They’ve got something they do it with, I think it’s called a mocracy, and it means everyone in the whole country can say who the new Tyrant is.
To make them stop fighting and be more peaceful.” “Is that something like they do to tomcats and bulls and things?” “They have a new Tyrant every five years and they do something to him first.” He hesitated. He placed it on his head at a jaunty angle, took a last satisfied look at himself in the mirror, turned on his heel and, very slowly, fell over.” Teppic picked up his hat and checked it's lining for the coil of cheesewire. As an afterthought he opened his sock drawer and took a pistol crossbow, a flask of oil, a roll of lockpicks and, after some consideration, a punch dagger, a bag of assorted caltrops and a set of brass knuckles. He winced, checked the blade of his rapier and slung the baldric over his right shoulder, to balance the bag of lead slingshot ammunition. A blowpipe was attached to its leather thong and dropped down the back of his cloak Teppic picked a slim tin container with an assortment of darts, their tips corked and their stems braille-coded for ease of selection in the dark. A thin silk line and folding grapnel were wound around his waist, over the chain-mail shirt. A couple of long-bladed throwing tlingas were slipped into their sheaths inside his boots. Various cunning and intricate devices were taken from velvet bags and dropped into pockets. Another box held a set of knives and Klatchian steel, their blades darkened with lamp black. “He sighed and opened the black box and took out his rings and slipped them on.
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