Interesting Times

University, and his absent Luggage, and the population of the Agatean Empire. But right now, at the top of the list, was whoever had designed this cart. By the feel of it, whoever had thought that rough, splintery wood was the right surface for a floor was also the person who thought “triangular” was a nice shape for a wheel.

    The Luggage lurked in a ditch, watched without much interest by a man holding a water buffalo on the end of a piece of string.
    It was feeling ashamed, and baffled, and lost. It was lost because everywhere around it was…familiar. The light, the smells, the feel of the soil…But it didn’t feel owned .
    It was made of wood. Wood is sensitive to these things.
    One of its many feet idly traced an outline in the mud. It was a random, wretched pattern familiar to anyone who’s had to stand in front of the class and be scolded.
    Finally, it reached something that was probably as close as timber can get to a decision.
    It had been given away. It had spent many years trailing through strange lands, meeting exotic creatures and jumping up and down on them. Now it was back in the country where it had once been a tree. Therefore, it was free.
    It was not the most logical chain of thought, but pretty good when all you’ve got to think with are knotholes.
    And there was something it very much wanted to do.

    “ When you’re ready, Teach?”
    “Sorry, Ghenghiz. I’m just finishing…”
    Cohen sighed. The Horde were taking advantage of the rest to sit in the shade of a tree and tell one another lies about their exploits, while Mr. Saveloy stood on top of a boulder squinting through some kind of homemade device and doodling on his maps.
    Bits of paper ruled the world now, Cohen told himself. It certainly ruled this part of it. And Teach…well, Teach ruled bits of paper. He might not be traditional barbarian hero material, despite his deeply held belief that all headmasters should be riveted to a cowshed door, but the man was amazing with bits of paper.
    And he could speak Agatean. Well, speak it better than Cohen, who’d picked it up in a rough and ready way. He said he’d learned it out of some old book. He said it was amazing how much interesting stuff was in old books.
    Cohen struggled up alongside him.
    “What exactly you plannin’, Teach?” he said.
    Mr. Saveloy squinted at Hunghung, just visible on the dusty horizon.
    “Do you see that hill behind the city?” he said. “The huge round mound?”
    “Looks like my dad’s burial mound to me,” said Cohen.
    “No, it must be a natural formation. It’s far too big. There’s some kind of pagoda on top, I see. Interesting. Perhaps, later, I shall take a closer look.”
    Cohen peered at the big round hill. It was a big round hill. It wasn’t threatening him and it didn’t look valuable. End of saga as far as he was concerned. There were more pressing matters.
    “People appear to be entering and leaving the outer city,” Mr. Saveloy continued. “The siege is more a threat than a reality. So getting inside should not be a problem. Of course, getting into the Forbidden City itself will be a lot more difficult.”
    “How about if we kill everyone?” said Cohen.
    “A good idea, but impractical,” said Mr. Saveloy. “And liable to cause comment. No, my current methodology is predicated on the fact that Hunghung is some considerable way from the river yet has almost a million inhabitants.”
    “Predicated, yeah,” said Cohen.
    “And the local geography is quite wrong for artesian wells.”
    “Yeah, ’s what I thought…”
    “And yet there is no visible aqueduct, you notice.”
    “No aqueduct, right,” said Cohen. “Prob’ly flown to the Rim for the summer. Some birds do that.”
    “Which rather leads me to doubt the saying that not even a mouse can get into the Forbidden City,” said Mr. Saveloy, with just a trace of smugness. “I suspect a mouse could get into the Forbidden City if it could hold its breath .”
    “Or ride on one of them invisible ducks,” said Cohen.
    “Indeed.”

The cart stopped. The sack came off. Instead of the cheesegrater Rincewind was secretly expecting, the view consisted of a couple of young, concerned faces. One of them was female, but Rincewind was relieved to see that she wasn’t Pretty Butterfly. This one looked younger, and made Rincewind think a little of potatoes. *
    “How you are?” she said, in fractured but recognizable Morporkian. “We are very sorry. All better now? We