'Is this civilization again?'
'I'm afraid so.'
'Let's settle this once and for all, shall we?' said Cohen. He stood up. 'Hands up those who'd rather die than have me as Emperor.'
'Anyone?' said Mr Saveloy.
Rincewind trotted along another passage. Was there no outside to this place? Several times he thought he'd found an exit, but it led only to a courtyard within the huge building, filled with tinkling fountains and willow trees. And the place was waking up. There were— —running steps behind him. A voice shouted, 'Hey—' He dived for the nearest door. The room beyond was full of steam. It roiled in great billowing clouds. He could dimly make out a figure toiling at the huge wheel and the words 'torture chamber' crossed his mind until the smell of soap replaced them with the word 'laundry'. Rather wan but incredibly clean figures looked up from their vats and watched him with barely a hint of interest. They did not look like people in close touch with current events. He half ran, half sauntered between the bubbling cauldrons. 'Keep it up. Good man. That's it, scrub, scrub, scrub. Let me see those wringers wringing. Well done. Is there another door out of here? Good bubbles there, very good bubbles. Ah . . .' One of the laundry workers, who appeared to be in charge, gave him a suspicious glare and seemed to be about to say something. Rincewind dodged through a courtyard crisscrossed with washing lines and stopped, panting, with his back to a wall. Although it was against his general principles, it was perhaps time to stop and think. People were chasing him. That is to say, they were chasing a running figure in a faded red robe and a very charred pointy hat. It took a great effort for Rincewind to come to terms with the idea, but it was just possible that if he was wearing something else he might not be chased. On the line in front of him, shirts and trousers flapped in the breeze. Their construction was to tailoring in the same way that woodchopping is to carpentry. Someone had mastered the art of the tube, and left it at that. They looked just like the clothes nearly everyone wore in Hunghung. The palace was almost a city in its own right, said the voice of reason. It must be full of people on all sorts of errands, it added. It would mean . . . taking off our hat, it added.
Rincewind hesitated. It would be hard for a non-wizard to grasp the enormity of the suggestion. A wizard would sooner go without his robe and trousers than forgo his hat. Without his hat, people might think he was an ordinary person. There was shouting in the distance. The voice of reason could see that if it wasn't careful it was going to end up as dead as the rest of Rincewind and added sarcastically: all right, keep our wretched hat. Our damn hat is why we're in this mess in the first place. Perhaps you think you're going to have a head left to wear it on? Rincewind's hands, also aware that times were going to be extremely interesting and very short unless they took matters into themselves, reached out slowly and removed a pair of pants and a shirt and rammed them inside his robe. The door burst open. There were still guards behind him, and a couple of the tsimo herders had joined in the chase. One of them waved a prod in Rincewind's direction. He plunged towards an archway and out into a garden. It had a little pagoda. It had willow trees, and a pretty lady on a bridge feeding the birds. And a man painting a plate. Cohen rubbed his hands together. 'No-one? Good. That's all sorted, then.'
'Ahem.' A small man at the front of the crowd made a great play of keeping his hands to himself, but said: 'Excuse me, but . . . what would happen in the hypothetical situation of us calling the guards and denouncing you?'
'We'd kill you all before they were halfway through the door,' said Cohen, matter of factly. 'Any more questions?' he added, to a chorus of gasps. 'Er . . . the Emperor . . . that is to say, the last Emperor . . . had some very special guards . . .' There was a tinkling sound. Something small and multi-pointed rolled down the steps and spun round on the floor. It was a throwing star. 'Met them,' said Boy Willie. 'Fine, fine,' said the little man. 'That all seems in order. Ten Thousand Years to the Emperor!'
The shout was taken up, a little raggedly. 'What's your name, young man?' said Mr Saveloy. 'Four Big Horns, my lord.'
'Very good. Very good. I can see that you will go a long way. What is your job?'
'I am Grand Assistant to the Lord Chamberlain, my lord.'
'Which one of you is the Lord Chamberlain?' Four Big Horns pointed to the man who had preferred to die. 'There we are, you see,' said Mr Saveloy. 'Promotion comes fast to adaptable people, Lord Chamberlain. And now, the Emperor will breakfast.'
'And what-is his pleasure?' said the new Lord Chamberlain, endeavouring to look bright and adaptable. 'All sorts of things. But right now, big lumps of meat and lots of beer. You will find the Emperor very easy to cater for.' Mr Saveloy smiled the knowing little smile he sometimes smiled when he knew he was the only one seeing the joke. 'The Emperor doesn't favour what he calls “fiddly foreign muck full of eyeballs and suchlike” and much prefers simple, wholesome food like sausages, which are made of miscellaneous animal organs minced up in a length of intestine. Ahaha. But if you want to please him, just keep up the big lumps of meat. Isn't that so, my lord?' Cohen had been gazing at the assembled courtiers. When you've survived for ninety years all the attacks that can be thrown at you by men, women, trolls, dwarfs, giants, green things with lots of legs and, on one occasion, an enraged lobster, you can learn a lot by looking at faces. 'Eh?' said Cohen. 'Oh. Yep. Right enough. Big lumps. Here, Mr Taxman . . . what do these people do all day?'
'What would you like them to do?'
'I'd like them to bugger off.'
'Sorry, my lord?'
'[Complicated pictogram],' said Mr Saveloy. The new Lord Chamberlain looked a little startled. 'What, here?'
'It's a figure of speech, lad. He just means he wants everyone to go away quickly.' The court scurried out. A sufficiently complicated pictogram is worth a thousand words.
After the stampede the artist Three Solid Frogs got to his feet, retrieved his brush from his nostril, pulled his easel out of a tree, and tried to think placid thoughts. The garden was not what it had been. The willow tree was bent. The pagoda had been demolished by an out-of-control wrestler, who had eaten the roof. The doves had flown. The little bridge had been broken. His model, the concubine Jade Fan, had run off crying after she'd managed to scramble out of the ornamental pond. And someone had stolen his straw hat. Three Solid Frogs adjusted what remained of his dress and endeavoured to compose himself. The plate with his sketch on had been smashed, of course. He pulled another one out of his bag and reached for his palette. There was a huge footprint in the middle of it . . . He wanted to cry. He'd had such a good feeling about this picture. He just knew it would be one that people would remember for a long time. And the colours? Did anyone understand how much vermilion cost these days? He pulled himself together. So there was only blue left. Well, he'd show them . . . He tried to ignore the devastation in front of him and concentrated on the picture in his mind. 'Let me see, now,' he thought. 'Jade Fan being pursued over a bridge by man waving his arms and screaming, “Get out of the way!” followed by man with prod, three guards, five laundry men and a wrestler unable to stop.' He had to simplify it a bit, of course. The pursuers rounded a corner, except for the wrestler, who wasn't built for such a difficult manoeuvre. 'Where'd he go?' They were in a courtyard. There were pigsties on one side, and middens on the other. And, in the middle of the courtyard, a pointy hat. One of the guards reached out and grabbed a colleague's arm before the man stepped forward. 'Steady now,' he said.
'It's just a hat.'
'So where's the rest of him? He couldn't have just . . . disappeared . . . into . . .' They backed away. 'You heard about him too?'
'They said he blew a hole in the wall just by waving his hands!'
'That's nothing! I heard he appeared on an invisible dragon up in the mountains!'
'What shall we tell Lord Hong?'
'I don't want to be blown to pieces!'
'I don't want to tell Lord Hong we lost him. We're in enough trouble already. And I've only just paid for this helmet.'
'Well. . . we could take the hat. That'd be evidence.'
'Right. You pick it up.'
'Me? You pick it up!'
'It might be surrounded by terrible spells.'