Interesting Times

blood-suckers use? Big stones with holes in them?”
    Rincewind stared at the paper money.
    There were dozens of papermills in Ankh-Morpork, and some of the craftsmen in the Engravers’ Guild could engrave their name and address on a pinhead.
    He suddenly felt immensely proud of his countrymen. They might be venal and greedy, but by heaven they were good at it and they never assumed that there wasn’t any more to learn.
    “I think you’ll find,” he said, “that there’s a lot of buildings in Ankh-Morpork that need new roofs.”
    “Really?” said Dibhala.
    “Oh, yes. The rain’s just pouring in.”
    “And people can pay? Only I heard—”
    Rincewind looked at the paper money again. He shook his head. Worth more than gold…
    “They’ll pay with notes at least as good as that,” he said. “Probably even better. I’ll put in a good word for you. And now,” he added hurriedly, “which way is out?”
    Dibhala scratched his head.
    “Could be a bit tricky,” he said. “There’s armies outside. You look a bit foreign with that hat. Could be tricky—”
    There was a commotion further along the alley or, rather, a general increase in the commotion. The crowd parted in that hurried way common to unarmed crowds in the presence of weaponry, and a group of guards hurried towards Disembowel-Meself-Honorably.
    He stepped back and gave them the friendly grin of one happy to sell at a discount to anyone with a knife.
    A limp figure was being dragged between two of the guards. As it went past it raised a slightly bloodstained head and said, “Extended Duration to the—” before a gloved fist smacked across its mouth.
    And then the guards were heading down the street. The crowd flowed back.
    “Tch, tch,” said D. M. H. “Seems to be—Hello? Where’d you go?”
    Rincewind reappeared from around a corner. D. M. H. looked impressed. There had actually been a small thunderclap when Rincewind moved.
    “See they got another of ’em,” he said. “Putting up wall posters again, I expect.”
    “Another one of who?” said Rincewind.
    “Red Army. Huh!”
    “Oh.”
    “I don’t pay much attention,” said D. M. H. “They say some old legend’s going to come true about emperors and stuff. Can’t see it myself.”
    “He didn’t look very legendary,” said Rincewind.
    “Ach, some people will believe anything.”
    “What’ll happen to him?”
    “Difficult to say, with the Emperor about to die. Hands and feet cut off, probably.”
    “What? Why?”
    “’Cos he’s young. That’s leniency. A bit older and it’s his head on a spike over one of the gates.”
    “That’s punishment for putting up a poster? ”
    “Stops ’em doing it again, see,” said D. M. H. Rincewind backed away.
    “Thank you,” he said, and hurried off.
    “Oh, no,” he said, pushing his way through the crowds. “I’m not getting mixed up in people’s heads getting chopped off—”
    And then someone hit him again. But politely.
    As he sank to his knees, and then to his chin, he wondered what had happened to the good old-fashioned “Hey, you!”

    The Silver Horde wandered through the alleys of Hunghung.
    “I don’t call this bloody well sweeping through a city, slaughtering every bugger,” muttered Truckle. “When I was riding with Bruce the Hoon, we never walked in through a front gate like a bunch of soppy mother—”
    “Mr. Uncivil,” said Mr. Saveloy hurriedly, “I wonder if this might be a good time to refer you to that list I drew up for you?”
    “What bloody list?” said Truckle, sticking out his jaw belligerently.
    “The list of acceptable civilized words, yes?” He turned to the others. “Remember I was telling you about civ-il-ized be-hav-ior. Civilized behavior is vital to our long-term strategy.”
    “What’s a long-term strategy?” said Caleb the Ripper.
    “It’s what we’re going to do later,” said Cohen.
    “And what’s that, then?”
    “It’s the Plan,” said Cohen.
    “Well, I’ll be f—” Truckle began.
    “The list, Mr. Uncivil, only the words on the list ,” snapped Mr. Saveloy. “Listen, I bow to your expertise when it comes to crossing wilderness, but this is civilization and you must use the right words. Please?”
    “Better do what he says, Truckle,” said Cohen.
    With bad grace, Truckle fished a grubby piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it.
    “‘Dang’?” he said. “Wassat mean? And what’s this ‘darn’ and ‘heck’?”
    “They are…