Discworld 27 - The Last Hero (3 page)

 
 
   
Leonard of Quirm cleaned his brush. “I always say, my lord, that a
problem correctly posed contains its own solution. But it is true to say
that I have given some thought to issues of this nature. I do, as you
know, experiment with devices ... which of course, obedient to your views
on this matter, I subsequently dismantle because there are, indeed, evil
men in the world who might stumble upon them and pervert their use. You
were kind enough to give me a room with unlimited views of the sky, and I
... notice things. Oh ... I shall require several dozen swamp dragons,
too. No, that should be ... more than a hundred, I think.”
“Ah, you intend to build a ship that can be drawn into the sky by
dragons?” said Lord Vetinari, mildly relieved. “I recall an old story
about a ship that was pulled by swans and flew all the way to-”
“Swans, I fear, would not work. But your surmise is broadly correct, my
lord. Well done. Two hundred dragons, I suggest, to be on the safe side.”
“That at least is not a difficulty. They are becoming rather a pest.”
“And the help of, oh. sixty apprentices and journeymen from the Guild of
Cunning Artificers. Perhaps there should he a hundred. They will need to
work round the clock.”
“Apprentices? But I can see to it that the finest craftsmen-” Leonard
held up a hand.
“Not craftsmen, my lord.” he said. “I have no use for people who have
learned the limits of the possible.”
The Horde found Cohen sitting on an ancient burial mound a little way
from the camp.
There were a lot of them in this area. The members of the Horde had seen
them before, sometimes, on their various travels across the world. Here
and there an ancient stone would poke through the snow, carved in a
language none of them recognised. They were very old. None of the Horde
had ever considered cutting into a mound to see what treasures might lie
within. Partly this was because they had a word for people who used
shovels, and that word was “slave”. But mainly it was because, despite
their calling, they had a keen moral Code, even if it wasn't the sort
adopted by nearly everyone else, and this Code led them to have a word
for anyone who disturbed a burial mound. That word was “die!”.
The Horde, each member a veteran of a thousand hopeless charges,
nevertheless advanced cautiously towards Cohen, who was sitting cross-
legged in the snow. His sword was thrust deep into a drift. He had a
distant, worrying expression.
“Coming to have some dinner, old friend?” said Caleb.
“It's walrus,” said Boy Willie. “Again.”
Cohen grunted.
“I havfen't finiffed,” he said, indistinctly.
“Finished what, old friend?”
“Rememb'rin',” said Cohen.
“Remembering who?”
“The hero who waff buried here, all right?”
“Who was he?”
“Dunno.”
“What were his people?”
“Fearch me,” said Cohen.
“Did he do any mighty deeds?”
“Couldn't fay.”
“Then why-?”
“Fomeone”f got to remember the poor bugger!“
”You don't know anything about him!“
”I can ftill remember him!"
The rest of the Horde exchanged glances. This was going to be a difficult
adventure. It was a good job that it was to be the last.

 
 
   
“You ought to come and have a word with that bard we captured.” said
Caleb. “He's getting on my nerves. He don't seem to understand what he's
about.”
“He'fjuft got to write the faga afterwardf.” said Cohen flatly and
damply. A thought appeared to strike him. He started to pat various parts
of his clothing, which, given the amount of clothing, didn't take long.
“Yeah, well, this isn't your basic heroic saga kind of bard, y'see,” said
Caleb, as his leader continued the search. “I told you he wasn't the
right sort when we grabbed him. He's more the kind of bard you want if
you need some ditty being sung to a girl. We're talking flowers and
spring here, boss.”
“Ah, got 'em.” said Cohen. From a bag on his belt he produced a set of
dentures, carved from the diamond teeth of trolls. He inserted them in
his mouth, and gnashed them a few times. “That's better. What were you
saying?”
“He's not a proper bard, boss.”
Cohen shrugged. “He'll just have to learn fast, then. He's got to be
better'n the ones back in the Empire. They don't have a clue about poems
longer'n seventeen syllables. At least this one's from Ankh-Morpork. He
must've heard about sagas.”
“I said we should've stopped off at Whale Bay.” said Truckle. “Icy
wastes, freezing nights ... good saga country.”
“Yeah, if you like blubber.” Cohen drew his sword from the snowdrift. “I
reckon I'd better go and take the lad's mind off of flowers, then.”
“It appears that things revolve around the Disc,” said Leonard. “This is
certainly the case with the sun and the moon. And also, if you recall...
the Maria Pesto?”
“The ship they said went right under the Disc?” said Archchancellor
Ridcully.
“Quite. Known to be blown over the Rim near the Bay of Mante during a
dreadful storm, and seen by fishermen rising above the Rim near TinLing
some days later, where it crashed down upon a reef. There was only one
survivor, whose dying words were ... rather strange.”
“I remember,” said Ridcully. “He said, ”My God, it's full of elephants!“”
“It is my view that with sufficient thrust and a lateral component a
craft sent off the edge of the world would be swung underneath by the
massive attraction and rise on the far side.” said Leonard, “probably to
a sufficient height to allow it to glide down to anywhere on the
surface.”
The wizards stared at the blackboard. Then, as one wizard, they turned to
Ponder Stibbons, who was scribbling in his notebook.
“What was that about. Ponder?” Ponder stared at his notes. Then he stared
at Leonard. Then he stared at Ridcully.
“Er... yes. Possibly. Er ... if you fall over the edge fast enough, the
... world pulls you back ... and you go on falling but it's all round the
world.”
“You're saying that by falling off the world we - and by we, I hasten to
point out, I don't actually include myself - we can end up in the sky?”
said the Dean.
“Um ... yes. After all, the sun does the same thing every day ...”
The Dean looked enraptured. “Amazing!” he said. “Then ... you could get
an army into the heart of enemy territory! No fortress would be safe! You
could rain fire down on to-”
He caught the look in Leonard's eye.
“-on to bad people,” he finished, lamely.
“That would not happen.” said Leonard severely. “Ever!”
“Could the ... thing you are planning land on Cori Celesti?” said Lord
Vetinari.

