamental canopy. '
'S got 'n umbrella over it, look.'