Interesting Times d-17

by Terry Pratchett

  The Horde were watching with considerable interest. Hardened as they were, they had a soft spot for pointless bravery.

  "Yes," said Lord Hong, looking around at the silent crowd. "Let everyone see what happens."

  He raised his sword.

  The air crackled.

  The Barking Dog dropped on to the flagstones in front of him.

  It was very hot. Its string was alight.

  There was a brief sizzle.

  Then the world went white.

  After some time, Twoflower picked himself up. He seemed to be the first one upright; those people who hadn't flung themselves to the ground had fled.

  All that remained of Lord Hong was one shoe, which was smouldering. But there was a smoking trail all the way up the steps behind it.

  Staggering a little, Twoflower followed the trail.

  A wheelchair was on its side, one wheel spinning.

  He peered over it.

  "You all right, Mr Hamish?"

  "Whut?"

  "Good."

  The rest of the Horde were crouched in a circle at the top of the steps. Smoke billowed around them. In its continuing passage, the ball had set fire to part of the palace.

  "Can you hear me, Teach?" Cohen was saying.

  "'Course he can't hear you! How can he hear you, looking like that?" said Truckle.

  "He could still be alive," said Cohen defiantly.

  "He is dead, Cohen. Really, really dead. Alive people have more body."

  "But you're all alive?" said Twoflower. "I saw it bark straight at you!"

  "We got out of the way," said Boy Willie. "We're good at getting out of the way."

  "Poor ole Teach didn't have our experience of not dyin'," said Caleb.

  Cohen stood up.

  "Where's Hong?" he said grimly. "I'm going to—"

  "He's dead too, Mr Cohen," said Twoflower.

  Cohen nodded, as if this was all perfectly normal.

  "We owe it to ole Teach," he said.

  "He was a good sort," Truckle conceded. "Funny ideas about swearing, mind you."

  "He had brains. He cared about stuff! And he might not have lived like a barbarian, but he's bloody well going to be buried like one, all right?"

  "In a longship, set on fire," suggested Boy Willie.

  "My word," said Mr Saveloy.

  "In a big pit, on top of the bodies of his enemies," suggested Caleb.

  "Good heavens, all of 4B?" said Mr Saveloy.

  "In a burial mound," suggested Vincent.

  "Really, I wouldn't put you to the trouble," said Mr Saveloy.

  "In a longship set on fire, on top of a heap of the bodies of his enemies, under a burial mound," said Cohen flatly. "Nothing's too good for ole Teach."

  "But I assure you, I feel fine," said Mr Saveloy. "Really, I — er… Oh…"

  RONALD SAVELOY?

  Mr Saveloy turned.

  "Ah," he said. "Yes. I see."

  IF YOU WOULD CARE TO STEP THIS WAY?

  The palace and the Horde froze and faded gently, like a dream.

  "It's funny," said Mr Saveloy, as he followed Death. "I didn't expect it to be this way."

  FEW PEOPLE EVER EXPECT IT TO BE ANY WAY.

  Gritty black sand crunched under what Mr Saveloy supposed he should still call his feet.

  "Where is this?"

  THE DESERT.

  It was brilliantly lit, and yet the sky was midnight-black. He stared at the horizon.

  "How big is it?"

  FOR SOME, VERY BIG. FOR LORD HONG, FOR INSTANCE, IT CONTAINS A LOT OF IMPATIENT GHOSTS.

  "I thought Lord Hong didn't believe in ghosts."

  HE MAY DO SO NOW. A LOT OF GHOSTS BELIEVE IN LORD HONG.

  "Oh. Er. What happens now?"

  "Come on, come on, haven't got all day! Step lively, man!"

  Mr Saveloy turned around and looked up at the woman on the horse. It was a big horse but, then, it was a big woman. She had plaits, a hat with horns on it, and a breastplate that must have been a week's work for an experienced panelbeater. She gave him a look that was not unkind but had impatience in every line.

  "I'm sorry?" he said.

  "Says here Ronald Saveloy," she said. "The what?"

  "The what?"

