If I'm a demon, Rincewind thought hazily, why is everything stinging me and trying to trip me up? I mean, surely I can only be harmed by a wooden dagger through my heart? Or do I mean garlic?
Eventually the jungle opened out into a very wide, cleared area that stretched all the way to a distant blue range of volcanoes. The land fell away below them to a patchwork of lakes and swampy fields, here and there punctured by great stepped pyramids, each one crowned with a thin plume of smoke curling into the dawn air. The jungle track opened out into a narrow, but paved, road.
“Where's this demon?” said Eric.
“It looks like one of the Tezuman kingdoms,” said Rincewind. “They're ruled over by the Great Muzuma, I think.” “She's an Amazonian princess, is she?” "Strangely enough, no. You'd be astonished how many kingdoms aren't ruled by
Amazonian princesses, Eric.“ ”It looks pretty primitive, anyway. A bit Stone Age.“ ”The Tezuman priests have a sophisticated calendar and an advanced horology," quoted
Rincewind. “Ah,” said Eric, “Good.” “No,” said Rincewind patiently. “It means time measurement.” “Oh.” “You'd approve of them. They're superb mathematicians, apparently.” “Huh,” said Eric, blinking solemnly. "Shouldn't think they've got a lot to count in a
backward civilisation like this.“ Rincewind eyed the chariots that were heading rapidly towards them. ”I think they usually count victims," he said.
The Tezuman Empire in the jungle valleys of central Klatch is known for its organic market gardens, its exquisite craftsmanship in obsidian, feathers and jade, and its mass human sacrifices in honour of Quezovercoatl, the Feathered Boa, god of mass human sacrifices. As they said, you always knew where you stood with Quezovercoatl. It was generally with a lot of people on top of a great stepped pyramid with someone in an elegant feathered head-dress chipping an exquisite obsidian knife for your very own personal use.
The Tezumen are renowned on the continent for being the most suicidally gloomy, irritable and pessimistic people you could ever hope to meet, for reasons that may soon be made clear. It was true about the time measurement as well. The Tezumen had realised long ago that everything was getting worse and, having a terrible literalmindedness, had developed a complex system to keep track of how much worse each succeeding day was.
Contrary to general belief, the Tezumen did invent the wheel. They just had radically different ideas about what you used it for.
It was the first chariot that Rincewind had ever seen that was pulled by llamas. That wasn't what was odd about it. What was odd about it was that it was being carried by people, two holding each side of the axle and running after the animals, their sandalled feet flapping on the flagstones.
“Do you think it's got the tribute in it?” said Eric.
All the leading chariot seemed to contain, apart from the driver, was a squat, basically cube-shaped man wearing a puma-skin outfit and a feather head-dress.
The runners panted to a halt, and Rincewind saw that each man wore what would probably be described as a primitive sword, made by affixing shards of obsidian into a wooden club. They looked to him no less deadly than sophisticated, extremely civilised swords. In fact they looked worse.
“Well?” said Eric.
“Well what?” said Rincewind.
“Tell him to give me my tribute.”
The fat man got down ponderously, marched over to Eric and, to Rincewind's extreme surprise, groveled.
Rincewind felt something claw its way up his back and onto his shoulder, where a voice like a sheet of metal being torn in half said, "That's better. Very wossname, comfy. If
you try and knock me off, demon, you can wossname your ear goodbye. What a turn up for the scrolls, eh? They seemed to be expecting him.“ ”Why do you keep saying wossname?" said Rincewind.
“Limited wossname. Doodah. Thingy. You know. It's got words in it,” said the parrot. “Dictionary?” said Rincewind. They passengers in the other chariots had got out and were also groveling to Eric, who was beaming like an idiot.
The parrot considered this.
“Yeah, probably,” it said. “I've got to wing it to you,” it went on. “I thought you were a bit of a wossname at the start, but you seem to be delivering the wossname.” “Demon?” said Eric, airily. “Yes?” “What are they saying? Can't you speak their language?” “Er, no,” said Rincewind. “I can read it, though,” he called out, as Eric turned away. "If
you could just sort of make signs for them to write it down..."
It was around noon. In the jungle behind Rincewind creatures whooped and gibbered. Mosquitoes the size of humming-birds whined around his head.
“Of course,” he said, for the tenth time, “They've never really got around to inventing paper.”
The stonemason stood bake, handed the latest blunted obsidian chisel to his assistant, and gave Rincewind and expectant look.
Rincewind stood back and examined the rock critically.
“It's very good,” he said. “I mean, it's a very good likeness. You've got his hairstyle and everything. Of course, he's not as, er, square as that normally but, yes, very good. And here's the chariot and there's the step-pyramids. Yes. Well, it looks as though they want you to go to the city with them,” he said to Eric.
“Tell them yes,” said Eric firmly. Rincewind turned to the headman. “Yes,” he said. “¿[Hunched-figure-in-triple-feathered-headdress-over-three-dots]?” Rincewind sighed. Without saying a word, the stonemason put a fresh stone chisel into