The Last Continent

when I see a blade of grass, miss.”
    She stared at him. “You…haven’t been here very long, have You, Mister…?”
    “Rincewind, ma’am.”
    “Well, get on the cart, Mister Rincewind. My name’s Letitia.” She held out a rather large hand. He shook it, and then tried surreptitiously to massage some blood back into his fingers as he scrambled up.
    The purple cart had been decorated with huge swathes of pink and lavender, and what looked like roses made out of paper. Boxes, also covered in cloth, had been set up in the center to give a sort of raised dais.
    “What d’you think?” said Letitia. “The girls worked all arvo.”
    The scheme was a bit too feminine for Rincewind’s taste, but he’d been brought up to be polite. He snuggled down, as far out of view as possible.
    “Very nice,” he said. “Very gay.”
    “Glad you think so.”
    Up ahead somewhere a band started to play. There was a stirring as people got on to the floats or formed up to march. A couple of women climbed up into the purple cart, all sequins and long gloves, and stared at Rincewind.
    “What the—” one began.
    “Darleen—we have to talk,” said Letitia, from the front of the cart.
    Rincewind watched them go into a huddle. Occasionally one of them would raise her head and give him an odd look, as if she was reassuring herself that he was here.
    Fine big girls they had here, though. He wondered where they got their shoes from.
    Rincewind was not intensively familiar with women. Quite a lot of his life that hadn’t been spent at high speed had been passed within the walls of Unseen University, where women were broadly put in the same category as wallpaper or musical instruments—interesting in their way, and no doubt a small but important part of the proper structure of civilization but not, when you got right down to it, essential.
    On those occasions when he had spent some time in the intimate company of a woman, it was generally when she was trying to either cut his head off or persuade him to a course of action that would probably get someone else to do it. When it came to women he was not, as it were, capable of much fine-tuning. A few neglected instincts were telling him that something was out of place, but he couldn’t work out what it was.
    The one addressed as Darleen strode down the cart with a decisive and rather aggressive air. Rincewind pulled his hat off respectfully.
    “Are you coming the raw prawn?” she demanded.
    “Me? Certainly not, miss. No prawns at all. If I can just lie low until we’re a few streets away, that’s all I ask—”
    “You know what this is, don’t you?”
    “Yes, miss. The carnival.” Rincewind swallowed. “No worries there. Everyone likes dressing up, don’t they?”
    “But are you tellin’ me you really think…I mean we…What are you staring at my hair for?”
    “Er…I was wondering how you get it so sparkly. Are you on the stage at all?”
    “We’re moving, girls,” Letitia called back. “Remember…pretty smiles. Leave him alone, Darleen, you don’t know where he’s been.”
    The third woman, the one the others had called Neilette, was watching him curiously, and Rincewind felt that there was something not right about her. Her hair wasn’t drab, but it certainly appeared to be when compared with that of her colleagues. She didn’t seem to have enough make-up. She seemed, in short, slightly out of place.
    The he caught sight of a watchman ahead, and flung himself below the edge of the cart. A gap in the boards gave him a view, as the cart turned the corner, of the waiting crowds.
    He’d been to quite a number of carnivals, although not usually on purpose. He’d even attended Fat Lunchtime in Genua, generally regarded as the biggest in the world, although he vaguely recalled that he’d been hanging upside down under one of the floats in order to escape pursuers, but right now he couldn’t quite remember why he’d been chased and it was never wise to stop and ask. Although Rincewind had covered quite a lot of the Disc in his life, most of his recollections were like that—a blur. Not through forgetfulness, but because of speed.
    This looked like the usual audience. A real carnival procession should only take place after the pubs have been open for a good long time. It adds to the spontaneity. There were cheers, whistles, jeers and catcalls. Up ahead, people were blowing horns. Dancers whirled past Rincewind’s peephole.
    He sat back and pulled a