The land was a chequerboard of cultivation. Rincewind liked the countryside in theory, providing it wasn’t rising up to meet him and was for preference happening on the far side of a city wall, but this was hardly countryside. It was more like one big, hedge-less farm. Occasional huge rocks, looking dangerously erratic, rose out of the fields.
Sometimes he’d see people hard at work in the distance. As far as he could tell, their chief activity was moving mud around.
Occasionally he’d see a man standing ankle deep in a flooded field holding a water buffalo on the end of a length of string. The buffalo grazed and occasionally moved its bowels. The man held the string. It seemed to be his entire goal and occupation in life.
There were a few other people on the road. Usually they were pushing wheelbarrows loaded with water buffalo dung or, possibly, mud. They didn’t pay any attention to Rincewind. In fact they made a point of not paying attention; they scurried past staring intently at the scenes of mud dynamics or bovine bowel movement happening in the fields.
Rincewind would be the first to admit that he was a slow thinker.[16] But he’d been around long enough to spot the signs. These people weren’t paying him any attention because they didn’t see people on horseback.
They were probably descended from people who learned that if you look too hard at anyone on horseback you receive a sharp stinging sensation such as might be obtained by a stick around the ear. Not looking up at people on horseback had become hereditary. People who stared at people on horseback in what was considered to be a funny way never survived long enough to breed.
He decided to try an experiment. The next wheelbarrow that trundled past was carrying not mud but people, about half a dozen of them, on seats either side of the huge central wheel. The method of propulsion was secondarily by a small sail erected to catch the wind but primarily by that pre-eminent source of motive power in a peasant community, someone’s great-grandfather, or at least someone who looked like someone’s great-grandfather.
Cohen had said, ‘There’s men here who can push a wheelbarrow for thirty miles on a bowl of millet with a bit of scum in it. What does that tell you? It tells me someone’s porking all the beef.’
Rincewind decided to explore the social dynamics and also try out the language. It had been years since he’d last used it, but he had to admit that Ridcully had been right. He did have a gift for languages Agatean was a language of few basic syllables. It was really all in the tone, inflection and context. Otherwise, the word for military leader was also the word for long-tailed marmot, male sexual organ and ancient chicken coop.
‘Hey there, you!’ he shouted. ‘Er . . . to bend bamboo? An expression of disapproval? Er . . . I mean . . . Stop!’
The barrow slewed to a halt. No-one looked at him They looked past him, or around him, or towards his feet.
Eventually the wheelbarrow-pusher, in the manner of a man who knows he’s in for it no matter what he does, mumbled, ‘Your honour commands?’
Rincewind felt very sorry, later, for what he said next.
He said, ‘Just give me all your food and . . . unwilling dogs, will you?’
They watched him impassively.
‘Damn. I mean . . . arranged beetles? . . . variety of waterfall? . . . Oh, yes . . . money.’
There was a general fumbling and shifting among the passengers. Then the wheelbarrow-pusher sidled towards Rincewind, head down, and held up his hat. It contained some rice, some dried fish, a highly dangerous-looking egg. And about a pound of gold, in big round coins.
Rincewind stared at the gold.
Gold was as common as copper on the Counterweight Continent. That was one of the few things everyone knew about the place. There was no point in Cohen trying any kind of big robbery. There was a limit to what anyone could carry. He might as well rob one peasant village and live like a king for the rest of his life. It wouldn’t be as if he’d need that much . . .
The ‘later’ suddenly caught up with him, and he did indeed feel quite ashamed. These people had hardly anything, apart from loads of gold.
‘Er. Thanks. Thank you. Yes. Just checking. Yes. You can all have it back now. I’ll . . . er . . . keep . . . the elderly grandmother . . . to run sideways . . . oh, damn . . . fish.’
Rincewind had always been on the bottom of the social heap. It didn’t matter what size heap it was. The top got higher or lower, but the bottom was always in the same place. But at least it was an Ankh-Morpork heap.
No-one bowed to anyone in Ankh-Morpork. And anyone who tried what he’d just tried in Ankh-Morpork would, by now, be scrabbling in the gutter for his teeth and whimpering about the pain in his groin and his horse would already have been repainted twice and sold to a man who’d be swearing he’d owned it for years.
He felt oddly proud of the fact.
Something strange welled up from the sludgy depths of his soul. It was, to his amazement, a generous impulse.
He slid off the horse and held out the reins. A horse was useful, but he was used to doing without one. Besides, over a short distance a man could run faster than a horse, and this was a fact very dear to Rince-wind’s heart.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘You can have it. For the fish.’
The wheelbarrow-pusher screamed, grabbed the handles of his conveyance and hurtled desperately away. Several people were thrown off, took one almost-look at Rincewind, also screamed, and ran after him.
Worse than whips, Cohen had said. They’ve got something here worse than whips. They don’t need whips any more. Rincewind hoped he’d never find out what it was, if it had done this to people.
He rode on through an endless panorama of fields There weren’t even any patches of roadside scrub, or taverns. Away among the fields were shapes that might be small towns or villages, but no apparent paths to them, possibly because paths used up valuable agricultural mud.
Finally he sat down on a rock that presumably not even the peasants’ most concerted efforts had been able to move, and reached into his pocket for his shameful dried fish lunch.
His hand touched the bundle of papers Mr Saveloy had given him. He pulled them out, and got crumbs on them.
This is what it’s all about, the barbarian teacher had said. He hadn’t explained what ‘it’ was.
WHAT I DID ON MY HOLIDAYS, said the title. It was in bad handwriting or, rather, bad painting – the Agateans wrote with paintbrushes, assembling little word pictures out of handy components. One picture wasn’t just worth a thousand words, it was a thousand words.
Rincewind wasn’t much good at reading the language. There were very few Agatean books even in the Unseen University Library. And this one looked as though whoever had written it had been trying to make sense of something unfamiliar.
He turned over a couple of pages. It was a story about a Great City, containing magnificent things – ‘beer strong like an ox’, it said, and ‘pies containing many many parts of pig’. Everyone in the city seemed to be wise, kind, strong or all three, especially some character called the Great Wizard who seemed to feature largely in the text.
And there were mystifying little comments, as in, ‘I saw a man tread upon the toes of a City Guard who said to him “Your wife is a big hippo!” to which the man responded “Place it where the sun does not shed daylight, enormous person”, upon which the Guard [this bit was in red ink and the handwriting was shaky, as if the writer was quite excited] did not remove the man’s head according to ancient custom.’ The statement was followed by a pictogram of a dog passing water, which was for some obscure reason the Agatean equivalent of an exclamation mark. There were five of these.
Rincewind flicked through the pages. They were filled with the same dull stuff, sentences stating the blindingly obvious but often followed by several incontinent dogs. Such as: ‘The innkeeper said the City had demanded tax but he did not intend to pay, and when I asked if he was not afraid he vouchsafed: “[Complicated pictogram] them all except one and he can [complicated pictogram] himself” [urinating dog, urinating dog]. He went on to say, “The [pictogram indicating Supreme Ruler] is a [another pictogram which, after some thought and holding up the picture at various angles, Rincewind decided meant ‘a horse’s bottom’] and you can tell him I said so”, at which point a Guard in the tavern did not disembowel him [urinating dog, urinating dog] but said, “Tell him from me also” [urinating dog, urinating dog, urinating dog, urinating dog, urinating dog].’