So... this was Hunghung...

There didn't seem to be streets in the sense Rince-wind understood the term. Alleys opened on to alleys, all of them narrow and made narrower by the stalls that lined them. There was a large animal population in the marketplace. Most of the stalls had their share of caged chickens, ducks in sacks and strange wriggling things in bowls. From one stall a tortoise on top of a struggling heap of other tortoises under a sign saying: 3r, each, good for Ying gave Rincewind a slow, 'You think you've got troubles?' look.

But it was hard to tell where the stalls ended and the buildings began in any case. Dried-up things hanging on a string might be merchandise or someone's washing or quite possibly next week's dinner.

The Hunghungese were an outdoor kind of people; from the look of it, they conducted most of their lives on the street and at the top of their voice.

Progress was made by viciously elbowing and shoving people until they got out of the way. Standing still and saying, 'Er, excuse me' was a recipe for immobility.

The crowds did part, though, at the banging of a gong and a succession of loud 'pops'. A group of people in white robes danced past, throwing fireworks around and banging on gongs, saucepans and odd bits of metal. The din contrived to be louder than the street noise, but only by very great effort.

Rincewind had been getting the occasional puzzled glance from people who stopped screaming long enough to notice him. Perhaps it was time to act like a native.

He turned to the nearest person and screamed. 'Pretty good, eh?'

The person, a little old lady in a straw hat, stared at him in distaste.

'It's Mr Whu's funeral,' she snapped, and walked off.

There were a couple of soldiers nearby. If this had been Ankh-Morpork, then they'd have been sharing a cigarette and trying not to see anything that might upset them. But these had an alert look.

Rincewind backed into another alley. An untutored visitor could clearly find himself in big trouble here.

This alley was quieter and, at the far end, opened into something much wider and empty looking. On the basis that people also meant trouble, Rincewind headed in that direction.

Here, at last, was an open space. It was very open indeed. It was a paved square, big enough to hold a couple of armies. It had cherry trees growing along the verges. And, given the heaving mob everywhere else, a surprising absence of anyone...

'You!'

... apart from the soldiers.

They appeared abruptly from behind every tree and statue.

Rincewind tried to back away, but that proved unfortunate since there was a guard behind him.

A terrifying armoured mask confronted him.

'Peasant! Do you not know this is the Imperial Square?'

'Was that a capital S on Square, please?' said Rincewind.

'You do not ask questions!'

'Ah. I'll take that as a "yes". So it's important, then. Sorry. I'll just sort of go away, then...'

'You stay!'

But what struck Rincewind as amazingly odd was that none of them actually took hold of him. And then he realized that this must be because they hardly ever needed to. People did what they were told.

There's something worse than whips in the Empire, Cohen had said.

At this point, he realized, he should be on his knees. He crouched down, hands placed lightly in front of him.

'I wonder,' he said brightly, rising into the starting position, 'if this is the time to draw your attention to a famous saying?'

Cohen was familiar with city gates. He'd broken down a number in his time, by battering ram, siege gun and on one occasion with his head.

But the gates of Hunghung were pretty damn good gates. They weren't like the gates of Ankh-Morpork, which were usually wide open to attract the spending customer and whose concession to defence was the sign 'Thank You For Not Attacking Our City. Bonum Diem'. These things were big and made of metal and there was a guardhouse and a squad of unhelpful men in black armour.

'Teach?'

'Yes, Cohen?'

'Why're we doing this? I thought we were going to use the invisible duck the mice use.'

Mr Saveloy waggled a finger.

'That's for the Forbidden City itself. I hope we'll find that inside. Now, remember your lessons,' he said. 'It's important that you all learn how to behave in cities.'

'I know how to bloody well behave in cities,' said Truckle the Uncivil. 'Pillage, ravish, loot, set fire to the damn place on your way out. Just like towns only it takes longer.'

'That's all very well if you're just passing through,' said Mr Saveloy, 'but what if you want to come back next day?'

'It ain't bloody well there next day, mister.'

'Gentlemen! Bear with me. You will have to learn the ways of civilization!'

People couldn't just walk through. There was a line. And the guards gathered rather offensively around each cowering visitor to examine their papers.

And then it was Cohen's turn.

'Papers, old man?'

Cohen nodded happily, and handed the guard captain a piece of paper on which was written, in Mr Saveloy's best handwriting:

WE ARE WANDERING MADMEN WHO HAVE NO PAPERS. SORRY.

The guard's gaze lifted from the paper and met Cohen's cheerful grin.

'Indeed,' he said nastily. 'Can't you speak, grandfather?'

Cohen, still grinning, looked questioningly at Mr Saveloy. They hadn't rehearsed this part.

'Foolish dummy,' said the guard.

Mr Saveloy looked outraged.

'I thought you were supposed to show special consideration for the insane!' he said.

'You cannot be insane without papers to say you're insane,' said the guard.

'Oh, I'm fed up with this,' said Cohen. 'I said it wouldn't work if we came across a thick guard.'

'Insolent peasant!'

'I'm not as insolent as my friends here,' said Cohen.

The Horde nodded.

'That's us, flatfoot.'

'Bum to you.'

'Whut?'

'Extremely foolish soldier.'

'Whut?'

The captain was taken aback. Deeply ingrained in the Agatean psyche was the habit of obedience. But even stronger was a veneration of one's ancestors and a respect for the elderly, and the captain had never seen anyone so elderly while still vertical. They practically were ancestors. The one in the wheelchair certainly smelled like one.

'Take them to the guardhouse!' he shouted.

The Horde let themselves be manhandled, and did it quite well. Mr Saveloy had spent hours training them in this, since he knew he was dealing with men whose response to a tap on the shoulder was to turn around and hack off someone's arm.

It was crowded in the guardhouse, with the Horde and the guards and with Mad Hamish's wheelchair. One of the guards looked down at Hamish, glowering under his blanket.

'What do you have there, grandfather?'

A sword came up through the cloth and stabbed the guard in the thigh.

'Whut? Whut? Whutzeesay?'

'He said, "Aargh!", Hamish,' said Cohen, a knife appearing in his hand. With one movement his skinny arms had the captain in a lock, the knife at his throat.

'Whut?'

'He said, "Aargh!" '

'Whut? I ain't even married!'

Cohen put a little more pressure on the captain's neck.

'Now then, friend,' he said. 'You can have it the easy way, see, or the hard way. It's up to you.'

'Blood-sucking pig! You call this the easy way?'

'Well, I ain't sweatin'.'

'May you live in interesting times! I would rather die than betray my Emperor!'

'Fair enough.'

It took the captain only a fraction of a second to realize that Cohen, being a man of his word, assumed that other people were too. He might, if he had time, have reflected that the purpose of civilization is to make violence the final resort, while to a barbarian it is the first, preferred, only and above all most enjoyable option. But by then it was too late. He slumped forward.