Interesting Times d-17

by Terry Pratchett

  "From legendum, which means 'something written down'," said Mr Saveloy. "Books, you know. Reading and writing. Which incidentally is as alien to you as the Lost City of Ee—"

  Truckle's hand went up, a little nervously.

  "Actually, I once discovered the Lost City of—"

  "Shut up! I'm saying… What was I saying?… yes… you don't read, do you? You never learned to read? Then you've wasted half your life. You could have been accumulating pearls of wisdom instead of rather shoddy gems. It's just as well people read about you and don't meet you face to face because, gentlemen, you are a big disappointment!"

  Rincewind watched, fascinated, waiting for Mr Saveloy to have his head cut off. But this didn't seem about to happen. He was possibly too angry to be beheaded.

  "What have you actually done, gentlemen? And don't tell me about stolen jewels and demon lords. What have you done that's real?"

  Truckle raised a hand again.

  "Well, I once killed all four of the—"

  "Yes, yes, yes," said Mr Saveloy. "You killed this and you stole that and you defeated the giant man-eating avocados of somewhere else, but… it's all… stuff. It's just wallpaper, gentlemen! It never changes anything! No-one cares! Back in Ankh-Morpork I've taught boys who think you are myths. That's what you've achieved. They don't believe you ever really existed. They think someone made you up. You're stories, gentlemen. When you die no-one will know, because they think you're already dead."

  He paused for breath, and then continued more slowly. "But here… here you could be real. You could stop playing at your lives. You could take this ancient and somewhat rotten Empire back into the world. At least…" he trailed off. "That's what I'd hoped. I really thought that, perhaps, we might actually achieve something…"

  He sat down.

  The Horde stood staring at its various feet or wheels.

  "Um. Can I say something? The warlords will all be against you," said Six Beneficent Winds. "They're out there now, with their armies. Normally they'd fight amongst themselves, but they'll all fight you."

  "They'd rather have some poisoner like this Hong instead of me?" said Cohen. "But he's a bastard!"

  "Yes, but… he's their bastard, you see."

  "We could hold out here. This place has got thick walls," said Vincent. "The ones not made of paper, that is."

  "Don't think about that," said Truckle. "Not a siege. Sieges are messy. I hate eating boots and rats."

  "Whut?"

  "He said WE DON'T WANT A SIEGE WHERE WE HAVE TO EAT BOOTS AND RATS, Hamish."

  "Run outa legs, have we?"

  "How many soldiers have they got?" said Cohen. "I think… six or seven hundred thousand," said the taxman.

  "Excuse us," said Cohen, getting off the throne. "I have to join my Horde."

  The Horde went into a huddle. There was an occasional 'Whut?' in the hoarse whispered interchanges. Then Cohen turned round.

  "Seas of blood, wasn't it?" he said.

  "Er. Yes," said the taxman.

  The huddle resumed.

  After some further exchanges Truckle's head poked up.

  "Did you say mountain of skulls?" he said.

  "Yes. Yes, I think that's what I said," said the taxman. He glanced nervously at Rincewind and Mr Saveloy, who shrugged.

  Whisper, whisper, Whut…

  "Excuse me?"

  "Yes?"

  "About how big a mountain? Skulls don't pile up that well."

  "I don't know how big a mountain! A lot of skulls!"

  "Just checking."

  The Horde seemed to reach a decision. They turned to face the other men.

  "We're going to fight," said Cohen.

  "Yes, you should have said all that about skulls and blood before," said Truckle.

  "We'll show ye whether we'm dead or not!" cackled Hamish.

  Mr Saveloy shook his head.

  "I think you must have misheard. The odds are a hundred thousand to one!" he said.

  "I reckon that'll show people we're still alive," said Caleb.

  "Yes, but the whole point of my plan was to show you that you could get to the top of the pyramid without having to fight your way up," said Mr Saveloy. "It really is possible in such a stale society. But if you try to fight hundreds of thousands of men you'll die."

  And then, to his surprise, he found himself adding: "Probably."

  The Horde grinned at him.

  "Big odds don't frighten us," said Truckle.

  "We like big odds," said Caleb.