 
 
   
“Oh, certainly there should be suitable snow-fields up there,” said
Leonard. “If there are not, I feel sure I can devise some appropriate
landing method. Happily, as you have pointed out, things in the air have
a tendency to come down.”
Ridcully was about to make an appropriate comment, but stopped himself.
He knew Leonard's reputation. This was a man who could invent seven new
things before breakfast, including two new ways with toast. This man had
invented the ball-bearing, such an obvious device that no one had thought
of it. That was the very centre of his genius - he invented things that
anyone could have thought of, and men who can invent things that anyone
could have thought of are very rare men.
This man was so absent-mindedly clever that he could paint pictures that
didn't just follow you around the room but went home with you and did the
washing-up.
Some people are confident because they are fools. Leonard had the look of
someone who was confident because, so far, he'd never found a reason not
to be. He would step off a high building in the happy state of mind of
someone who intended to deal with the problem of the ground when it
presented itself.
And might.
“What do you need from us?” said Ridcully.
“Well, the ... thing cannot operate by magic. Magic will be unreliable
near the Hub. I understand. But can you supply me with wind?”
“You have certainly chosen the right people,” said Lord Vetinari. And it
seemed to the wizards that there was just too long a pause before he went
on, “They are highly skilled in weather manipulation.”
“A severe gale would be helpful at the launch ...” Leonard continued.
“I think I can say without fear of contradiction that our wizards can
supply wind in practically unlimited amounts,” said the Patrician. “Is
that not so. Archchancellor?”
“I am forced to agree, my lord.”
“Then if we can rely on a stiff following breeze. I am sure-”
“Just a moment, just a moment,” said the Dean, who rather felt the wind
comment had been directed at him. “What do we know of this man? He makes
... devices, and paints pictures, does he? Well, I'm sure this is all
very nice, but we all know about artists, don't we? Flibbertigibbets, to
a man. And what about Bloody Stupid Johnson? Remember some of the things
he built?”*(*Many of the things built by the architect and freelance
designer Bergholt Stuttley (“Bloody Stupid”) Johnson were recorded in
Ankh-Morpork, often on the line where it says “Cause of Death”. He was,
people agreed, a genius, at least if you defined the word broadly.
Certainly no one else in the world could make an explosive mixture out of
common sand and water. A good designer, he always said, should be capable
of anything. And. indeed, he was.) I'm sure Mr. da Quirm draws lovely
pictures, but I for one would need a little more evidence of his amazing
genius before we entrust the world to his ... device. Show me one thing
he can do that anyone couldn't do, if they had the time.“
”I have never considered myself a genius.“ said Leonard, looking down
bashfully and doodling on the paper in front of him.
”Well, if I was a genius I think I'd know it-" the Dean began, and
stopped.
Absent-mindedly, while barely paying attention to what he was doing.
Leonard had drawn a perfect circle.
Lord Vetinari found it best to set up a committee system. More of the
ambassadors from other countries had arrived at the university, and more
heads of the Guilds were pouring in, and every single one of them wanted
to be involved in the decision-making process without necessarily going
through the intelligence-using process first

 
 
