Interesting Times d-17

by Terry Pratchett

  There were conversations breaking out everywhere, particularly in those areas on the edge of the camps, where the night stretched away so big and dark and, so very obviously, empty.

  "All right, so how come they're saying there's not 2,300,009 of them, eh? If there's none of them, then why's there a number?"

  "Look, there's no such thing as invisible vampire ghosts, all right?"

  "Oh yeah? How do you know? Have you ever seen any?"

  "Listen, I went and asked the captain and he says he's certain there's no invisible ghosts out there."

  "How can he be certain if he can't see them?"

  "He says there's no such things as invisible vampire ghosts at all."

  "Oh? How come he's saying that all of a sudden? My grandfather told me there's millions of them outside the—"

  "Hold on… What's that out there…?"

  "What?"

  "Could've sworn I heard something…"

  "I can't see anything."

  "Oh, no!"

  Things must have filtered through to High Command because, getting on towards midnight, trumpets were sounded around the camps and a special proclamation was read out.

  It confirmed the reality of vampire ghosts in general but denied their existence in any specific, here-and-now sense. It was a masterpiece of its type, particularly since it brought the whole subject to the ears of soldiers the Red Army hadn't been able to reach yet.

  An hour later the situation had reached the point of criticality and Rincewind was hearing things he personally hadn't made up and, on the whole, would much rather not hear.

  He'd chat with a couple of soldiers and say: "I'm sure there's no huge hungry army of vampire ghosts" and get told, "No, there's seven old men."

  "Just seven old men?"

  "I heard they're very old," said a soldier. "Like, too old to die. I heard from someone at the palace that they can walk through walls and make themselves invisible."

  "Oh, come on," said Rincewind. "Seven old men fighting this whole army?"

  "Makes you think, eh? Corporal Toshi says the Great Wizard is helping them. Stands to reason. I wouldn't be fighting a whole army if I didn't have a lot of magic on my side."

  "Er. Anyone know what the Great Wizard looks like?" said Rincewind.

  "They say he's taller than a house and got three heads."

  Rincewind nodded encouragingly.

  "I heard," said a soldier, "that the Red Army is going to fight on their side, too."

  "So what? Corporal Toshi says they're just a bunch of kids."

  "No, I heard… the real Red Army… you know…"

  "The Red Army ain't gonna side with barbarian invaders! Anyway, there's no such thing as the Red Army. That's just a myth."

  "Like the invisible vampire ghosts," said Rincewind, giving the clockwork of anxiety another little turn.

  "Er… yeah."

  He left them arguing.

  No-one was deserting. Running off into a night full of non-specific terrors was worse than staying in camp. But that was all to the good, he decided. It meant that the really frightened people were staying put and seeking reassurance from their comrades. And there was nothing like someone repeating 'I'm sure there's no vampire wizards' and going to the latrine four times an hour to put backbone into a platoon.

  Rincewind crept back towards the city, rounded a tent in the shadows, and collided with a horse, which trod heavily on his foot.

  "Your wife is a big hippo!"

  SORRY.

  Rincewind froze, both hands clutching his aching foot. He knew only one person with a voice like a cemetery in midwinter.

  He tried to hop backwards, and collided with another horse.

  RINCEWIND, ISN'T IT? said Death. YES. GOOD EVENING. I DON'T BELIEVE YOU HAVE MET WAR. RINCEWIND, WAR. WAR, RINCEWIND.

  War touched his helmet in salute.

  "Pleasure's all mine," he said. He indicated the other three riders. "Like to introduce you to m'sons, Terror and Panic. And m'daughter, Clancy."

  The children chorused a 'hello'. Clancy was scowling, looked about seven years old and was wearing a hard hat and a Pony Club badge.

  I WASN'T EXPECTING TO SEE YOU HERE, RINCEWIND.

  "Oh. Good."

  Death pulled an hourglass out of his robe, held it up to the moonlight, and sighed. Rincewind craned to see how much sand was left.

  HOWEVER, I COULD-

  "Don't you make any special arrangement just on my account," said Rincewind hurriedly. "I, er… I expect you're all here for the battle?"

  YES. IT PROMISES TO BE EXTREMELY — SHORT.

  "Who's going to win?"

