Discworld 27 - The Last Hero (14 page)

 
 
   
“Trying to save the world,” said Rincewind. He rolled his eyes. Again?
Cohen looked uncertain, but heroes don't back down easily, even in the
face of the Code.
“It'll realty all blow up?”
“Yes!”
“S'not much of a world,” Cohen muttered. “Not any more ...”
“What about all the dear little kittens-” Rincewind began.
“Puppies,” hissed Carrot, not taking his eyes off Cohen.
“Puppies, I mean. Eh? Think of them?”
“Well. What about them?”
“Oh ... nothing.”
“But everyone will die,” said Carrot.
Cohen shrugged his skinny shoulders. “Everyone dies, sooner or later. So
we're told.”
“There will be no one left to remember; said the minstrel, as if he was
talking to himself. ”If there's no one left alive, no one will remember.“
The Horde looked at him.
”No one will remember who you were or what you did,“ he went on. ”There
will be nothing. No more songs. No one will remember?“
Cohen sighed, ”All right, then let's say supposing I don't-“
”Cohen?“ said Truckle, in an unusually worried voice. ”You know a few
minutes ago, where you said “press the plunger”?“
”Yes?“
”You meant I shouldn't've?“
The keg was sizzling.
”You pressed it?“ said Cohen.
”Welles! You said?“
”Can we stop it?“
”No,“ said Rincewind.
”Can we outrun it?“
”Only if you can think of a way to run ten miles really, really fast,“
said Rincewind.
”Gather round, lads! Not you, minstrel boy, this is sword stuff...“ Cohen
beckoned the other heroes, and they went into a hurried huddle. It didn't
seem to take long.
”Right,“ said Cohen, as they straightened up. ”You got all our names down
right, Mr Bard?“
”Of course-“
”Then let's go, lads!“
They heaved the keg back on to Hamish's wheelchair. Truckle half turned
as they started to push it.
”Here, bard! You sure you made a note of that bit where I-?“
”We are leaving? shouted Cohen, grabbing him. “See you later, Mrs
McGarry.”
She nodded, and stood back. “You know how it is,” she said sadly. “Great-
grandchildren on the way and everything ...”
The wheelchair was already moving fast. “Get 'em to name one after met”
yelled Cohen as he leapt aboard.
“What're they doing?” said Rincewind as the chair rolled down the street
towards the far gates.
“They'll never get it down from the mountain quickly enough!” said
Carrot, starting to run.
The chair passed through the arch at the end of the street and raided
over the icy rocks.
As they hurried after it. Rincewind saw it bounce out and into ten miles
of empty air. He thought he heard the last words, as the downward plunge
began: “Aren't we supposed to shout some-thinggggg...”

 
 
   
Then chair and figures and barrel became smaller and smaller and merged
into the hazy landscape of snow and sharp hungry- rocks.
Carrot and Rincewind watched.
After a while the wizard noticed Leonard, out of the corner of his eye.
The man had his fingers on his own pulse and was counting under his
breath.
“Ten miles ... hmm ... allow for air resistance .. . call it three
minutes plus ... yes ... yes, indeed ... we should be averting our eyes
around ... yes ... now. Yes. I think that would be a good i-”
Even through closed lids, the world went red.
When Rincewind crawled to the edge, he saw a small distant circle of evil
black and crimson.
Several seconds later thunder boomed up the flanks of Con Celesti,
causing avalanches. And that, too, died away.
“Do you think they've survived?” said Carrot, peering down into the fog
of dislodged snow.
“Huh?” said Rincewind.
“It wouldn't be the proper story if they didn't survive.”
“Captain, they fell about ten miles into an explosion which has just
reduced a mountain to a valley,” said Rincewind.
“They could have landed in really deep snow on some ledge,” said Carrot.
“Or there may have been a passing flock of really large soft birds?” said
Rincewind.
Carrot bit his lip. “On the other hand ... giving up their lives to save
everyone in the world.. . that's a good ending, too.”
“But it was them who were going to blow it up!”
“Still very brave of them, though.”
“In a way, I suppose.”
Carrot shook his head sadly. “Perhaps we could get down and check.”
“It's a great bubbling crater of boiling rock!” Rincewind burst out.
“It'd take a miracle!”
“There's always hope.”
“So? There's always taxes, too. It doesn't make any difference.”
Carrot sighed and straightened up. “I wish you weren't right.”
“You wish I wasn't right? Come on, let's get back. We're not exactly out
of trouble ourselves, are we?” Behind them, Vena blew her nose and then
tucked her handkerchief back into her armoured corset. It was time, she
thought, to follow the smell of horses.
The remains of the Kite were the subject of keen but uncomprehending
interest among the deitic classes. They weren't certain what it was, but
they definitely disapproved of it.
“I feel,” said Blind Io, “that if we had wanted people to fly, we would
have given them wings.”
“We allow broomthtickth and magic carpeth,” said Offler.
“Ah, but they're magical. Magic ... religion ... there is a certain
association. This is an attempt to subvert the natural order. Just anyone
could float around the place in one of these things.” He shuddered. “Men
could look down upon their gods!”
He looked down upon Leonard of Quirm.
“Why did you do it?” he said.
“You gave me wings when you showed me birds,” said Leonard of Quirm. “I
just made what I saw.”
The rest of the gods said nothing. Like many professionally religious
people - and they were pretty professional, being gods - they tended
towards unease in the presence of the unashamedly spiritual.
“None of us recognise you as a worshipper.” said Io. “Are you an
atheist”?"

