Interesting Times (Discworld #17)

Interesting Times (Discworld #17) Page 33

'Er - the future is . . . the future is . . .' Chicken entrails had never looked like this. For a moment he thought they were moving. 'Er . . . it is uncertain,' he hazarded. 'Be certain,' said Lord Hong. 'Who will win in the morning?'

Shadows flickered across the table. Something was fluttering around the light. It looked like an undistinguished yellow moth, with black patterns on its wings. The soothsayer's precognitive abilities, which were considerably more powerful than he believed, told him: this is not a good time to be a clairvoyant. On the other hand, there was never a good time to be horribly executed, so . . . 'Without a shadow of doubt,' he said, 'the enemy will be most emphatically beaten.'

'How can you be so certain?' said Lord McSweeney. The soothsayer bridled. 'You see this wobbly bit near the kidneys? You want to argue with this green trickly thing? You know all about liver suddenly? All right?'

'So there you are,' said Lord Hong. 'Fate smiles upon us.'

'Even so—' Lord Tang began. 'The men are very—'

'You can tell the men—' Lord Hong began. He stopped. He smiled. 'You can tell the men', he said, 'that there is a huge army of invisible vampire ghosts.'

'What?'

'Yes!' Lord Hong began to stride up and down, snapping his fingers. 'Yes, there is a terrible army of foreign ghosts. And this has so enraged our own ghosts . . . yes, a thousand generations of our ancestors are riding on the wind to repel this barbaric invasion! The ghosts of the Empire are arising! Millions and millions of them! Even our demons are furious at this intrusion! They will descend like a mist of claws and teeth to -Yes, Lord Sung?' The warlords were looking at one another nervously. 'Are you sure, Lord Hong?' Lord Hong's eyes gleamed behind his tiny spectacles. 'Make the necessary proclamations,' he said. 'But only a few hours ago we told the men there were no—'

'Tell them differently!'

'But will they believe that there—'

'They will believe what they are told!' shouted Lord Hong. 'If the enemy thinks his strength lies in deceit, then we will use their deceit against them. Tell the men that behind them will be a billion ghosts of the Empire!' The other warlords tried to avoid his gaze. No-one was actually going to suggest that your average soldier would not be totally happy with ghosts front and rear, especially given the capriciousness of ghosts. 'Good,' said Lord Hong. He looked down. 'Are you still here?' he said. 'Just clearing up my giblets, my lord!' squealed the soothsayer. He picked up the remains of his stricken chicken and ran for it. After all, he told himself as he pelted back home, it's not as though I said whose enemy. Lord Hong was left alone. He realized he was shaking. It was probably fury. But perhaps . . . perhaps things could be turned to his advantage, even so. Barbarians came from outside, and to most people everywhere outside was the same. Yes. The barbarians were a minute detail, easily disposed of, but carefully managed, perhaps, might figure in his overall strategy. He was breathing heavily, too. He walked into his private study and shut the door. He pulled out the key. He opened the box. There was a few minutes' silence, except for the rustle of cloth. Then Lord Hong looked at himself in the mirror. He'd gone to great lengths to achieve this. He had used several agents, none of whom knew the whole plan. But the Ankh-Morpork tailor had been good at his work and the measurements had been followed exactly. From pointy boots to hose to doublet, cloak and hat with a feather in it, Lord Hong knew he was a perfect Ankh-Morpork gentleman. The cloak was lined with silk. The clothes felt uncomfortable and touched him in unfamiliar ways, but those were minor details. This was how a man looked in a society that breathed, that moved, that could go somewhere . . . He'd walk through the city on that first great day and the people would be silent when they saw their natural leader.

It never crossed his mind that anyone would say, '

'Ere, wot a toff! 'Eave 'arf a brick at 'im!' The ants scurried. The thing that went 'parp' went parp. The wizards stood back. There wasn't much else to do when Hex was working at full speed, except watch the fish and oil the wheels from time to time. There were occasional flashes of octarine from the tubes. Hex was spelling several hundred times a minute. It was as simple as that. It would take a human more than an hour to do an ordinary finding spell. But Hex could do them faster. Over and over again. It was netting the whole occult sea in the search for one slippery fish. It achieved, after ninety-three minutes, what would otherwise have taken the faculty several months. 'You see?' said Ponder, his voice shaking a little as he took the line of blocks out of the hopper. 'I said he could do it.'

'Who's he?' said Ridcully. 'Hex.'

'Oh, you mean it.'

'That's what I said, sir . . . er . . . yes.' Another thing about the Horde, Mr Saveloy had noticed, was their ability to relax. The old men had the catlike ability to do nothing when there was nothing to do. They'd sharpened their swords. They'd had a meal - big lumps of meat for most of them, and some kind of gruel for Mad Hamish, who'd dribbled most of it down his beard - and assured its wholesomeness by dragging the cook in, nailing him to the floor by his apron, and suspending a large axe on a rope that crossed a beam in the roof and was held at the other end by Cohen, while he ate. Then they'd sharpened their swords again, out of habit, and . . . stopped. Occasionally one of them would whistle a snatch of a tune, through what remained of his teeth, or search a bodily crevice for a particularly fretful louse. Mainly, though, they just sat and stared at nothing. After a long while, Caleb said, 'Y'know, I've never been to XXXX. Been everywhere else. Often wondered what it's like.'

