Interesting Times (9 page)

“Well, as a matter of fact I myself—”

“A piece of paper saying they can go, is what I meant. Can’t leave your village without a chit. Can’t get married without a chit. Can’t even have a sh—Ah, we’re here.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Rincewind.

Cohen glared at him. “How did you know?” he demanded.

Rincewind tried to think. It had been a long day. In fact it had, because of the thaumic equivalent of jetlag, been several hours longer than most other days he’d experienced and had contained two lunchtimes, neither of which had contained anything worth eating.

“Er…I thought you were making a general philosophical point,” he hazarded. “Er. Like, ‘We’d better make the best of it’?”

“I meant we’re here at my hideout,” said Cohen. Rincewind stared around them. There were scrubby bushes, a few rocks, and a sheer cliff face.

“I can’t see anything,” he said.

“Yep. That’s how you can tell it’s mine.”

The Art of War was the ultimate basis of diplomacy in the Empire.

Clearly war had to exist. It was a cornerstone of the processes of government. It was the way the Empire got its leaders. The competitive examination system was how it got its bureaucrats and public officials, and warfare was for its leaders, perhaps, only a different kind of competitive examination. Admittedly, if you lost you probably weren’t allowed to re-sit next year.

But there had to be rules. Otherwise it was just a barbaric scuffle.

So, hundreds of years ago, the Art of War had been formulated. It was a book of rules. Some were very specific: there was to be no fighting within the Forbidden City, the person of the Emperor was sacrosanct…and some were more general guidelines for the good and civilized conduct of warfare. There were the rules of position, of tactics, of the enforcement of discipline, of the correct organization of supply lines. The Art laid down the optimum course to take in every conceivable eventuality. It meant that warfare in the Empire had become far more
sensible
, and generally consisted of short periods of activity followed by long periods of people trying to find things in the index.

No one remembered the author. Some said it was One Tzu Sung, some claimed it was Three Sun Sung. Possibly it was even some unsung genius who had penned, or rather painted, the very first principle: Know the enemy, and know yourself.

Lord Hong felt that he knew himself very well, and seldom had trouble knowing his enemies. And he made a point of keeping his enemies alive and healthy.

Take the Lords Sung, Fang, Tang, and McSweeney. He cherished them. He cherished their
adequacy
. They had adequate military brains, which was to say that they had memorized the Five Rules and Nine Principles of the Art of War. They wrote adequate poetry, and were cunning enough to counter such coups as were attempted in their own ranks. They occasionally sent against him assassins who were sufficiently competent to keep Lord Hong interested and observant and entertained.

He even admired their adequate treachery. No one could fail to realize that Lord Hong would be the next Emperor, but when it came to it they would nevertheless contest the throne. At least, officially. In fact, each warlord had privately pledged his personal support to Lord Hong, being adequately bright to know what was likely to happen if he didn’t. There would still have to be a battle, of course, for custom’s sake. But Lord Hong had a place in his heart for any leader who would sell his own men.

Know your enemy. Lord Hong had decided to find a worthwhile one. So Lord Hong had seen to it that he got books and news from Ankh-Morpork. There were ways. He had his spies. At the moment Ankh-Morpork didn’t know it was the enemy, and that was the best kind of enemy to have.

And he had been amazed, and then intrigued, and finally lost in admiration for what he saw…

I should have been born there, he thought as he watched the other members of the Serene Council. Oh, for a game of chess with someone like Lord Vetinari. No doubt he would carefully watch the board for three hours before he even made his first move…

Lord Hong turned to the Serene Council’s minutes eunuch.

“Can we get on?” he said.

The man licked his brush nervously. “Nearly finished, o lord,” he said.

Lord Hong sighed.

Damn calligraphy! There would be changes! A written language of seven thousand letters and it took all day to write a thirteen-syllable poem about a white pony trotting through wild hyacinths. And that was fine and beautiful, he had to concede, and no one did it better than Lord Hong. But Ankh-Morpork had an alphabet of twenty-six unexpressive, ugly, crude letters, suitable only for peasants and artisans…and had produced poems and plays that left white-hot trails across the soul. And you could also use it to write the bloody minutes of a five-minute meeting in less than a day.

“How far have you got?” he said.

The eunuch coughed politely.

