The Last Continent

beaut tune for this one, you just can’t stop whistling it…Well, of course you will, no worries.”
    “Thank you for that.”
    “Reckon you might be as famous as Tinhead Ned, mate.”
    “Really.” Rincewind went and lay down on his bunk again.
    “Yeah. They used to lock him up in that very cell you’re in now, in fact. And he always escaped. No one knows how, ’cos that’s a bloody good lock and he didn’t bend any bars. He said they’d never build a jail that could hold him.”
    “Thin fellow, was he?”
    “Nope.”
    “So he had a key or something.”
    “Nope. Got to go now, mate. Oh, yeah, I remember. Er, do you think your ghost will be heard if people pass by the billybong, or not?”
    “What?”
    “It’d be helpful if it did. Makes a good last verse. Top stuff.”
    “I don’t know!”
    “We-ell, I’ll say it will, shall I? No one’s gonna go back and check.”
    “Don’t let me stand in your way, then.”
    “Bonza. I’ll get these songsheets printed up in time for the hanging, don’t you worry about that.”
    “I won’t.”
    Rincewind lay back. Tinhead Ned again. That was just a joke, he could spot it. It was some kind of torture, telling him that anyone had ever escaped from a cell like this. They wanted him to run around rattling bars and things, but even he could see they were well set in and very heavy and the lock was bigger than his head.
    He was just lying back on the bunk again when the warder turned up.
    There were a couple of men with him. Rincewind was pretty sure there weren’t any trolls here, because it was probably too hot for them and anyway there wouldn’t be enough room for them on the driftwood, what with all those camels, but these men definitely had the heavy-set look of men who occupy the kind of job where the entrance examination is “What is your name?” and they scrape through on the third try.
    The warder was wearing a big grin and carrying a tray. “Got some dinnah for you,” he said.
    “I won’t tell you anything, no matter how much you feed me,” Rincewind warned.
    “You’ll like this,” the warder urged, pushing the tray forward. There was a covered bowl on it. “I done it special for you. It’s a regional specialty, mate.”
    “I thought you said bread and water’s what you’re good at.”
    “Well, yeah…but I had a bash at this anyway…”
    Rincewind watched gloomily as the warder lifted the cover. *
    It looked fairly inoffensive, but they often did. It looked, in fact, like—
    “Pea soup?” he said.
    “Yep.”
    “The leguminous vegetable? Comes in pods?”
    “Yep.”
    “I thought I’d better check that point.”
    “No worries.”
    Rincewind looked down at the knobbly green surface. Was it just possible that someone had invented a regional specialty you could eat?
    And then something rose out of the depths. For a moment Rincewind thought it was a very small shark. It bobbed to the surface and then settled back down, while the soup slopped over it.
    “What was that ?”
    “Meat pie floater,” said the warder. “Meat pie floating in pea soup. Best bloody supper on earth, mate.”
    “Ah, supper ,” said Rincewind, as realization dawned. “This is another one of those late-night, after-the-pub foods, right? And what kind of meat is in it? No, forget I asked, it’s a stupid question. I know this sort of food. If you have to ask ‘What kind of meat is in it?’ you’re too sober. Ever tried spaghetti and custard?”
    “Can you sprinkle coconut on top of it?”
    “Probably.”
    “Thanks, mate, I’ll surely give it a go,” said the warder. “Got some other good news for you, too.”
    “You’re letting me out?”
    “Oh, you wouldn’t want that, a hard-bitten larrikin like yourself. Nah, Greg and Vince here will be coming back later to put you in irons.”
    He stepped aside. The wall-shaped men were holding a length of chain, several shackles and a small but very, very heavy-looking ball.
    Rincewind sighed. One door closes, he thought, and another door slams shut. “This is good, is it?” he said.
    “Oh, yew’ll get an extra verse for that, for sure,” said the warder. “No one’s been hung in irons since Tinhead Ned.”
    “I thought there wasn’t a prison cell that could hold him,” said Rincewind.
    “Oh, he could get out of ’em,” said the warder. “He just couldn’t run very far.”
    Rincewind eyed the metal ball. “Oh, gods…”
    “Vince says how much do you weigh, ’cos he has to add the