  "Y'see, Teach, odds of a thousand to one ain't a lot worse than ten to one," said Cohen. "The reasons bein'—" He counted on his fingers. "One, your basic soldier who's fightin' for pay rather than his life ain't goin' to stick his neck out when there's all these other blokes around who might as well do the business, and, two, not very many of 'em are goin' to be able to get near us at one time and they'll all be pushin' and shovin', and…" He looked at his fingers with an expression of terminal calculation.

  "… Three…" said Mr Saveloy, hypnotized by this logic.

  "… three, right… Half the time when they swings their swords they'll hit one of their mates, savin' us a bit of effort. See?"

  "But even if that were true it'd only work for a little while," Mr Saveloy protested. "Even if you killed as many as two hundred you'd be tired and there'd be fresh troops attacking you."

  "Oh, they'd be tired too," said Cohen cheerfully.

  "Why?"

  "Because by then, to get to us, they'd have to be running uphill."

  "That's logic, that is," said Truckle, approvingly.

  Cohen slapped the shaken teacher on the back.

  "Don't you worry about a thing," he said. "If we've got the Empire by your kind of plan, we'll keep it by our kind of plan. You've shown us civilization, so we'll show you barbarism."

  He walked a few steps and then turned, an evil glint in his eye. "Barbarism? Hah! When we kills people we do it there and then, lookin' 'em in the eye, and we'd be happy to buy 'em a drink in the next world, no harm done. I never knew a barbarian who cut up people slowly in little rooms, or tortured women to make 'em look pretty, or put poison in people's grub. Civilization? If that's civilization, you can shove it where the sun don't shine!"

  "Whut?"

  "He said SHOVE IT WHERE THE SUN DOESN'T SHINE, Hamish."

  "Ah? Bin there."

  "But there is more to civilization than that!" said Mr Saveloy. "There's… music, and literature, and the concept of justice, and the ideals of—"

  The bamboo doors slid aside. As one man, joints creaking, the Horde turned with weapons raised.

  The men in the doorway were taller and much more richly dressed than the peasants, and they moved in the manner of people who are used to there being no-one in the way. Ahead of them, though, was a trembling peasant holding a red flag on a stick. He was prodded into the room at swordpoint.

  "Red flag?" whispered Cohen.

  "It means they want to parley," said Six Beneficent Winds.

  "You know… it's like our white flag of surrender," said Mr Saveloy.

  "Never heard of it," said Cohen.

  "It means you mustn't kill anyone until they're ready."

  Mr Saveloy tried to shut out the whispers behind him.

  "Why don't we just invite them to dinner and massacre them all when they're drunk?"

  "You heard the man. There's seven hundred thousand of them."

  "Ah? So it'd have to be something simple with pasta, then."

  A couple of the lords strode into the middle of the room. Cohen and Mr Saveloy went to meet them.

  "And you, too," said Cohen, grabbing Rincewind as he tried to back away. "You're a weaselly man with words in a tight spot, so come on."

  Lord Hong regarded them with the expression of a man whose ancestry had bequeathed to him the ability to look down on everything.

  "My name is Lord Hong. I am the Emperor's Grand Vizier. I order you to quit these premises immediately and submit to j
udgement."

  Mr Saveloy turned to Cohen.

  "Ain't gonna," said Cohen.

  Mr Saveloy tried to think.

  "Um, how shall I phrase this? Ghenghiz Cohen, leader of the Silver Horde, presents his compliments to Lord Hong but—"

  "Tell him he can stuff it," said Cohen.

  "I think, Lord Hong, that perhaps you may have perceived the general flow of opinion here," said Mr Saveloy.

  "Where are the rest of your barbarians, peasant?" he demanded.

  Rincewind watched Mr Saveloy. The old teacher seemed at a loss for words this time.

  The wizard wanted to run away. But Cohen had been right. Mad as it sounded, it was probably safer to be near him. Running away would put him closer, sooner or later, to Lord Hong.

  Who believed that there were other barbarians somewhere…

  "I tell you this, and this only," said Lord Hong. "If you quit the Forbidden City now, your deaths, at least, will be quick. And then your heads and significant parts will be paraded through the cities of the Empire so that people will know of the terrible punishment."