 
 
   
“I think I can say that I definitely believe in the gods,” said Leonard,
looking around. This seemed to satisfy everyone except Fate.
“And is that all?” he said. Leonard thought for a while.
“I think I believe in the secret geometries, and the colours on the edge
of light, and the marvellous in everything,” he said.
“So you're not a religious man. then?” said Blind Io.
“I am a painter.”
“That's a ”no“, then, is it? I want to be clear on this.”
“Er ... I don't understand the question.” said Leonard. “As you ask it.”
“I don't think we understand the answers,” said Fate. “As you give them.”
“But I suppose we owe you something.” said Blind Io. “Never let it be
said the gods are unjust.”
“We don't let it be said the gods are unjust,” said Fate. “If I may
suggest-”
“Will you be silent!” Blind Io thundered. “We'll do it the the old way,
thank you!”
He turned to the explorers and pointed a finger at Leonard.
“Your penalty,” said Blind Io, “is this: you will paint the ceiling of
the Temple of Small Gods in Ankh-Morpork. All of it. The decoration is in
a terrible state.”
“But that's not fair,” said Carrot. “He's not a young man, and it took
the great Angelino Tweebsly twenty years to paint that ceiling!”
“Then it will keep his mind occupied.” said Fate. “And prevent him
thinking the wrong sort of thoughts. That is the correct punishment for
those who usurp the powers of the gods! We will find work for idle hands
to do.”
“Hmm,” said Leonard. “A considerable amount of scaffolding ...”
“Vatht amounth,” said Offler, with satisfaction.
“And the nature of the painting?” said Leonard. “I would like to paint..
.”
“The entire world.” said Fate. “Nothing less.”
“Really? I was thinking of perhaps just a nice duck-egg blue with a few
stars,” said Blind Io.
“The entire world.” said Leonard, staring off into some private vision.
“With elephants, and dragons, and the swirl of clouds, and mighty
forests, and the currents of the sea, and birds, and the great yellow
veldts, and the pattern of storms, and the crests of mountains?”
“Er, yes,” said Blind Io.
“Without assistance,” said Fate.
“Even with the thcaffolding,” said Offler.
“This is monstrous,” said Carrot.
Blind Io said: “And if it is not completed in twenty years-”
“-ten years” said Fate.
“-ten years, the city of Ankh-Morpork will be razed with heavenly fire!”
“Hmm, yes, good idea.” said Leonard, still staring at nothing. “Some of
the birds will have to he quite small ...”
“He's in shock,” said Rincewind.
Captain Carrot had gone quiet with anger, as the sky does just before a
thunderstorm.
“Tell me,” said Blind Io. “Is there a god of policemen?”
“No, sir.” said Carrot. “Coppers would be far too suspicious of anyone
calling themselves a god of policemen to believe in one.”
“But you are a gods-fearing man?”
“What I've seen of them certainly frightens the life out of me. sir. And
my commander always says, when we go about our business in the city, that
when you look at the state of mankind you are forced to accept the
reality of the gods.”

 
 
