Interesting Times

for the rest of his life!”
    The guards advanced with the determination of those who were prepared to risk the uncertainty of magic against the definite prospect of punishment for disobeying orders.
    “Stand back! This could go off! All right, then, since you force—”
    He waved his hand. He snapped his fingers a few times.
    “Er—”
    The guards, after checking that they were still the same shape, each grabbed an arm.
    “It may be delayed action,” he ventured, as they gripped harder.
    “Alternatively, would you be interested in hearing a famous quotation?” he said. His feet were lifted off the ground. “Or perhaps not?”
    Rincewind, running absent-mindedly in mid-air, was brought in front of the officer.
    “On your knees, rebel!” said the officer.
    “I’d like to, but—”
    “I saw what you did to Captain Four White Fox!”
    “What? Who’s he?”
    “Take…him…to…the…Emperor.”
    As he was dragged off Rincewind saw, for one brief moment, the guards closing on the Red Army, swords flashing…

    A metal plate shuddered for a moment, and then dropped on the floor.
    “Careful!”
    “I ain’t used to being careful! Bruce the Hoon wasn’t care—”
    “Shut up about Bruce the Hoon!”
    “Well, dang you, too!”
    “Whut?”
    “Anyone out there?”
    Cohen stuck his head out of the pipe. The room was dark, damp and full of pipes and runnels. Water went off in every direction to feed fountains and cisterns.
    “No,” he said, in a disappointed voice.
    “Very well. Everyone out of the pipe.”
    There was some echoey swearing and the scrape of metal as Hamish’s wheelchair was manoeuvred into the long, low cellar.
    Mr. Saveloy lit a match as the Horde spread out and examined their surroundings.
    “Congratulations, gentlemen,” he said. “I believe we are in the palace.”
    “Yeah,” said Truckle. “We’ve conquered a f—a lovemaking pipe. What good is that?”
    “We could rape it,” said Caleb hopefully.
    “Hey, this wheel thing turns…”
    “What’s a lovemaking pipe?”
    “What does this lever do?”
    “Whut?”
    “How about we find a door, rush out, and kill everyone?”
    Mr. Saveloy closed his eyes. There was something familiar about this situation, and now he realized what it was. He’d once taken an entire class on a school trip to the city armory. His right leg still hurt him on wet days.
    “No, no, no! ” he said. “What good would that do? Boy Willie, please don’t pull that lever.”
    “Well, I’d feel better, for one,” said Cohen. “Ain’t killed anyone all day except a guard, and they hardly count.”
    “Remember that we’re here for theft, not murder,” said Mr. Saveloy. “Now, please, out of all that wet leather and into your nice new clothes.”
    “I don’t like this part,” said Cohen, pulling on a shirt. “I like people to know who I was.”
    “Yeah,” said Boy Willie. “Without our leather and mail people’ll just think we’re a load of old men.”
    “Exactly,” said Mr. Saveloy. “That is part of the subterfuge.”
    “Is that like tactics?” said Cohen.
    “Yes.”
    “All right, but I don’t like it,” said Old Vincent. “S’posing we win? What kind of song will the minstrels sing about people who invaded through a pipe?”
    “An echoey one,” said Boy Willie.
    “They won’t sing anything like that,” said Cohen firmly. “You pay a minstrel enough, he’ll sing whatever you want.”
    A flight of damp steps led to a door. Mr. Saveloy was already at the top, listening.
    “That’s right,” said Caleb. “They say that whoever pays the piper calls the tune.”
    “But, gentlemen,” said Mr. Saveloy, his eyes bright, “whoever holds a knife to the piper’s throat writes the symphony.”

    The assassin moved slowly through Lord Hong’s chambers.
    He was one of the best in Hunghung’s small but very select guild, and he certainly was not a rebel. He disliked rebels. They were invariably poor people, and therefore unlikely to be customers.
    His mode of movement was unusual and cautious. It avoided the floor; Lord Hong was known to tune his floorboards. It made considerable use of furniture and decorative screens, and occasionally of the ceiling as well.
    And the assassin was very good at it. When a messenger entered the room through a distant door he froze for an instant, and then moved in perfect rhythm towards his quarry, letting the newcomer’s clumsy footsteps mask his own.
    Lord Hong was making another