Discworld 27 - The Last Hero (2 page)

 
 
   
“Why not?”
“For the same reason you can't sail a boat into a hurricane. There's just
too much magic. It overloads anything magical. A magic carpet would
unravel in midair.”
“Or turn into broccoli,” said the Dean. “Or a small volume of poetry.”
“Are you saying that we cannot get there in time?”
“Well... yes. Exactly. Of course. They're already near the base of the
mountain.”
“And they're heroes!” said Mr.Betteridge of the Guild of Historians.
“And that means, exactly?” said the Patrician, sighing.
“They're good at doing what they want to do.”
“But they are also, as I understand it, very old men.”
“Very old heroes?” the historian corrected him. “That just means they've
had a lot of experience in doing what they want to do.”
Lord Vetinari sighed again. He did not like to live in a world of heroes.
You had civilisation, such as it was, and you had heroes.
“What exactly has Cohen the Barbarian done that is heroic?” he said. “I
seek only to understand.”
“Well... you know ... heroic deeds ...”
“And they are ... ?”
“Fighting monsters, defeating tyrants, stealing rare treasures, rescuing
maidens ... that sort of thing,” said Mr.Betteridge vaguely. “You know
... heroic things.”
“And who, precisely, defines the monstrousness of the monsters and the
tyranny of the tyrants?” said Lord Vetinari, his voice suddenly like a
scalpel - not vicious like a sword, but probing its edge into vulnerable
places.
Mr.Betteridge shifted uneasily. “Well... the hero, I suppose.”
“Ah. And the theft of these rare items ... I think the word that
interests me here is the term ”theft“, an activity frowned on by most of
the world's major religions, is it not? The feeling stealing over me is
that all these terms are defined by the hero. You could say: I am a hero,
so when I kill you that makes you, de facto, the kind of person suitable
to be killed by a hero. You could say that a hero, in short, is someone
who indulges every whim that, within the rule of law. would have him
behind bars or swiftly dancing what I believe is known as the hemp
fandango. The words we might use are: murder, pillage, theft and rape.
Have I understood the situation?”
“Not rape. I believe,” said Mr.Betteridge, finding a rock on which he
could stand. “Not in the case of Cohen the Barbarian. Ravishing,
possibly.”
“There is a difference?”
“It's more a matter of approach, I understand.” said the historian. “I
don't believe there were ever any actual complaints.”
“Speaking as a lawyer,” said Mr. Slant of the Guild of Lawyers, “it is
clear that the first ever recorded heroic deed to which the message
refers was an act of theft from the rightful owners. The legends of many
different cultures testify to this.”
“Was it something you could actually steal?” said Ridcully.
“Manifestly yes,” said the lawyer. “Theft is central to the legend. Fire
was stolen from the gods.”
“This is not currently the issue.” said Lord Vetinari. “The issue,
gentlemen, is that Cohen the Barbarian is climbing the mountain on which
the gods live. And we cannot stop him. And he intends to return fire to
the gods. Fire, in this case, in the shape of... let me see-” Ponder
Stibbons looked up from his notebooks, where he had been scribbling. A
fifty-pound keg of Agatean Thunder Clay.“ he said. ”I'm amazed their
wizards let him have it."

 
 
   
“He was ... indeed. I assume he still is the Emperor,” said Lord
Vetinari. “So I would imagine that when the supreme ruler of your
continent asks you for something, it is not the time for a prudent man to
ask for a docket signed by Mr.Jenkins of Requisitions.”
“Thunder Clay is terribly powerful stuff.” said Ridcully. “But it needs a
special detonator. You have to smash ajar of acid inside the mixture. The
acid soaks into it. and then - kablooie, I believe the term is.
”Unfortunately the prudent man also saw fit to give one of these to
Cohen.“ said Lord Vetinari. ”And if the resulting kablooie takes place
atop the mountain, which is the hub of the world's magic field, it will,
as I understand it, result in the field collapsing for ... remind me.
Mister Stibbons?“
”About two years,“ he said.
”Really? Well, we can do without magic for a couple of years, can't we?“
said Mr. Slant, managing to suggest that this would be a jolly good
thing, too.
”With respect,“ said Ponder, without respect, ”we cannot. The seas will
run dry. The sun will burn out and crash. The elephants and the turtle
may cease to exist altogether.“
”That'll happen in just two years?“
”Oh, no. That'll happen within a few minutes, sir. You see, magic isn't
just coloured lights and balls. Magic holds the world together.“
In the sudden silence, Lord Vetinari's voice sounded crisp and clear.
”Is there anyone who knows anything about Ghengiz Cohen?“ he said. ”And
is there anyone who can tell us why, before leaving the city, he and his
men kidnapped a harmless minstrel from our embassy? Explosives, yes, very
barbaric ... but why a minstrel? Can anyone tell me?“
There was a bitter wind this close to Cori Celesti. From here the world
mountain, which looked like a needle from afar, was a raw and ragged
cascade of ascending peaks. The central spire was lost in a haze of snow
crystals, miles high. The sun sparkled on them. Several elderly men sat
huddled around a fire.
”I hope he's right about the stair of light,“ said Boy Willie. ”We're
going to look real muffins if it isn't there.“
”He was right about the giant walrus,“ said Truckle the Uncivil.
”When?“
”Remember when we were crossing the ice? When he shouted, “Look out!
We're going to be attacked by a giant walrus!”“
”Oh. yeah.“
Willie looked back up at the spire. The air seemed thinner already, the
colours deeper, making him feel that he could reach up and touch the sky.
”Anyone know if there's a lavatory at the top?“ he said.
”Oh, there's got to be.“ said Caleb the Ripper. ”Yeah, I'm sure I heard
tell about it. The Toilet of the Gods.“
”What?“
They turned to what appeared to be a pile of furs on wheels. When the eye
knew what it was looking for this became an ancient wheelchair, mounted
on skis and covered with rags of blanket and animal skins. A pair of
beady, animal eyes peered out suspiciously from the heap. There was a
barrel strapped behind the wheelchair.
”It must be time tor his gruel,“ said Boy Willie, putting a soot-
encrusted pot on the fire.
”Whut?“
JUST WARMING UP YOUR GRUEL, HAMISH!”
“Bludy walrus again?”
“YES!”
“Whut?”