  "Punishment?" said Mr Saveloy.

  "For killing the Emperor."

  "We ain't killed no Emperor," said Cohen. "I've got nothing against killing Emperors, but we ain't killed one."

  "He was killed in his bed an hour ago," said Lord Hong.

  "Not by us," said Mr Saveloy.

  "By you," said Rincewind. "Only it's against the rules to kill the Emperor so you wanted it to look as though the Red Army did it."

  Lord Hong looked at him as if seeing him for the first time and less than happy about doing so.

  "In the circumstances," said Lord Hong, "I doubt that anyone will believe you."

  "What will happen if we yield now?" said Mr Saveloy. "I like to know these things."

  "Then you will die very slowly in… interesting ways."

  "That's the saga of my life," said Cohen. "I've always been dying very slowly in interesting ways. What's it to be? Street fighting? House to house? Free for all or what?"

  "In the real world," said one of the other lords, "we battle. We do not scuffle like barbarians. Our armies will meet on the plain before the city."

  "Before the city what?"

  "He means in front of the city, Cohen."

  "Ah. Civilized talk again. When?"

  "Dawn tomorrow!"

  "OK," said Cohen. "It'll give us an appetite for our breakfast. Anything else we can do for you?"

  "How big is your army, barbarian?"

  "You would not believe how big," said Cohen, which was probably true. "We have overrun countries. We have wiped whole cities off the map. Where my army passes, nothing grows."

  "That's true, at least," said Mr Saveloy.

  "We have not heard of you!" said the warlord.

  "Yeah," said Cohen. "That's how good we are."

  "There is one other thing about his army, actually," said someone.

  They all turned to Rincewind, who'd been almost as surprised as they were to hear his voice. But a train of thought had just reached the terminus…

  "Yes?"

  "You may have been wondering why you have only seen the… generals," Rincewind went on, slowly, as if working it out as he went along. "That is because, you see, the men themselves are… invisible. Er. Yes. Ghosts, in fact. Everyone knows this, don't they?"

  Cohen gaped at him in astonishment.

  "Blood-sucking ghosts, as a matter of fact," said Rincewind. "After all, everyone knows that's what you get beyond the Wall, don't they?"

  Lord Hong sneered. But the warlords stared at Rincewind with the expressions of people who strongly suspected that the people beyond the Wall were flesh and blood but who also relied on millions of people not believing that this was so.

  "Ridiculous! You are not invisible blood-sucking ghosts," said one of them.

  Cohen opened his mouth so that the diamond teeth glinted.

  "'S right," he said. "Fact is… we're the visible sort."

  "Hah! A pathetic attempt!" said Lord Hong. "Ghosts or no ghosts, we will beat you!"

  "Well, that went better than I expected," Mr Saveloy remarked as the warlords strode out. "Was that an attempt at a little bit of psychological warfare there, Mr Rincewind?"

  "Is that what it was? I know about that kind of stuff," said Cohen. "It's where you bang your shield all night before the fight so's the enemy can't get any sleep and you sing, "We're gonna cut yer tankers off," and stuff like that."

  "Similar," said Mr Saveloy, diplomatically. "But it failed to work, I'm afraid. Lord Hong and his generals are rather too sophisticated. It's a great shame you couldn't try it on the common soldiers."

  There was a faint squeak of rabbit behind them. They turned, and looked at the somewhat underage cadre of the Red Army that was being ushered in. Butterfly was with them. She even gave Rincewind a very faint smile.

  Rincewind had always relied on running away. But sometimes, perhaps, you had to stand and fight if only because there was nowhere left to run.

  But he was no good at all with weapons.

  At least, the normal sort.

  "Um," he said, "if we leave the palace now, we'll be killed, right?"

  "I doubt it," said Mr Saveloy. "It's become a matter of the Art of War now. Someone like Hong would probably slit our throats, but now war is declared things have to be done according to custom."

  Rincewind took a deep breath.

