Discworld 27 - The Last Hero (5 page)

 
 
   
name, your basic lizard man. Over here we have ...“ He nodded at
something vaguely like a dwarf, who gave him an imploring look.
”You're Armpit,“ prompted Evil Harry.
”Your Armpit,“ said Armpit gratefully.
” ... nork nork,“ said one of the Slimes, in case this remark had been
addressed to him.
”Well done, Harry,“ said Cohen. ”It's damn hard to find a really stupid
dwarf.“
”Wasn't easy, I can tell you,“ Harry admitted proudly as he moved on. And
this is Butcher.”
“Good name, good name,” said Cohen, looking up at the enormous fat man.
“Your jailer, right?”
“Took a lot of finding,” said Evil Harry, while Butcher grinned happily
at nothing. “Believes anything anyone tells him, can't see through the
most ridiculous disguise, would let a transvestite washerwomen go free
even if she had a beard you could camp in, falls asleep real easily on a
chair near the bars and-”
“-carries his keys on a big hook on his belt so's they can be easily
lifted off!” said Cohen. “Classic. A master touch, that. And you've got
troll, I see.”
“Dat's me,” said the troll.
“... nork, nork.”
“Dat's me.”
“Well, you've got to have a troll, haven't you?” said Evil Harry. “Bit
brighter than I'd like, but he's got no sense of direction and can't
remember his name,”
“And what do we have here?” said Cohen. “A real old zombie? Where did you
dig him up? I like a man who's not afraid to let all his flesh fall off.”
“Gak.” said the zombie.
“No tongue, eh?” said Cohen. “Don't worry, lad. a blood-curdling screech
is all you need. And a few bits of wire, by the look of it. It's all a
matter of style.”
“Dat's me.”
“... nork nork.”
“Gak.”
“Dat's me,”
“Your Armpit.”
“They must make you proud. I don't know when I've ever seen a more stupid
bunch of henchmen,” said Cohen, admiring, “Harry, you're like a
refreshin' fart in a roomful of roses. You bring 'em all along. I
wouldn't hear of you staying behind.”
“Nice to be appreciated,” said Evil Harry, looking down and blushing.
“And what else've you got to look forward to, anyway?” said Cohen. “Who
really appreciates a good Dark Lord these days? The world's too
complicated now. It don't belong to the likes of us any more ... it
chokes us to death with cucumbers.”
“What are you actually going to do, Cohen?” said Evil Harry.
“... nork. nork.”
“Well, I reckon it's time to go out like we started,” said Cohen. “One
last roll of the dice.” He tapped the keg again. “It's time.” he said,
“to give something back.”
“ ... nork. nork.”
“Shut up.”
Varieties of the Swamp Dragon
1 The Smooth Courser. Note elongation of the feems.
2 Rainkin's Optimist. Good-natured, seldom explodes.

 
 
   
3 The Nothingfjord Blue. Wonderful scales, but a tendency to
homesickness.
4 The Smooth-nosed Smut.
5 The Big-nosed Jolly. Frightened of shovels.
6 The Rough-nosed Smut (elderly male).
7 Wivelspiker. Excitable. Walks into windows.
8 The Quirmian Long-ear. Mild-natured, but needs daily exercise.
9 Spiked Oncer. Rare, needs much attention.
10 The Classic Smut. A very popular dragon in the traditional mould.
11 Golden Deceiver. Makes a good watch dragon; should not be allowed near
children.
12 Narrowed-Eared Smut. Nervous and therefore, short-lived.
13 The Lion-Headed Cowper. A large breed, easy to keep, but often
afflicted with skipiets.
14 Tomkin's Neurovore. Handsome, but highly explosive due to nerves.
15 Porpoise-Headed Cowper. A breed for aficionados.
16 The Retiring Smut. Not often seen.
17 The Golden Rharn.
18 Birbright's Smut. Morbidly afraid of spoons.
19 Birbright's Lizard. Rare mountain breed, flightless.
20 Tabby Cowper. Best of the Cowpers, now quite popular.
21 Silver Regal. A classic breed, popular in Sto Lat.
22 Jessington's Blunt. Rare and very stupid.
23 Jessington's Deceiver. Small and better behaved than the Golden.
Hoards pickle jars.
24 The Common Smut. The basic swamp dragon, familiar to all.
25 Pixy-faced Smut. Many congenital problem; for experts only.
26 The Flared Smut. Good with cabbage.
27 Homed Regal. Largely nocturnal, flightless, well-coloured, short
in the wouters.
28 Smooth Deceiver. Good-natured, suitable for the smaller home.
29 Big-nosed Smut. Seldom breeds true. Attracted to mirrors.
30 Guttley's Leaper. Flightless, but can exceed 30 mph running over open
ground.
31 Spike-nosed Regal. One of the most beautiful of the classic dragons.
Hates shoes.
32 Broken-faced Cowper. Seldom seen these days.
33 The Pique. Small, flightless, lives indoors. Eats only chicken and
furniture.
34 Curly-maned Slottie. Amiable, tendency to slimp, seldom explosive.
35 Avery's “Epolette”, typical of the many miniature shoulder dragons.
36 Bridisian Courser. Not a very special dragon at all.
37 ,38 Male and female Spouters, a breed that flies very badly but makes
a suitable pet for the less discriminating household. Explodes in the
presence of mint.
(from The Show Judges" Guide to Dragons, by Lady Sybil Ramkin, available
from the Cavern Club Press, Ankh-Morpork, at AM$20)
As night rays of light shone through holes and gaps in the tarpaulin,
Lord Vetinari wondered if Leonard was getting any sleep. It was quite
possible that the man had designed some sort of contrivance to do it for
him.
At the moment, there were other things to concern him. The dragons were
travelling in a ship of their own. It was far too dangerous to have them
on board anything else. Ships were made of wood, and even when in a good
mood dragons puffed little balls of tire. When they were over-excited,
they exploded.

