Interesting Times (30 page)

“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 whole-someness 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 clippings. 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 forward 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 favorite.”

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!
”

“Yes, but…when you’re a teacher, you have to pick things up fast.” Mr. Saveloy smiled nervously. “I once taught practical alchemy for a whole term when Mr. Schism was off sick after blowing himself up, and up until then I’d never seen a crucible.”

“Here.” Boy Willie handed the teacher a spare sword. He hefted it.

“Er. I expect there’s a manual, or something?”

“Manual? No. You hold the blunt end and poke the other end at people.”

“Ah? Really? Well, that seems quite straightforward. I thought there was rather more to it than that.”

“You
sure
you want to come with us?” said Cohen.

Mr. Saveloy looked firm. “Absolutely. I very much doubt if I’ll survive if you lose and…well, it seems that you heroes get a better class of Heaven. I must say I rather suspect you get a better class of life, too. And I really don’t know where teachers go when they’re dead, but I’ve got a horrible suspicion it’ll be full of sports masters.”

“It’s just that I don’t know if you could really go properly berserk,” said Cohen. “Have you ever had the red mist come down and woke up to find you’d bitten twenty people to death?”

“I used to be reckoned a pretty ratty man if people made too much noise in class,” said Mr. Saveloy. “And something of a dead shot with a piece of chalk, too.”

“How about you, taxman?”

Six Beneficent Winds backed away hurriedly.

“I…I think I’m probably more cut out for undermining the system from within,” he said.

“Fair enough.” Cohen looked at the others. “I’ve never done this official sort of warring before,” he said. “How’s it supposed to go?”

“I think you just line up in front of one another and then charge,” said Mr. Saveloy.

“Seems straightforward enough. All right, let’s go.”

They strode, or in one case wheeled and in another case moved at Mr. Saveloy’s gentle trot, down the hall. The taxman trailed after them.

“Mr. Saveloy!” he shouted. “You know what’s going to happen! Have you lost your senses?”

“Yes,” said the teacher, “but I may have found some better ones.”

He grinned to himself. The whole of his life, so far, had been complicated. There had been timetables and lists and a whole basket of things he must do and things he shouldn’t do, and the life of Mr. Saveloy had been this little wriggly thing trying to survive in the middle of it all. But now it had suddenly all become very simple. You held one end and you poked the other into people. A man could live his whole life by a maxim like that. And, afterwards, get a very interesting afterlife—

“Here, you’ll need this, too,” said Caleb, poking something round at him as they stepped into the grey light. “It’s a shield.”

“Ah. It’s to protect myself, yes?”

“If you really need to, bite the edge.”

“Oh, I know about that,” said Mr. Saveloy. “That’s when you go berserk, right?”

“Could be, could be,” said Caleb. “That’s why a lot of fighters do it. But personally
I
do it ’cos it’s made of chocolate.”

“Chocolate?”

“You can never get a proper meal in these battles.”

And this is me, thought Mr. Saveloy, marching down the street with
heroes
. They are the great fi—

“And when in doubt, take all your clothes off,” said Caleb.

“What for?”

“Sign of a good berserk, taking all your clothes off. Frightens the hell out of the enemy. If anyone starts laughing, stab ’em one.”

There was a movement among the blankets in the wheelchair.

“Whut?”

“I said, STAB ’EM ONE, Hamish.”

Hamish waved an arm that looked like bone with skin on it, and apparently far too thin to hold the axe it was in fact holding.

“That’s right! Right in the nadgers!”

Mr. Saveloy nudged Caleb.

“I ought to be writing this down,” he said. “Where exactly are the nadgers?”

“Small range of mountains near the Hub.”

“Fascinating.”

The citizens of Hunghung were ranged along the city walls. It was not every day you saw a fight like this.

Rincewind elbowed and kicked his way through the people until he reached the cadre, who’d managed to occupy a prime position over the main gate.

“What’re you hanging around here for?” he said. “You could be miles away!”

“We want to see what happens, of course,” said Twoflower, his spectacles gleaming.

“I know what happens! The Horde will be instantly slaughtered!” said Rincewind. “What did you
expect
to happen?”

“Ah, but you’re forgetting the invisible vampire ghosts,” said Twoflower.

Rincewind looked at him.

“What?”

“Their secret army. I heard that
we’ve
got some, too. Should be interesting to watch.”

“Twoflower, there are
no
invisible vampire ghosts.”

“Ah, yes, everyone’s going round denying it,” said Lotus Blossom. “So there must be some truth in it.”

“But I made it up!”

“Ah, you may
think
you made it up,” said Twoflower. “But perhaps you are a pawn of Fate.”

“Listen, there’s no—”

“Same old Rincewind,” said Twoflower, in a jolly way. “You always were so pessimistic about everything, but it always worked out all right in the end.”

“There are no ghosts, there are no magic armies,” said Rincewind. “There’s just—”

“When seven men go out to fight an army 100,000 times bigger there’s only one way it can end,” said Twoflower.

“Right. I’m glad you see sense.”

“They’ll win,” said Twoflower. “They’ve got to. Otherwise the world’s just not working properly.”

“You look educated,” said Rincewind to Butterfly. “Explain to him why he’s wrong. It’s because of a little thing we have in our country. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of it—it’s called
mathematics
.”

The girl smiled at him.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” said Rincewind flatly. “You’re just like him. What d’you think this is, homeopathic warfare? The smaller your side the more likely you are to win? Well, it’s not like that. I wish it
was
like that, but it isn’t. Nothing is. There are no amazing strokes of luck, no magic solutions, and the good people don’t win because they’re small and plucky!” He waved his hand irritably at something.

“
You
always survived,” said Twoflower. “We had amazing adventures and you always survived.”

“That was just coincidence.”

“You kept
on
surviving.”