   
About seven committees, he considered, should be about right. And when,
ten minutes later, the first sub-committee had miraculously budded off,
he took aside a few chosen people into a small room, set up the
Miscellaneous Committee, and locked the door.
“The flying ship will need a crew, I'm told,” he said. “It can carry
three people. Leonard will have to go because, to be frank, he will be
working on it even as it departs. And the other two?”
“There should be an assassin.” said Lord Downey of the Assassins' Guild.
“No. If Cohen and his friends were easy to assassinate, they would have
been dead long ago,” said Lord Vetinari.
“Perhaps a woman's touch?” said Mrs Palm, head of the Guild of
Seamstresses. “I know they are elderly gentlemen, but my members are-”
“I think the problem there, Mrs Palm, is that although the Horde are
apparently very appreciative of the company of women, they don't listen
to anything they say. Yes, Captain Carrot?”
Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson of the City Watch was standing to
attention, radiating keenness and a hint of soap.
“I volunteer to go. sir,” he said.
“Yes, I thought you probably would.”
“Is this a matter for the Watch?” said the lawyer Mr. Slant. “Mr.Cohen is
simply returning property to its original owner.”
“That is an insight which had not hitherto occurred to me,” said Lord
Vetinari smoothly. “However, the City Watch would not be the men I think
they are if they couldn't think of a reason to arrest anyone. Commander
Vimes?”
“Conspiracy to make an affray should do it.” said the head of the Watch,
lighting a cigar.
“And Captain Carrot is a persuasive young man,” said Lord Vetinari.
“With a big sword.” grumbled Mr. Slant.
“Persuasion comes in many forms,” said Lord Vetinari. “No. I agree with
Archchancellor Ridcully, sending Captain Carrot would be an excellent
idea.”
“What? Did I say something?” said Ridcully.
“Do you think that sending Captain Carrot would be an excellent idea?”
“What? Oh. Yes. Good lad. Keen. Got a sword.”
“Then I agree with you,” said Lord Vetinari, who knew how to work a
committee. “We must make haste, gentlemen. The flotilla needs to leave
tomorrow. We need a third member of the crew-”
There was a knock at the door. Vetinari signalled to a college porter to
open it.
The wizard known as Rincewind lurched into the room, white-faced, and
stopped in front of the table.
“I do not wish to volunteer for this mission.” he said.
“I beg your pardon?” said Lord Vetinari.
“I do not wish to volunteer, sir.”
“No one was asking you to.”
Rincewind wagged a weary finger. “Oh, but they will, sir. they will.
Someone will say: hey, that Rincewind fella, he's the adventurous sort,
he knows the Horde, Cohen seems to like him, he knows all there is to
know about cruel and unusual geography, he'd be just the job for
something like this.” He sighed. “And then I'll run away, and probably
hide in a crate somewhere that'll be loaded on to the flying machine in
any case.”
“Will you?”
“Probably, sir. Or there'll be a whole string of accidents that end up
causing the same tiling. Trust me. sir, I know how my life works. So I
thought I'd better cut through the whole tedious business and come along
and tell you I don't wish to volunteer.”

 
 
   
“I think you've left out a logical step somewhere,” said the Patrician.
“No, sir. It's very simple. I'm volunteering. I just don't wish to. But,
after all, when did that ever have anything to do with anything?”
“He's got a point, you know,” said Ridcully. “He seems to come back from
all sorts of-”
“You see?” Rincewind gave Lord Vetinari a jaded smile. “I've been living
my life for a long time. I know how it works.”
There were always robbers near the Hub. There were pickings to be had
among the lost valleys and forbidden temples, and also among the less
prepared adventurers. Too many people, when listing all the perils to be
found in the search for lost treasure or ancient wisdom, had forgotten to
put at the top of the list: the man who arrived just before you.
One such party was patrolling its favourite area when it espied, first, a
well-equipped warhorse tethered to a frost-shrivelled tree. Then it saw a
fire, burning in a small hollow out of the wind, with a small pot
bubbling beside it. Finally it saw the woman. She was attractive or, at
least, had been conventionally so perhaps thirty years ago. Now she
looked like the teacher you wished you'd had in your first year at
school, the one with the understanding approach to life's little
accidents, such as a shoe full of wee.
She had a blanket around her to keep out the cold. She was knitting.
Stuck in the snow beside her was the largest sword the robbers had ever
seen.
Intelligent robbers would have started to count up the incongruities
here.
These, however, were the other kind, the kind for whom evolution was
invented.
The woman glanced up, nodded at them, and went on with her knitting.
“Well now, what have we here?” said the leader. “Are you-”
“Hold this, will you?” said the old woman, standing up. “Over your
thumbs, young man. It won't take a moment for me to wind a fresh ball. I
was hoping someone would drop by.”
She held out a skein of wool.
The robber took it uncertainly, aware of the grins on the faces of his
men. But he opened his arms with what he hoped was a suitably evil
little-does-she-suspect look on his face.
“That's right,” said the old woman, standing back. She kicked him
viciously in the groin in an incredibly efficient if unladylike way,
reached down as he toppled, caught up the cauldron, flung it accurately
at the face of the first henchman, and picked up her knitting before he
fell.
The two surviving robbers hadn't had time to move, but then one unfroze
and leapt for the sword. He staggered back under its weight, but the
blade was long and reassuring.
“Aha!” he said, and grunted as he raised the sword. “How the hell did you
carry this, old woman?”
“It's not my sword.” she said. “It belonged to the man over there.”
The man risked a look sideways. A pair of feet in armoured sandals were
just visible behind a rock. They were very big feet.
But I've got a weapon, he thought. And then he thought: so did he.
The old woman sighed and drew two knitting needles from the ball of wool.
The light glinted on them, and the blanket slid away from her shoulders
and fell on to the snow.
“Well, gentlemen?” she said.
Cohen pulled the gag off the minstrel's mouth. The man stared at him in
terror. “What's your name, son?” said Cohen. “You kidnapped me! I was
walking along the street and-”
“How much?” said Cohen.