  "Everyone I pick up," said the woman, leaning down, "is called "Someone the Something". What the are you?"

  "I'm sorry, I—"

  "I'll put you down as Ronald the Apologetic, then. Come on, hop up, there's a war on, got to be going."

  "Where to?"

  "Says here quaffing, carousing, throwing axes at young women's hair?"

  "Ah, er, I think perhaps there's been a bit of a—"

  "Look, old chap, are you coming or what?"

  Mr Saveloy looked around at the black desert. He was totally alone. Death had gone about his essential business.

  He let her pull him up behind her.

  "Have they got a library, perhaps?" he asked hopefully, as the horse rose into the dark sky.

  "Don't know. No-one's ever asked."

  "Evening classes, perhaps. I could start evening classes?"

  "What in?"

  "Um. Anything, really. Table manners, perhaps. Is that allowed?"

  "I suppose so. I don't think anyone's ever asked that, either." The Valkyrie turned in the saddle.

  "You sure you're coming to the right afterlife?"

  Mr Saveloy considered the possibilities.

  "On the whole," he said, "I think it's worth a try."

  The crowd in the square were getting to their feet.

  They looked at all that remained of Lord Hong, and at the Horde.

  Butterfly and Lotus Blossom joined their father. Butterfly ran her hand over the cannon, looking for the trick.

  "You see," said Twoflower, a little indistinctly because he couldn't quite hear the sound of his own voice yet, "I told you he was the Great Wizard."

  Butterfly tapped him on the shoulder.

  "What about those?" she said.

  A small procession was picking its way through the square. In front, Twoflower recognized, was something he'd once owned.

  "It was a very cheap one," he said, to no-one in particular. "I always thought there was something a little warped about it, to tell you the truth."

  It was followed by a slightly larger Luggage. And then, in descending order of size, four little chests, the smallest being about the size of a lady's handbag. As it passed a prone Hunghungese who'd been too stunned to flee, it paused to kick him in the ear before hurrying after the others.

  Twoflower looked at his daughters.

  "Can they do that?" he said. "Make new ones? I thought it needed carpenters."

  "I suppose it learned many things in Ankh-More-Pork," said Butterfly.

  The Luggages clustered together in front of the steps. Then the Luggage turned around and, after one or two sad backward glances, or what might have been glances if it had eyes, cantered away. By the time it reached the far side of the square it was a blur.

  "Hey, you! Four-eyes!"

  Twoflower turned, Cohen was advancing down the steps.

  "I remember you," he said. "D'you know anything about Grand Viziering?"

  "Not a thing, Mr Emperor Cohen."

  "Good. The job's yours. Get cracking. First thing, I want a cup of tea. Thick enough to float a horseshoe. Three sugars. In five minutes. Right?"

  "A cup of tea in five minutes?" said Twoflower. "But that's not long enough for even a short ceremony!"

  Cohen put a companionable arm around the little man's shoulders.

  "There's a new ceremony," he said. "It goes: 'Tea up, luv. Milk? Sugar? Doughnut? Want another one?' And you could tell the eunuchs," he added, "that the Emperor is a lit'ral-minded man and used the phrase 'heads will roll'."

  Twoflower's eyes gleamed behind his cracked glasses. Somehow, he liked the sound of that.

  It looked as though he was living in interesting times—

  The Luggages sat quietly, and waited.
>
  Fate sat back.

  The gods relaxed.

  "A draw," he announced. "Oh, yes. You have appeared to win in Hunghung but you have had to lose your most valuable piece, is that not so?"

  "I'm sorry?" said the Lady. "I don't quite follow you."

  "Insofar as I understand this… physics…" said Fate, "I cannot believe that anything could be materialized in the University without dying almost instantly. It is one thing to hit a snowdrift, but quite another to hit a wall."

  "I never sacrifice a pawn," said the Lady.

  "How can you hope to win without sacrificing the occasional pawn?"

  "Oh, I never play to win." She smiled. "But I do play not to lose. Watch…"

  The Council of Wizards gathered in front of the wall at the far end of the Great Hall and stared up at the thing which now covered half of it.