'Got shipwrecked there once,' said Vincent. 'Weird place. Lousy with magic. There's beavers with beaks and giant rats with long tails that hops around the place and boxes with one another. Black fellas wanderin' around all over the place. They say they're in a dream. Bright, though. Show 'em a bit of desert with one dead tree in it, next minute they've found a three- course meal with fruits and nuts to follow. Beer's good, too.'

'Sounds like it.' There was another long pause. Then: 'I suppose they've got minstrels here? Be a bit of a bloody waste, wouldn't it, if we all got killed and no-one made up any songs about it.'

'Bound to have loads of minstrels, a city like this.'

'No problem there, then.'

'No.'

'No.' There was another lengthy pause. 'Not that we're going to get killed.'

'Right. I don't intend to start getting killed at my time of life, haha.' Another pause. 'Cohen?'

'Yep?'

'You a religious man at all?'

'Well, I've robbed loads of temples and killed a few mad priests in my time. Don't know if that counts.'

'What do your tribe believe happens to you when you die in battle?'

'Oh, these big fat women in horned helmets take you off to the halls of Io where there is fighting and carousing and quaffing for ever.' Another pause. 'You mean, like, really for ever?'

'S'pose so.'

'Cos generally you get fed up even with turkey by about day four.'

'All right, what do your lot believe?'

'I think we go off to Hell in a boat made of toenail dippings. Something like that, anyway.' Another pause. 'But it's not worth talking about 'cos we're not going to get killed today.'

'You said it.'

'Hah, it's not worth dying if all you've got to look toward to is leftover meat and floating around in a boat smelling of your socks, is it, eh?'

'Haha.' Another pause. 'Down in Klatch they believe if you lead a good life you're rewarded by being sent to a paradise with lots of young women.'

'That's your reward, is it?'

'Dunno. Maybe it's their punishment. But I do remember you eat sherbet all day.'

'Hah. When I was a lad we had proper sherbet, in little tube things and a liquorice straw to suck it up with. You don't get that sort of thing today. People're too busy rushin' about.'

'Sounds a lot better than quaffing toenails, though.' Another pause. 'Did you ever believe that business about every enemy you killed becoming your servant in the next world?'

'Dunno.'

'How many you killed?'

'What? Oh. Maybe two, three thousand. Not counting dwarfs and trolls, o' course.'

'Definitely not going to be short of a hairbrush or someone to open doors for you after you're dead, then.' A pause. 'We're definitely not going to die, right?'

'Right.'

'I mean, odds of 100,000 to one . . . hah. The difference is just a lot of zeroes, right?'

'Right.'

'I mean, stout comrades at our side, a strong right arm . . . What more could we want?' Pause. 'A volcano'd be favourite.' Pause. 'We're going to die, aren't we?'

'Yep.' The Horde looked at one another. 'Still, to look on the bright side, I recall I still owe Fafa the dwarf fifty dollars for this sword,' said Boy Willie. 'Looks as though I could end up ahead of the game.' Mr Saveloy put his head in his hands. 'I'm really sorry,' he said. 'Don't worry about it,' said Cohen. The grey light of dawn was just visible in the high windows. 'Look,' said Mr Saveloy, 'you don't have to die. We could . . . well, we could sneak out. Back along the pipe, maybe. Perhaps we could carry Hamish. People are coming and going all the time. I'm sure we could get out of . . . the city . . . without . . . any . . .' His voice faded away. No voice could keep going under the pressure of those stares. Even Hamish, whose gaze was generally focused on some point about eighty years away, was glaring at him. 'Ain't gonna run,' said Hamish. 'It's not running away,' he managed. 'It's a sensible withdrawal. Tactics. Good grief, it's common sense!'

'Ain't gonna run.'

'Look, even barbarians can count! And you've admitted you're going to die!'

'Ain't gonna run.' Cohen leaned forward and patted Mr Saveloy on the hand.

'It's the heroing, see,' he said. 'Who's ever heard of a hero running away? All them kids you was telling us about . . . you know, the ones who think we're stories . . . you reckon they'd believe we ran away? Well, then. No, it's not part of the whole deal, running away. Let someone else do the running.'

'Besides,' said Truckle, 'where'd we get another chance like this? Six against five armies! That's bl — that's fantastic! We're not talking legends here. I reckon we've got a good crack at some mythology as well.'

'But . . . you'll . . . die.' Oh, that's part of it, I'll grant you, that's part of it. But what a way to go, eh?' Mr Saveloy looked at them and realized that they were speaking another language in another world. It was one he had no key to, no map for. You could teach them to wear interesting pants and handle money but something in their soul stayed exactly the same. 'Do teachers go anywhere special when they die?' said Cohen. 'I don't think so,' said Mr Saveloy gloomily. He wondered for a moment whether there really was a great Free Period in the sky. It didn't sound very likely. Probably there would be some marking to do. 'Well, whatever happens, when you're dead, if you ever feel like a good quaff, you're welcome to drop in at any time,' said Cohen. 'It's been fun. That's the important thing. And it's been an education, hasn't it, boys?' There was a general murmur of assent. 'Amazing, all those long words.'

'And learnin' to buy things.'

'And social intercourse, hur, hur . . . sorry.'

'Whut?'

'Shame it didn't work out, but I've never been one for plans,' said Cohen. Mr Saveloy stood up. 'I'm going to join you,' he said grimly. 'What, to fight?'

'Yes.'

'Do you know how to handle a sword?' said Truckle. 'Er. No.'

'Then you've wasted all your life.' Mr Saveloy looked offended at this. 'I expect I'll get the hang of it as we go along,' he said. 'Get the hang of it? It's a sword!'