“‘How softly the bloom of the apric—’” he began.

“Yes, yes, yes,” said Lord Hong. “Could we on this occasion dispense with the poetic framework, please.”

“Uh. ‘The minutes of the last meeting were duly signed.’”

“Is that all?”

“Uh…you see, I have to finish painting the petals on—”

“I wish this council to be concluded by this evening. Go away.”

The eunuch looked anxiously around the table, grabbed his scrolls and brushes and scuttled out.

“Good,” said Lord Hong. He nodded at the other warlords. He saved a special friendly nod for Lord Tang. Lord Hong had prodded the thought with some intrigued interest, but it really did seem that Lord Tang was a man of honor. It was a rather cowed and crabbed honor, but it was definitely in there somewhere, and would have to be dealt with.

“It would be better in any case, my lords, if we spoke in private,” he said. “On the matter of the rebels. Disturbing intelligence has reached me of their activities.”

Lord McSweeney nodded. “I have seen to it that thirty rebels in Sum Dim have been executed,” he said. “As an example.”

As an example of the mindlessness of Lord McSweeney, thought Lord Hong. To his certain knowledge, and none had better knowledge than he, there had not even been a cadre of the Red Army in Sum Dim. But, almost certainly, there was one now. It was really too easy.

The other warlords also made small but proud speeches about their efforts to turn barely noticeable unrest into bloody revolution, although they hadn’t managed to see it like that.

They were nervous, under the bravado, like sheepdogs who’d had a glimpse of a world where the sheep did not run.

Lord Hong cherished the nervousness. He intended to use it, by and by. He smiled and smiled.

Finally he said: “However, my lords, despite your sterling efforts the situation remains grave. I have information that a very senior wizard from Ankh-Morpork has arrived to assist the rebels here in Hunghung, and that there is a plot to overthrow the good organization of the celestial world and assassinate the Emperor, may he live for ten thousand years. I must naturally assume that the foreign devils are behind this.”

“I know nothing of this!” snapped Lord Tang.

“My dear Lord Tang, I was not suggesting that you should,” said Lord Hong.

“I meant—” Lord Tang began.

“Your devotion to the Emperor is unquestioned,” Lord Hong continued, as smoothly as a knife through warm butter. “It is true that there is almost certainly someone highly placed assisting these people, but not one shred of evidence points to you.”

“I should hope not!”

“Indeed.”

The Lords Fang and McSweeney moved very slightly away from Lord Tang.

“How can we have let this happen?” said Lord Fang. “Certainly it is true that people, foolish deranged people, have sometimes ventured out beyond the Wall. But to let one come
back
—”

“I am afraid the Grand Vizier at the time was a man of changeable humors,” said Lord Hong. “He thought it would be interesting to see what intelligence was brought back.”

“Intelligence?” said Lord Fang. “This city of Ank…More…Pork is an abomination! Mere anarchy! There appear to be no nobles of consequence and the society is that of a termite nest! It would be better for us, my lords, if it was wiped from the face of the world!”

“Your incisive comments are duly noted, Lord Fang,” said Lord Hong, while part of him rolled on the floor laughing. “In any event,” he went on, “I shall see that extra guards are posted in the Emperor’s chambers. However all this trouble began, we must see that it ends here.”

He watched them watching him. They think I want to rule the Empire, he thought. So they’re all—except for Lord Tang, rebel fellow traveler as he will undoubtedly prove to be—working out how this will be to their advantage…

He dismissed them, and retired to his chambers.

It was a fact that the ghosts and devils who lived beyond the Wall had no grasp of culture and certainly no concept of books, and being in possession of such a patently impossible object was punishable by eventual death. And confiscation.

Lord Hong had built up quite a library. He had even acquired maps.

And more than maps. There was a box he kept locked, in the room with the full-length mirror…

Not now. Later on…

Ankh-Morpork! Even the name sounded rich.

All he needed was a year. The dreadful scourge of the rebellion would allow him to wield the kind of powers that even the maddest Emperor had not dreamed of. And then it would be unthinkable not to build a vengeful fleet to wreak terror on the foreign devils. Thank you, Lord Fang. Your point is duly noted.