  "It's a million-to-one chance," he said, "but it might just work…"

  The Four Horsemen whose Ride presages the end of the world are known to be Death, War, Famine and Pestilence. But even less significant events have their own Horsemen. For example, the Four Horsemen of the Common Cold are Sniffles, Chesty, Nostril and Lack of Tissues; the Four Horsemen whose appearance foreshadows any public holiday are Storm, Gales, Sleet and Contra-flow.

  Among the armies encamped in the broad alluvial plain around Hunghung, the invisible horsemen known as Misinformation, Rumour and Gossip saddled up…

  A large army encamped has all the tedious problems of a city without any of the advantages. Its watchfires and picket lines are, after a while, open to local civilians, especially if they have anything to sell and even more so if they are women whose virtue has a certain commercial element and even, sometimes, if they appear to be selling food which is a break from the monotonous army diet. The food currently on sale was certainly such a break.

  "Pork balls! Pork balls! Get them while they're…" There was a pause as the vendor mentally tried out ways of ending the sentence, and gave up. "Pork balls! Onna stick! How about you, shogun, you look like — Here, aren't you the—?"

  "Shutupshutupshutup!"

  Rincewind pulled D. M. H. Dibhala into the shadows by a tent.

  The trader looked at the anguished face framed between a eunuch outfit and a big straw hat.

  "It's the Wizard, isn't it? How are—?"

  "You know how you seriously wanted to become very rich in international trade?" Rincewind said.

  "Yes? Can we start?"

  "Soon. Soon. But there's something you must do. You know this rumour about the army of invisible vampire ghosts that's heading this way?"

  D. M. H. Dibhala's eyes swivelled nervously. But it was part of his stock in trade never to appear to be ignorant of anything except, perhaps, how to give correct change.

  "Yes?" he said.

  "The one about there being millions of them?" said Rincewind. "And very hungry on account of not having eaten on the way? And made specially fierce by the Great Wizard?"

  "Um… yes?"

  "Well, it's not true."

  "It's not?"

  "You don't believe me? After all, I ought to know."

  "Good point."

  "And we don't want people to panic, do we?"

  "Very bad for business, panic," said D. M. H., nodding uncomfortably.

  "So make sure you tell people there's no truth in this rumour, will you? Set their minds at rest."


  "Good idea. Er. These invisible vampire ghosts… Do they carry money of any sort?"

  "No. Because they don't exist."

  "Ah, yes. I forgot."

  "And there are not 2,300,009 of them," said Rincewind. He was rather proud of this little detail.

  "Not 2,300,009 of them…" said D. M. H., a little glassy-eyed.

  "Absolutely not. There are not 2,300,009 of them, no matter what anyone says. Nor has the Great Wizard made them twice as big as normal. Good man. Now I'd better be off—"

  Rincewind hurried away.

  The trader stood in thought for a while. It stole over him that he'd probably sold enough things for now, and he might as well go home and spend a quiet night in a barrel in the root cellar with a sack over his head.

  His route led him through quite a large part of the camp. He made sure that soldiers he met knew there was no truth in the rumour, even though this invariably meant that, first of all, he had to tell them what the rumour actually was.

  A toy rabbit squeaked nervously.

  "And I'm afraid of the big inwisible wampire ghosts!" sobbed Favourite Pearl.

  The soldiers around this particular campfire tried to comfort her but, unfortunately, there was no-one to comfort them.

  "An' I heard they alweady et some men!"

  One or two soldiers looked over their shoulders. There was nothing to be seen in the darkness. This wasn't, however, a reassuring sign.

  The Red Army moved obliquely from campfire to campfire.

  Rincewind had been very specific. He'd spent all his adult life — at least, those parts of it where he wasn't being chased by things with more legs than teeth — in Unseen University, and he felt he knew what he was talking about here. Don't tell people anything, he said. Don't tell them. You didn't get to survive as a wizard in UU by believing what people told you. You believed what you were not told.

  Don't tell them. Ask them. Ask them if it's true. You can beg them to tell you it's not true. Or you can even tell them you've been told to tell them it's not true, and that is the best of all.

  Because Rincewind knew very well that when the four rather small and nasty Horsemen of Panic ride out there is a good job done by Misinformation, Rumour and Gossip, but they are as nothing compared to the fourth horseman, whose name is Denial.

  After an hour Rincewind felt quite unnecessary.