 
 
   
They were, all of them, old men. Their background conversation was a
litany of complaints about feet, stomachs and backs. They moved slowly.
But they had a look about them. It was in their eyes.
Their eyes said that wherever it was, they had been there. Whatever it
was, they had done it, sometimes more than once. But they would never,
ever, buy the T-shirt. And they did know the meaning of the word “fear”.
It was something that happened to other people.
“I wish Old Vincent was here,” said Caleb the Ripper, poking the fire
aimlessly.
“Well, he's gone, and there's an end of it,” said Truckle the Uncivil
shortly. “We said we weren't going to bloody talk about it.”
“But what a way to go ... gods, I hope that doesn't happen to me.
Something like that... it shouldn't happen to anyone ...”
“Yes. all right,” said Truckle.
“He was a good bloke. Took everything the world threw at him.”
“All right!”
“And then to choke on-”
“We all know! Now bloody well shut up!”
“Dinners done,” said Caleb, pulling a smoking slab of grease out of the
embers. “Nice walrus steak, anyone? What about Mr. Pretty?”
They turned to an evidently human figure that had been propped against a
boulder. It was indistinct, because of the ropes, but it was clearly
dressed in brightly coloured clothes. This wasn't the place for brightly
coloured clothes. This was a land for fur and leather.
Boy Willie walked over to the colourful thing.
“We'll take the gag off.” he said. “if you promise not to scream.”
Frantic eyes darted this way and that, and then the gagged head nodded.
“All right, then. Eat your your nice walrus ... er, lump,” said Boy
Willie, pulling at the cloth.
“How dare you drag me all-” the minstrel began.
“Now look,” said Boy Willie, “none of us like havin' to wallop you
alongside the ear when you go on like this, do we? Be reasonable.”
“”Reasonable? When you kidnap-“
Boy Willie snapped the gag back into place.
”Thin streak of nothin'.“ be muttered at the angry eyes. ”You ain't even
got a harp. What kind of bard doesn't even have a harp? Just this sort of
little wooden pot thing. Damn silly idea.“
”'s called a lute,“ said Caleb, through a mouthful of walrus.
”Whut?“
”IT'S CALLED A LUTE, HAMISH!“
”Aye, I used to loot!“
”Nah, it's for singin' posh songs for ladies,“ said Caleb. ”About...
flowers and that. Romance?“
The Horde knew the word, although the activity had been outside the scope
of their busy lives.
”Amazin', what songs do for the ladies,“ said Caleb.
”Well, when I was a lad.“ said Truckle, ”if you wanted to get a girl's
int'rest, you had to cut off your worst enemy's wossname and present it
to her.“
”Whut?“
”I SAID YOU HAD TO CUT OFF YOUR WORST ENEMY'S WOSSNAME AND PRESENT IT TO
HER!“
”Aye, romance is a wonderful tiling,“ said Mad Hamish.
”What'd you do if you didn't have a worst enemy?“ said Boy Willie.
”You try and cut off anyone's wossname.“” said Truckle, “and you've soon
got a worst enemy.”
“Flowers is more usual these days,” said Caleb, reflectively.
Truckle eyed the struggling lutist.

