The Last Continent (Discworld 22)

'Ah, you want one of the gourmet meat pies, then?'

'Oh, I see. That's where you say what's in them?'

'Yup.'

'Before or after the customers have bitten into them?'

'Are you suggesting that my pies ain't right?'

'Let us say I'm inching my way to the possibility that they might be, shall we? All right, I'll try a gourmet pie.'

'Good on yer.' Dibbler removed a pie from the little heated section of his tray. 'Now . . . what's the meat? Cat?'

'Do you mind? Mutton's cheaper'n cat,' said Dibbler, upending the pie into a dish. 'Well, that's—' Rincewind's face screwed up. 'Oh, no, you're pouring pea soup all over it too. Why does everyone always pour pea soup over it!'

'No worries, mate. Puts a lining on your stomach,' said Dibbler, producing a red bottle. 'And what's that?'

'The cut de grass, mate.'

'You're tipping a meat pie into a dish of pea soup and now you want me to eat it with . . . with tomato sauce on it?'

'Pretty colours, ain't they?' said Fair Go, handing Rincewind a spoon. Rincewind prodded the pie. It rebounded gently off the side of the dish. Well, now . . . He'd eaten Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler's sausages-in-a-bun, and Disembowel-Meself-Honourably Dibhala's funny-coloured antique eggs. And he'd survived, although there had been a few minutes when he'd hoped he wouldn't. He'd eaten Al-Jiblah's highly suspicious cous-cous, drunk the terrible yak-butter tea made by May-I-Never- Achieve-Enlightenment Dhiblang, forced down the topless, bottomless smorgasbord of Dib Diblossonson and tried not to chew the lumps of unmentionable blubber purveyed by May-I- Be-Kicked-In-My-Own-Ice-Hole Dibooki (his stomach heaved at the memory of that – after all, it was one thing to butcher dead beached whales and quite another just to leave them there until they exploded into bite sized chunks of their own accord). As for the green beer made by Swallow-Me-Own-Blowdart Dlang-Dlang . . . He'd drunk and eaten all these things. Everywhere in the world, someone turned up out of some strange primal mould to sell him a really dreadful regional delicacy. And this was just a pie, after all. How bad could it be? No, put it another way . . . How much worse could it be?

He swallowed a mouthful. 'Good, eh?' said Fair Go. 'My gods,' said Rincewind. 'They're not just any mushy peas,' said Fair Go, slightly disconcerted by the fact that Rincewind was staring wildly at nothing. 'They're mushed by a champion pea musher.'

'Good grief . . .' said Rincewind. 'Are you all right, mister?'

'It's . . . everything I expected . . .' said Rincewind. 'Now, mister, it ain't that bad—'

'You're certainly a Dibbler.'

'What kind of thing is that to say?'

'You put pies upside down in runny peas and then put sauce on them. Someone actually sat down one day, after midnight if I'm any judge, and thought that would be a good idea. No one will ever believe this one.' Rincewind looked at the submerged pie. That's going to make the story about the land of the giant walking plum puddings look very tame, I don't mind telling you. No wonder you people drink so much beer . . .'[20] He stepped out into the flickering lamplight of :he street, shaking his head. 'You actually eat the pies here,' he said mournfully, and looked up into the face of the warder. There were several watchmen behind him. 'That's him!' Rincewind nodded cheerfully. 'G'day!' he said. Two little thuds were his home-made sandals bouncing on the street. The sea steamed and crackling balls of lightning zipped across its surface like drops of water on a hotplate. The waves were too big to be waves, but about the right size for mountains. Ponder looked up from the deck only once, just as the boat began to slide down a trough that gaped like a canyon. Next to him, and gripping his leg, the Dean groaned.

'You know about this sort of thing, Ponder,' he growled, as they hit the trough and then began the stomach-twisting climb to the next crest. 'Are we going to die?'

'I . . . don't think so, Dean . . .'

'Pity Rincewind heard whistles blowing behind him by the time he reached the corner, but he never let that sort of thing worry him. This was a city! Cities were so much easier. He was a creature of cities. There were so many places to— Whistles started blowing up ahead as well. The crowds were thicker here, and most people were heading in the same direction. But Rincewind liked crowds to run through. As the pursued, he had novelty on his side and could shoulder his way past the unsuspecting, who then turned around and milled about and complained and were definitely not in the right frame of mind to greet the people following him. Rincewind could run through a crowd like a ball on a bagatelle board, and always got an extra go. Downhill was best. That's where they generally put docks, so as to have them close to the water. Dodging and ducking across the streets brought him, suddenly, to the waterside. There were a few boats there. They were on the small side for a stowaway, but— There were running footsteps in the dark! These watchmen were too good! This wasn't how it was supposed to go! They weren't supposed to double-back. They weren't supposed to think. He ran in the only direction left, along the waterfront. There was a building there. At least, it . . . well, it had to be a building. No one could have left an open box of tissues that big. Rincewind felt that a building should be a box with a pointed lid on it, basically, and it should be the approximate colour of whatever the local mud was. On the other hand, as the philosopher Ly Tin Wheedle once remarked, it is never wise to object to the decor of a hidey- hole. He bounded up the steps and circled around the strange white building. It seemed to be some kind of music hall. Opera, by the sound of it, although it was a damn funny place to sing

opera, you couldn't imagine ladies with horns in a building that looked about to set sail, but no time to wonder about that, there was a door with some rubbish bins outside it and here was the door open . . . 'You from the agency, mate?' Rincewind peered into the steam. 'An' I hope you can do puddings, 'cos cheffy's banging his head on the wall,' went on a figure emerging from the wisps. It was wearing a tall white hat. 'No worries,' said Rincewind, hopefully. 'Ah, this is a kitchen, is it?'

'You pullin' my leg?'

'Only I thought it was some kind of opera house or something—'

'Best bloody opera house in the world, mate. Come on, this way . . .' It wasn't a very big kitchen and, like most of the ones Rincewind had been in, it was full of men working very hard at cross purposes. 'The boss upstairs only decided to throw a big dinner for the prima donna,' said the cook, forcing his way through the throng. 'And all of a sudden Charley sees the pudding staring him in the face.'

'Ah, right,' said Rincewind, on the basis that sooner or later he'd be given a clue. 'Boss says, you can do the pudding for her, Charley.'

'Just like that, eh?'

'He sez, it ought to be the best one yet, Charley.'

'No worries?'

'He sez, the great Nunco invented the Strawberry Sackville for Dame Wendy Sackville, and the famous chef Imposo created the Apple Glazier for Dame Margyreen Glazier, and your own father, Charley, honoured Dame Janeen Ormulu with the Orange Ormulu and tonight, Charley, it's your big chance.' The cook shook his head as he reached a table where a small man in a white uniform was sobbing uncontrollably into his hands. There was a stack of empty beer cans in front of him. 'Poor bastard's been on the beer ever since, and we thought we'd better get someone in. I'm a steak and prawns man, myself.'