As if it mattered who was Emperor! The Empire was possibly a bonus, to be acquired later, perhaps, in passing. Let him just have Ankh-Morpork, with its busy dwarfs and its grasp, above all, of machinery. Look at the Barking Dogs. Half the time they blew up. They were inaccurate. The principle was sound but the execution was terrible, especially when they blew up.

It had come as a revelation to Lord Hong when he looked at the problem the Ankh-Morpork way and realized that it might just possibly be better to give the job of Auspicious Dog-maker to some peasant with a fair idea about metal and explosive earths than to some clerk who’d got the highest marks in an examination to find the best poem about iron. In Ankh-Morpork people
did
things.

Let him just walk down Broadway as owner, and eat the pies of the famous Mr. Dibbler. Let him play one game of chess against Lord Vetinari. Of course, it would mean leaving the man one arm.

He was shaking with excitement. Not later…now. His fingers reached for the secret key on its chain around his neck.

It was barely a track. Rabbits would have walked right past it. And you’d have sworn there was a sheer, passless rock wall until you found the gap.

Once you
did
find it, it was hardly worth the bother. It led to a long gully with a few natural caves in it, and a bit of grass, and a spring.

And, as it turned out, Cohen’s gang. Except that he called it a horde. They were sitting in the sun, complaining about how it wasn’t as warm as it used to be.

“I’m back then, lads,” said Cohen.

“Been away, have you?”

“Whut? Whut’s he say?”

“He said HE’S BACK.”

“Black what?”

Cohen beamed at Rincewind. “I brought ’em with me,” he said. “Like I said, no future in going it alone these days.”

“Er,” said Rincewind, after surveying the little scene, “are any of these men under eighty years old?”

“Stand up, Boy Willie,” said Cohen.

A dehydrated man only marginally less wrinkled than the others got to his feet. It was his feet that were particularly noticeable. He wore boots with extremely thick soles.

“So’s me feet touch the ground,” he said.

“Don’t they…er…touch the ground in ordinary boots?”

“Nope. Orthopedic problem, see. Like…you know how a lot of people’ve got one leg shorter than the other? Funny thing, with me it’s—”

“Don’t tell me,” said Rincewind. “Sometimes I get these amazing flashes…
Both
legs are shorter than the other, right?”

“Amazing. O’ course, I can see you’re a wizard,” said Boy Willie. “You’d know about this sort of thing.”

Rincewind gave the next member of the Horde a bright mad smile. It was almost certainly a human being, because wizened little monkeys didn’t usually go around in a wheelchair while wearing a helmet with horns on it. It grimaced at Rincewind.

“This is—”

“Whut? Whut?”

“Mad Hamish,” said Cohen.

“Whut? Whozee?”

“I bet that wheelchair
terrifies
them,” said Rincewind. “Especially the blades.”

“We had the devil of a job getting it over the wall,” Cohen conceded. “But you’d be amazed at his turn of speed.”

“Whut?”

“And this is Truckle the Uncivil.”

“Sod off, wizard.”

Rincewind beamed at Exhibit B. “Those walking sticks…Fascinating! Very impressive the way you’ve got LOVE and HATE written on them.”

Cohen smiled proprietorially.

“Truckle used to be reckoned one of the biggest badasses in the world,” he said.

“Really? Him?”

“But it’s amazing what you can do with a herbal suppository.”

“Up yours, mister,” said Truckle.

Rincewind blinked. “Er. Can I have a word, Cohen?”

He drew the ancient barbarian aside.

“I don’t want to seem to be making trouble here,” he said, “but it doesn’t strike you, does it, that these men are a bit, well, past their sell-by date? A little, not to put too fine a point on it, old?”

“Whut? Whutzeesayin’?”

“He says IT’S COLD.”

“Whut?”

“What’re you saying? There’s nearly five hundred years of concentrated barbarian hero experience in ’em,” said Cohen.

“Five hundred years’ experience in a fighting unit is good,” said Rincewind. “It’s
good
. But it should be spread over more than one person. I mean, what are you expecting them to do? Fall over on people?”

“Nothin’ wrong with ’em,” said Cohen, indicating a frail man who was staring intently at a large block of teak. “Look at ole Caleb the Ripper over there. See? Killed more’n four hundred men with his bare hands. Eighty-five now and but for the dust he’s marvellous.”