   
The gods smiled their approval of this, which was indeed an accurate
quotation. Gods have little use for irony.
“Very good.” said Blind Io. “And you have a request?”
“Sir?”
“Everyone wants something from the gods.”
“No, sir. I offer you an opportunity.”
“Yon will give something to us?”
“Yes, sir. A wonderful opportunity to show justice and mercy. I ask you,
sir, to grant me a boon.”
There was silence. Then Blind Io said. Is that one of those ... wooden
objects, wasn't it? ... with a handle, and ... mmm ... beads on one side,
and a sort of... thing, with hooks on ...“ He paused. ”Did you mean one
of those rubber things?“
”No. sir. That would be a balloon, sir. A boon is a request.“
”Is that all? Oh. Well?“
”Allow the Kite to be repaired so that we can go home-“
”Impossible!“ said Fate,
”It sounds reasonable to me.“ said Blind Io, glaring at Fate. ”It must be
its last flight.“
”It will be the last flight of the Kite, won't it?“ said Carrot to
Leonard.
”Hmm? What? Oh, yes. Oh, certainly. I can see I designed a lot of it
wrong. The next one - mmph.“
”What happened there?“ said Fate suspiciously.
”Where?“ said Rincewind.
”Where you clamped your hand over his mouth?“
”Did I?“
”You're still doing it!“
”Nerves,“ said Rincewind, releasing his grip on Leonard. ”I've been a bit
shaken up.“
”And do you want a boon too?“ said Leonard.
”What? Oh. Er ... I'd prefer a balloon, as a matter of fact. A blue
balloon.“ Rincewind gave Carrot a defiant look. ”It's all to do with when
I was six, all right? There was this big unpleasant girl... and a pin. I
don't want to talk about it.“ He looked up at the watching gods. ”I don't
know what everyone's staring at, I'm sure.“
”Ook.“ said the Librarian.
”Does your pet want a balloon as well?“ said Blind Io. ”We do have a
monkey god if he wants some mangoes and so on ...“
In the sudden chill, Rincewind said. ”In fact he said he wants three
thousand file cards, a new stamp and five gallons of ink.“
”Eek!“ said the Librarian, urgently.
”Oh, all right. And a red balloon too, please, if they're free.“
The repairing of the Kite was simple enough. Although gods, on the whole,
do not feel at home around mechanical things, every pantheon everywhere
in the universe finds it necessary to have some minor deity - Vulcan.
Wayland, Dennis. Hephaistos - who knows how bits fit together and that
sort of thing. Most large organisations, to their regret and expense,
have to have someone like that.
Evil Harry surfaced from the snowdrift, and gasped for breath. Then he
was plunged back down again by a firm hand.
”So it's a deal, then, is it?“ said the minstrel, who was kneeling on his
back and holding on to his hair.
Evil Harry rose again. ”Deal!“ he roared, spitting snow.
”And if you tell me later that I shouldn't have listened to you because
everyone knows Dark Lords can't be trusted. I'll garotte you with a lyre
string!“
”You got no respect!"

 
 
   
“Well? You are an evil treacherous Dark Lord, right?” said the minstrel,
pushing the spluttering head back into the snow.
“Well, yeah, of course ... obviously. But respect costs nothi nnnn n n
nn”.“
”You help me get down and I'll write you into the saga as the most
wicked, iniquitous and depraved evil warlord there has even been,
understand?“
The bead came up again, wheezing.
”All right, all right. But you gotta promise ...“
”And if you betray me, remember that I don't know the Code! I don't have
to let Dark Lords get away!“
They descended in silence and, in Harry's case, mostly with his eyes
shut.
Off to one side and a long way down, a foothill that was now a valley
still Rimed and bubbled.
”We'd never even find the bodies,“ said the minstrel, as they sought for
a path.
”Ah, and that'd be 'cos they didn't die, see?“ said Harry. ”They'd have
come up with some plan at the last minute, you can bet on it.“
”Harry-“
”You can call me Evil, lad.“
”Evil, they spent the last minute falling down a mountain!“
”Ah, but maybe they kind of glided through the air, see? And there's all
those lakes down there. Or maybe they spotted where the snow was really
deep.“
The minstrel stared. ”You really think they could have survived?“ he
said.
There was a slight touch of desperation in Harry's raddled face.
”Sure. O' course. All that talk from Cohen ... that was just talk. He's
not the sort to go around dyin' all the time. No old Cohen! I mean ...
not him. 'E's one of a kind.“
The minstrel surveyed the Hublands ahead of him. There were lakes and
there was deep snow. But the Horde was not in favour of cunning. If they
needed cunning, they hired it. Otherwise, they simply attacked. And you
couldn't attack the ground.
Its all mixed up, he thought. Just like that captain said. Gods and
heroes and wild adventure ... but when the last hero goes, it all goes.
He'd never been keen on heroes. But he realised that he needed them to be
there, like forests and mountains ... he might never see them, but they
filled some sort of hole in his mind. Some sort of hole in everyone's
mind.
”Bound to be fine.“ said Evil Harry, behind him. ”They'll probably be
waitin' for us when we get down there.“
”What's that, hanging on that rock?“ said the minstrel.
It turned out, when they'd scrambled up to it over slippery rocks, to be
part of a shattered wheel from Mad Hamish's wheelchair.
”Doesn't mean nothing,“ said Evil Harry, tossing it aside. ”Come on,
let's get a move on. This is not a mountain you want to be on at night.“
”No. You're right. It doesn't.“ said the minstrel. He unslung his lyre
and began to tune it. ”It doesn't mean anything."
Before he turned to leave, he reached into a ragged pocket and pulled out
a small leather bag. It was full of rubies.
He tipped them out on to the snow, where they glowed. And then he walked
on.
There was a field of deep snow. Here and there a hollow suggested that
the snow had been thrust aside with great force by a falling body, but
the edges had been softened by the wind drift.