'I will call for the guards and have you all flogged!' shouted Six Beneficent Winds, his temper moderated slightly by the extreme age of the visitors. 'What did he say?'
'He said he'd call for the guards.'
'Ooo, yes. Please let him call for the guards!'
'No, we don't want that yet. Act normally.'
'You mean cut his throat?'
'I meant a more normal kind of normally.'
'It's what I call normal.' One of the old men faced the speechless official and gave him a big grin. 'Excuse us, your supreme . . . oh dear, what's the word? . . . . pushcart sail? . . . immense rock? . . . ah, yes . . . venerableness, but we seem to be a little lost.' A couple of the old men shuffled around behind Six Beneficent Winds and started to read, or at least try to read, what he'd been working on. A sheet of paper was snatched from his hand. 'What's this say, Teach?'
'Let me see . . . "The first wind of autumn shakes the lotus flower. Seven Lucky Logs to pay one pig and three [looks like a four-armed man waving a flag] of rice on pain of having his
[rather a stylized thing here, can't quite make it out] struck with many blows. By order of Six Beneficent Winds, Collector of Revenues, Langtang.“ ' There was a subtle change among the old men. Now they were all grinning, but not in a way that gave him any comfort. One of them, with teeth like diamonds, leaned towards him and said, in bad Agatean: 'You are a tax collector, Mr Knob on Your Hat?' Six Beneficent Winds wondered if he'd be able to summon the guard. There was something terrible about these old men. They weren't venerable at all. They were horribly menacing and, although he couldn't see any obvious weapons, he knew for a cold frozen fact that he wouldn't be able to get out more than the first syllable before he'd be killed. Besides, his throat had gone dry and his pants had gone wet. 'Nothing wrong with being a tax collector . . .' he croaked. 'We never said that,' said Diamond Teeth. 'We always like to meet tax collectors.'
'Some of our most favouritest people, tax collectors,' said another old man. 'Saves a lot of trouble,' said Diamond Teeth. 'Yeah,' said a third old man. 'Like, it means you don't have to go from house to house killin' everyone for their valuables, you just wait and kill the—'
'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?'