 
 
   
“They will he all right, won't they?” he said, keeping well back from the
cages. “If any of them are harmed I shall be in serious trouble with the
Sunshine Sanctuary in Ankh-Morpork. This is not a prospect I relish. I
assure you.”
“Mr da Quirrn says there is no reason why they should not all get back
safely, sir.”
“And would you, Mister Stibbons, trust yourself in a contrivance pushed
along by dragons?”
Ponder swallowed. “I'm not the stuff of heroes, sir.”
“And what causes this lack in you. may I ask?”
“I think it's because I've got an active imagination.”
This seemed a good explanation. Lord Vetinari mused as lie walked away.
The difference was that while other people imagined in terms of thoughts
and pictures. Leonard imagined in terms of shape and space. His daydreams
came with a cutting list and assembly instructions.
Lord Vetinari found himself hoping more and more for the success of his
other plan. When all else fails, pray ...
“All right now. lads, settle down. Settle down.” Hughnon Ridcully, Chief
Priest of Blind Io., looked down at the multitude of priests and
priestesses that filled the huge Temple of Small Gods.
He shared many of the characteristics of his brother Mustrum. He also saw
his job as being, essentially, one of organiser. There were plenty of
people who were good at the actual believing, and he left them to it. It
took a lot more than prayer to make sure the laundry got done and the
building was kept in repair. There were so many gods now ... at least two
thousand. Many were, of course, still very small. But you had to watch
them. Gods were very much a fashion thing. Look at Om, now. One minute he
was a bloodthirsty little deity in some mad hot country, and then
suddenly he was one of the top gods. It had all been done by not
answering prayers, but doing so in a sort of dynamic way that left open
the possibility that one day he might and then there'd he fireworks.
Hughnon, who had survived through decades of intense theological dispute
by being a mean man at swinging a heavy thurible, was impressed by this
novel technique.
And then, of course, you had your real newcomers like Aniger, Goddess of
Squashed Animals. Who would have thought that better roads and faster
carts would have led to that? But gods grew bigger when called upon at
need, and enough minds had cried out, “Oh god, what was that I hit?”
“Brethren!” he shouted, getting tired of waiting. “And sistren!”
The hubbub died away. A few flakes of dry and crumbling paint drifted
down from the ceiling.
“Thank you.” said Ridcully. “Now, can you please listen? My colleagues
and I,” - and here he indicated the senior clergy behind him - “have. I
assure you, been working for some time on this idea, and there is no
doubt that it is theologically sound. Can we please get on?”
He could still sense the annoyance among the priesthood. Born leaders
didn't like being led.
“If we don't try this,” he tried, “the godless wizards may succeed with
their plans. And a fine lot of mugginses we will look.”
“This is all very well, hut the form of things is important!” snapped a
priest. “We can't all pray at once! You know the gods don't like
ecumenicalism! And what form of words will we use, pray?”
“I would have felt that a short non-controversial-” Hughnon Ridcully
paused. In front of him were priests forbidden by holy edict from eating
broccoli, priests who required unmarried girls to cover their ears lest
they inflame the passions of other men, and priests who worshipped a
small shortbread-and-raisin biscuit. Nothing was non-controversial.
“You see, it does appear that the world is going to end.” he said weakly.

 
 