  "Interesting effect," said Ridcully, eventually. "How fast do you think it was going?"

  "About five hundred miles an hour," said Ponder. "I think perhaps we were a little enthusiastic. Hex says—"

  "From a standing start to five hundred miles an hour?" said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. "That must have come as a shock."

  "Yes," said Ridcully, "but I suppose it's a mercy for the poor creature that it was such a brief one."

  "And, of course, we must all be thankful that it wasn't Rincewind."

  A couple of the wizards coughed.

  The Dean stood back.

  "But what is it?" he said.

  "Was," said Ponder Stibbons.

  "We could have a look in the Bestiaries," said Ridcully. "Shouldn't be hard to find. Grey. Long hind feet like a clown's boots. Rabbit ears. Tail long and pointy. And, of course, not many creatures are twenty feet across, one inch thick and deep fried, so that narrows it down a bit."

  "I don't want to cast a shadow on things," said the Dean, "but if this isn't Rincewind, then where is he?"

  "I'm sure Mr Stibbons can give us an explanation as to why his calculations went wrong," said Ridcully.

  Ponder's mouth dropped open.

  Then he said, as sourly as he dared, "I probably forgot to take into account that there's three right angles in a triangle, didn't I? Er. I'll have to try and work everything back, but I think that somehow a lateral component was introduced into what should have been a bidirectional sortilegic transfer. It's probably that this was most pronounced at the effective median point, causing an extra node to appear in the transfers at a point equidistant to the other two as prediction in Flume's Third Equation, and Turffe's Law would see to it that the distortion would stabilize in such a way as to create three separate points, each moving a roughly equal mass one jump around the triangle. I'm not sure why the third mass arrived here at such speed, but I think the increased velocity might have been caused by the sudden creation of the node. Of course, it might have been going quite fast anyway. But I shouldn't think it is cooked in its natural state."

  "Do you know," said Ridcully, "I think I actually understood some of that? Certainly some of the shorter words."

  "Oh, it's perfectly simple," said the Bursar brightly. "We sent the… dog thing to Hunghung. Rincewind was sent to some other place. And this creature was sent here. Just like Pass the Parcel."

  "You see?" said Ridcully to Stibbons. "You're using language the Bursar can understand. And he's been chasing the dried frog all morning."

  The Librarian staggered into the hall under the weight of a large atlas.

  "Oook."

  "At least you can show us where you think our man is," said Ridcully.

  Ponder took a ruler and a pair of compasses out of his hat.

  "Well, if we assume Rincewind was in the middle of the Counterweight Continent," he said, "then all we need do is draw—"

  "Oook!"

  "I assure you, I was only going to use pencil—"

  "Eeek."

  "All we have to do is imagine, all right, a third point equidistant from the other two… er… that looks like somewhere in the Rim Ocean to me, or probably over the Edge."

  "Can't see that thing in the sea," said Ridcully, glancing up at the recently laminated corpse.

  "In that case, it must have been in the other direction—"

  The wizards crowded round.

  There was something there.

  "'S not even properly drawn in," said the Dean.

  "That's because no-one's sure it really exists," said the Senior Wrangler.

  It floated in the middle of the sea, a tiny continent by Discworld standards.

  "'XXXX'," Ponder read.

  "They only put that on the map because no-one knows what it's really called," said Ridcully.

  "And we've sent him there," said Ponder. "A place that we're not even certain exists?"

  "Oh, we know it exists now," said Ridcully. "Must do. Must do. Must be a pretty rich land, too, if the rats grow that big."

  "I'll go and see if we can bring—" Ponder began.

  "Oh, no," said Ridcully firmly. "No, thank you very much. Next time it might be an elephant whizzing over our heads, and those things make a splash. No. Give the poor chap a rest. We'll have to think of something else…"

  He rubbed his hands together. "Time for dinner, I feel," he said.

  "Um," said the Senior Wrangler. "Do you think we were wise to light that string when we sent the thing back?"

