'We've got a special humanitarian tradition if the trapdoor sticks three times.'
up.'
'Baah?'
'Couldn't you have had a bath, or a dip or something? It's a bit agricultural in here.' The wall, now his eyes had become accustomed to the gloom, was covered with scrawls, and in particular those little wicket gate tallies drawn by prisoners who were counting the days. They were going to hang him in the morning, so that was one chore he wouldn't have to . . . Shut up, shut up. Now he came to look closer, most of the counts went up to one. He lay back with his eyes closed. Of course he'd get rescued, he'd always got rescued. Although, come to think of it, always in circumstances that put him in such a lot more danger than a prison cell usually held.
Well, he'd been in enough cells. There were ways to handle these things. The important thing was to be direct. He got up and banged on the bars until the warder sauntered along the corridor. 'Yes, mate?'
'I just want to get things sorted out,' said Rincewind. 'It's not as though I've got time to waste, okay?'
'Yep?'
'Is there any chance that you're going to fall asleep in a chair opposite this cell with your keys fully exposed on a table in front of you?' They looked at the empty corridor. 'I'd have to get someone to help me bring a table down here,' said the warder doubtfully. 'Can't see it happening, mister. Sorry.'
'Right. Okay.' Rincewind thought for a moment. 'All right . . . Is my dinner likely to be brought in by a young lady carrying, and this is important, carrying a tray covered with a cloth?'
'No, 'cos I do the cooking.'
'Right.'
'Bread and water is what I'm good at.'
'Right, just checking.'
' 'ere, that sticky brown stuff they brought in with you is top stuff on bread, mister.'
'Be my guest.'
'I can feel the vitamins and minerals doing me a power of good.'
'No worries. Now . . . ah, yes. Laundry. Are there any big laundry baskets around, which will happily get tipped down a chute to the outside world?'
'Sorry, mister. There's an old washerwoman comes in to collect it.'
'Really?' Rincewind brightened. 'Ah, a washerwoman. Big lady, bulky dress, possibly wears a hood which can be pulled down to cover a lot of her face?'
'Yep, pretty much.'
'Well then, is she due in—?'
'She's my mum,' said the warder.
'Right, fine . . .' They looked at one another. 'I reckon that about covers it, then,' said Rincewind. 'I hope you didn't mind me asking.'
'Bless yew, no! No worries! Happy to help. Worked out what yew're gonna say on the gallows, have yer? Only some of the ballad-writers want to know, if yew wouldn't mind.'
'Ballads?'
'Oh, yeah. There's three so far and I reckon there'll be ten by tomorra.' Rincewind rolled his eyes. 'How many of them have put “too-ra-la, too-ra-la addity” in the chorus?' he asked. 'All of them.'
'Oh, gods . . .'
'And yew wouldn't mind changin' your name. would yew? Only they're sayin' “Rincewind” is a bit tricky to turn a line on. “Concernin' of a bush ranger, Rincewind was his name . . .” 's got the wrong sort of sound . . .'
'Well, I'm sorry. Perhaps you'd better let me go, then?'
'Ha, nice one. Now, if you want my advice, you'll keep it short when yew're up on the gallows,' said the warder. 'The best Famous Last Words are the shortest. Something simple gen'rally works best. Go easy on the swearin'.'