   
“Well? Some of us have been expecting that for some considerable time! It
will be a judgement on mankind for its wickedness!”
“Arid broccoli!”
“And the short haircuts girls are wearing today!”
“Only the biscuits will be saved!”
Ridcully waved his crozier frantically for silence.
“But this isn't the wrath of the gods.” he said. “I did tell you! It's
the work of a man!”
“Ah, but he may be the hand of a god!”
“It's Cohen the Barbarian.” said Ridcully.
“Even so, he might-”
The speaker in the crowd was nudged by the priest next to him.
“Hang on ...”
There was a roar of excited conversation. There were few temples that
hadn't been robbed or despoiled in a long life of adventuring, and the
priests soon agreed that no god ever had anything in his hand that looked
like Cohen the Barbarian. Hughnon turned his eyes up to the ceiling, with
its beautiful but decrepit panorama of gods and heroes. Life must be a
lot easier for gods, he decided.
“Very well,” said one of the objectors, haughtily. “In that case. I think
perhaps we could, in these special circumstances, get around a table just
this once.”
“Ah, that is a good-” Ridcully began.
“But of course we will need to give some very serious consideration as to
what shape the table is going to be.”
Ridcully looked blank for a moment. His expression did not change as he
leaned down to one of his sub-deacons and said, “Scallop, please have
someone run along and tell my wife to pack my overnight bag, will you? I
think this is going to take a little while ...”
The central spire of Con Celesti seemed to get no closer day by day. “Are
you sure Cohen's all right in the head?”“ said Evil Harry, as he helped
Boy Willie manoeuvre Hamish's wheelchair over the ice.
”'ere, are you tryin“ to spread discontent among the troops, Harry?”
“Well, I did warn you. Will, I am a Dark Lord. I've got to keep in
practice. And we're following a leader who keeps forgetting where he put
his false teeth.”
“Whut?” said Mad Hamish.
“I'm just saying that blowing up the gods could cause trouble.” said Evil
Harry. “It's a bit... disrespectful.”
“You must've defiled a few temples in your time, Harry?”
“I ran 'em. Will. I ran 'em. I was a Mad Demon Lord for a while, you
know. I had a Temple of Terror.”
“Yes, on your allotment.” said Boy Willie, grinning.
“That's right, that's right, rub it in,” said Harry sulkily. “Just
because I was never in the big league, just because-”
“Now, now, Harry, you know we don't think like that. We respected you.
You knew the Code. You kept the faith. Well. Cohen just reckons the
gods've got it comin' to them. Now, me., I'm worried because there's some
tough ground ahead.”
Evil Harry peered along the snowy canyon.
“There's some kind of magic path leads up the mountain.” Willie went on.
“But there's a mass of caves before you get there.”
“The Impassable Caves of Dread,” said Evil Harry.
Willie looked impressed. "Heard of them, have you? Accordin' to some old
legend they're guarded by a legion of fearsome monsters and some
devilishly devious devices and no one has ever passed through. Oh, yeah
... perilous crevasses, too. Next, we'll have to swim through underwater
caverns guarded by giant man-eating fish that no man has ever yet passed.

 
 
   
And then there's some insane monks, and a door you can pass only by
solving some ancient riddle ... the usual sort of stuff.“
”Sounds like a big job,“ Evil Harry ventured.
”Well, we know the answer to the riddle,“ said Boy Willie. ”It's
“teeth”.“
”How did you find that out?“
”Didn't have to. It's always teeth in poxy old riddles.“ Boy Willie
grunted as they heaved the wheelchair through a particularly deep drift.
”But the biggest problem, is going to be getting this damn thing through
all that without Hamish waking up and making trouble.“
In the study of his dark house on the edge of Time, Death looked at the
wooden box. PERHAPS I SHALL TRY ONE MORE TIME, he said.
He reached down and lifted up a small kitten, patted it on the head,
lowered it gently into the box, and closed the lid.
THE CAT DIES WHEN THE AIR RUNS OUT?
”I suppose it might, sir,“ said Albert, his manservant. ”But I don't
reckon that's the point. If I understand it right, you don't know if the
cat's dead or alive until you look at it.“
THINGS WILL HAVE COME TO A PRETTY PASS, ALBERT, IF I DID NOT KNOW WHETHER
A THING WAS DEAD OR ALIVE WITHOUT HAVING TO GO AND LOOK.
”Er... the way the theory goes, sir. it's the act of lookin' that
determines if it's alive or not.“
Death looked hurt. ARE YOU SUGGESTING I WILL KILL THE CAT JUST BY LOOKING
AT IT?
”It's not quite like that, sir.“
I MEAN, IT's NOT AS IF I MAKE FACES OR ANYTHING.
”To be honest with you, sir, I don't think even the wizards understand
the uncertainty business.“ said Albert. ”We didn't truck with that class
of stuff in my day. If you weren't certain, you were dead.“
Death nodded. It was getting hard to keep up with the times. Take
parallel dimensions. Parasite dimensions, now, he understood them. He
lived in one. They were simply universes that weren't quite complete in
themselves and could only exist by clinging on to a host universe, like
remora fish. But parallel dimensions meant that anything you did, you
didn't do somewhere else.
This presented exquisite problems to a being who was, by nature,
definite. It was like playing poker against an infinite number of
opponents.
He opened the box and took out the kitten. It stared at him with the
normal mad amazement of kittens everywhere.
I DON'T HOLD WITH CRUELTY TO CATS, said Death, putting it gently on the
floor.
”I think the whole cat in the box idea is one of them metaphors," said
Albert.
AH. A LIE.
Death snapped his fingers.
Death's study did not occupy space in the normal sense of the word. The
walls and ceiling were there for decoration rather than as any kind of
dimensional limit. Now they faded away and a giant hourglass filled the
air.
Its dimensions would be difficult to calculate, but they could be
measured in miles.
Inside, lightnings crackled among the falling sands. Outside, a giant
turtle was engraved upon the glass.
I THINK WE SHALL HAVE TO CLEAR THE DECKS FOR THIS ONE, said Death.
Evil Harry knelt in front of a hastily constructed altar. It consisted
mostly of skulls, which were not hard to find in this cruel landscape.
And now he prayed. In a long lifetime of being a Dark Lord, even in a