 
 
   
“Can't think what the boss was thinking of, draggin' this thing along,”
he said. “Where is he, anyway?”
Lord Vetinari, despite his education, had a mind like an engineer. If you
wished to open something, you found the appropriate spot and applied the
minimum amount of force necessary to achieve your end. Possibly the spot
was between a couple of ribs and the force was applied via a dagger, or
between two warring countries and applied via an army, but the important
thing was to find that one weak spot which would be the key to
everything.
“And so you are now the unpaid Professor of Cruel and Unusual Geography?”
he said to the figure who had been brought before him.
The wizard known as Rincewind nodded slowly, just in case an admission
was going to get him into trouble.
“Er... yes?”
“Have you been to the Hub?”
“Er ... yes?”
“Can you describe the terrain?”
“Er ...”
“What did the scenery look like?” Lord Vetinari added helpfully.
“Er ... blurred, sir. I was being chased by some people.”
“Indeed? And why was this?”
Rincewind looked shocked. “Oh. I never stop to find out why people are
chasing me, sir. I never look behind, either. That'd be rather silly,
sir.”
Lord Vetinari pinched the bridge of his nose, “Just tell me what you know
about Cohen, please,” he said wearily.
“Him? He's just a hero who never died, sir. A leathery old man. Not very
bright, really, but he's got so much cunning and guile you'd never know
it.”
“Are you a friend of his?”
“Well, we've met a couple of times and he didn't kill me,” said
Rincewind. “That probably counts as a ”yes“.”
“And what about the old men who're with him?”
“Oh, they're not old men ... well, yes, they are old men ... but, well...
they're his Silver Horde, sir.”
“Those are the Silver Horde? All of it?”
“Yes, sir,” said Rincewind.
“But I thought the Silver Horde conquered the entire Agatean Empire!”
“Yes, sir. That was them.” Rincewind shook his head. “I know it's hard to
believe, sir. But you haven't seen them fight. They're experienced. And
the thing is ... the big thing about Cohen is ... he's contagious.”
“You mean he's a plague carrier?”
“It's like a mental illness, sir. Or magic. He's as crazy as a stoat,
but... once they've been around him for a while, people start seeing the
world the way he does. All big and simple. And they want to be part of
it.”
Lord Vetinari looked at his fingernails. “But I understood that those men
had settled down and were immensely rich and powerful,” he said. “That's
what heroes want, isn't it? To crush the thrones of the world beneath
their sandalled feet, as the poet puts it?”
“Yes. sir.”
:So what's this? One last throw of the dice? Why?“”
“I can't understand it, sir. I mean ... they had it all.”
“Clearly,” said the Patrician. “But everything wasn't enough, was it?”
There was argument in the anteroom beyond the Patrician's Oblong Office.
Every few minutes a clerk slipped in through a side door and laid another
pile of papers on the desk.

 
 
   
Lord Vetinari stared at them. Possibly, he felt, the thing to do would be
to wait until the pile of international advice and demands grew as tall
as Cori Celesti, and simply climb to the top of it.
Zip, zing and can-do, he thought.
So, as a man full of get up and go must do, Lord Vetinari got up and
went. He unlocked a secret door in the panelling and a moment later was
gliding silently through the hidden corridors of his palace.
The dungeons of the palace held a number of felons imprisoned “at his
lordship's pleasure”, and since Lord Vetinari was seldom very pleased
they were generally in for the long haul. His destination now, though,
was the strangest prisoner of all, who lived in the attic.
Leonard of Quirm had never committed a crime. He regarded his fellow Man
with benign interest. He was an artist and he was also the cleverest man
alive, if you used the word “clever” in a specialised and technical
sense. But Lord Vetinari felt that the world was not yet ready for a man
who designed unthinkable weapons of war as a happy hobby. The man was, in
his heart and soul, and in everything he did, an artist.
Currently, Leonard was painting a picture of a lady, from a series of
sketches he had pinned up by his easel.
“Ah, my lord,” he said, glancing up. “And what is the problem?”
“Is there a problem?” said Lord Vetinari.
“There generally is, my lord, when you come to see me.”
“Very well,” said Lord Vetinari. “I wish to get several people to the
centre of the world as soon as possible.”
“Ah, yes,” said Leonard. “There is much treacherous terrain between here
and there. Do you think I have the smile right? I've never been very good
at smiles.”
“I said-”
“Do you wish them to arrive alive?”
“What? Oh ... yes. Of course. And fast.”
Leonard painted on, in silence. Lord Vetinari knew better than to
interrupt.
“And do you wish them to return?” said the artist, after a while. “You
know, perhaps I should show the teeth. I believe I understand teeth.”
“Returning them would be a pleasant bonus, yes.”
“This is a vital journey?”
“If it is not successful, the world will end.”
“Ah. Quite vital, then.” Leonard laid down his brush and stood back,
looking critically at his picture. “I shall require the use of several
sailing ships and a large barge,” he said, after a while. “And I will
make a list of other materials for you.”
“A sea voyage?”
“To begin with, my lord.”
“Are you sure you don't want farther time to think?” said Lord Vetinari.
“Oh, to sort out the fine detail, yes. But I believe I already have the
essential idea.”
Vetinari looked up at the ceiling of the workroom and the armada of paper
shapes and bat-winged devices and other aerial extravaganzas that hung
there, turning gently in the breeze.
“This doesn't involve some kind of flying machine, does it?” he said
suspiciously. “Urn ... why do you ask?”
“Because the destination is a very high place, Leonard, and your flying
machines have an inevitable downwards component.”
“Yes. my lord. But I believe that sufficient down eventually becomes up,
my lord.” “Ah. Is this philosophy?”
“Practical philosophy, my lord”
“Nevertheless, I find myself amazed, Leonard, that you appear to have
come up with a solution just as soon as I presented the problem ...”