  "Certainly," said Ridcully, as they strolled away. "No-one could say we didn't return it in exactly the same state as it arrived…"

  Hex dreamed gently in its room.

  The wizards were right. Hex couldn't think.

  There weren't words, yet, for what it could do.

  Even Hex didn't know what it could do.

  But it was going to find out.

  The quill pen scritched and blotted its way over a fresh sheet of paper and drew, for no good reason, a calendar for the year surmounted by a rather angular picture of a beagle, standing on its hind legs.

  The ground was red, just like at Hunghung. But whereas that was a kind of clay so rich that leaving a chair on the lawn meant that you had four small trees by nightfall, this ground was sand that looked as if it had got red by being baked in a million-year summer.

  There were occasional clumps of yellowed grass and low stands of grey-green trees. But what there was everywhere was heat.

  This was especially noticeable in the pond under the ghost gums. It was steaming.

  A figure emerged from the clouds, absentmindedly picking the burnt bits off his beard.

  Rincewind waited until his own personal world had stopped spinning and concentrated on the four men who were watching him.

  They were black with lines and whorls painted on their faces and had, between them, about two square feet of clothing.

  There were three reasons why Rincewind was no racist. He'd ended up in too many places too suddenly to develop that kind of mind. Besides, if he'd thought about it much, most of the really dreadful things that had happened to him had been done by quite pale people with big wardrobes. Those were two of the reasons.

  The third was that these men, who were just rising from a half-crouching position, were all holding spears pointing at Rincewind and there is something about the sight of four spears aimed at your throat that causes no end of respect and the word 'sir' to arise spontaneously in the mind.

  One of the men shrugged, and lowered his spear.

  "G'day, bloke," he said.

  This meant only three spears, which was an improvement.

  "Er. This isn't Unseen University, is it, sir?" said Rincewind.

  The other spears stopped pointing at him. The men grinned. They had very white teeth.

  "Klatch? Howondaland? It looks like Howondaland," said Rincewind hopefully.

  "Don't know them blokes, bloke," said one of the men.

  The other three clustered around him.

  "What'll we call him?"

  "He's Kangaroo Bloke. No worries there. One minute a kangaroo, next minute a bloke. The old
blokes say that sort of thing used to happen all the time, back in the Dream."

  "I reckoned he'd look better than that."

  "Yeah."

  "One way to tell."

  The man who was apparently the leader of the group advanced on Rincewind with the kind of grin reserved for imbeciles and people holding guns, and held out a stick.

  It was flat, and had a bend in the middle. Someone had spent a long time making rather nice designs on it in little coloured dots. Somehow, Rincewind wasn't at all surprised to see a butterfly among them.

  The hunters watched him expectantly.

  "Er, yes," he said. "Very good. Very good workmanship, yes. Interesting pointillistic effect. Shame you couldn't find a straighter bit of wood."

  One of the men laid down his spear, and squatted down and picked up a long wooden tube, covered with the same designs. He blew into it. The effect was not unpleasant. It sounded like bees would sound if they'd invented full orchestration.

  "Um," said Rincewind. "Yes."

  It was a test, obviously. They'd given him this bent piece of wood. He had to do something with it. It was clearly very important. He'd—

  Oh, no. He'd say something or do something, wouldn't he, and then they'd say, yes, you are the Great Bloke or something, and they'd drag him off and it'd be the start of another Adventure, i.e., a period of horror and unpleasantness. Life was full of tricks like that.

  Well, this time Rincewind wasn't going to fall for it.

  "I want to go home," he said. "I want to go back home to the Library where it was nice and quiet. And I don't know where I am. And I don't care what you do to me, right? I'm not going to have any kind of adventure or start saving the world again and you can't trick me into it with mysterious bits of wood."

  He gripped the stick and flung it away from him with all the force he could still muster.

  They stared at him as he folded his arms.

  "I'm not playing," he said. "I'm stopping right here."

  They were still staring. And now they were grinning, too, at something behind him.

  He felt himself getting quite annoyed.

  "Do you understand? Are you listening?" he said. "That's the last time the universe is going to trick Rincewi—"

  The End

  Примечания