  NOW, YOU KNOW I WOULDN'T TELL YOU THAT, EVEN IF I KNEW.

  "Even if you knew?" said Rincewind. "I thought you were supposed to know everything!"

  Death held up a finger. Something fluttered down through the night. Rincewind thought it was a moth, although it looked less fluffy and had a strange speckled pattern on its wings.

  It settled on the extended digit for a moment, and then flew up and away again.

  ON A NIGHT LIKE THIS, said Death, THE ONLY CERTAIN THING IS UNCERTAINTY. TRITE, I KNOW, BUT TRUE.

  Somewhere on the horizon, thunder rumbled.

  "I'll, er, just be sort of going, then," said Rincewind.

  DON'T BE A STRANGER, said Death, as the wizard hurried off.

  "Odd person," said War.

  WITH HIM HERE, EVEN UNCERTAINTY IS UNCERTAIN. AND I'M NOT SURE EVEN ABOUT THAT.

  War pulled a large paper-wrapped package out of his saddlebag.

  "We've got… let's see now… Egg and Cress, Chicken Tikka, and Mature Cheese with Crunchy Pickle, I think."

  THEY DO SUCH MARVELLOUS THINGS WITH SANDWICHES THESE DAYS.

  "Oh… and Bacon Surprise."

  REALLY? WHAT IS SO SURPRISING ABOUT BACON?

  "I don't know. I suppose it comes as something of a shock to the pig."

  Ridcully had been having a long wrestle with himself, and had won.

  "We're going to bring him back," he said. "It's been four days. And then we can send them back their bloody tube thing. It gives me the willies."

  The senior wizards looked at one another. No-one was very keen on a university with a Rincewind component, but the metal dog did give them the willies. No-one had wanted to go near it. They'd piled some tables around it and tried to pretend it wasn't there.

  "All right," said the Dean. "But Stibbons kept going on about things weighing the same, right? If we send that back, won't it mean Rincewind arrives here going very fast?"

  "Mr Stibbons says he's working on the spell," said Ridcully. "Or we could pile some mattresses up at one end of the hall or something."

  The Bursar raised a hand.

  "Yes, Bursar?" said Ridcully encouragingly.

  "Ho, landlord, a pint of your finest ale!" said the Bursar.

  "Good," said Ridcully. "That's settled, then. I've already told Mr Stibbons to start looking…"

  "On that demonic device?"

  "Yes."

  "Then nothing can possibly go wrong," said the Dean sourly.

  "A trumpet of lobsters, if you would be so good."

  "And the Bursar agrees."

  The warlords had gathered in Lord Hong's chambers. They carefully kept a distance from one another, as befitted enemies who were in the most shaky of alliances. Once the barbarians were dealt with, the battle might still continue. But they wanted assurance on one particular point.

  "No!" said Lord Hong. "Let me make this absolutely clear! There is no invisible army of blood-sucking ghosts, do you understand? The people beyond the Wall are just like us — except vastly inferior in every respect, of course. But totally visible."

  One or two of the lords did not look convinced.

  "And all this talk about the Red Army?" said one of them.

  "The Red Army, Lord Tang, is an undisciplined rabble that shall be put down with resolute force!"

  "You know what Red Army the peasants are talking about,"
said Lord Tang. "They say that thousands of years ago it—"

  "They say that thousands of years ago a wizard who did not exist took mud and lightning and made soldiers that couldn't die," said Lord Hong. "Yes. It's a story, Lord Tang. A story made up by peasants who did not understand what really happened. One Sun Mirror's army just had" — Lord Hong waved a hand vaguely — "better armour, better discipline. I am not frightened of ghosts and I am certainly not afraid of a legend that probably never existed."

  "Yes, but—"

  "Soothsayer!" snapped Lord Hong. The soothsayer, who hadn't been expecting it, gave a start.

  "Yes, my lord?"

  "How're those entrails coming along?"

  "Er — they're about ready, my lord," said the soothsayer.

  The soothsayer was rather worried. This must have been the wrong kind of bird, he told himself. About the only thing the entrails were telling him was that if he got out of this alive he, the soothsayer, might be lucky enough to enjoy a nice chicken dinner. But Lord Hong sounded like a man with the most dangerous kind of impatience.

  "And what do they tell you?"

  "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 lo
ads 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?"