Interesting Times (Discworld 17)

'That's true, at least,' said Mr Saveloy. 'We have not heard of you!' said the warlord. 'Yeah,' said Cohen. 'That's how good we are.'

'There is one other thing about his army, actually,' said someone. They all turned to Rincewind, who'd been almost as surprised as they were to hear his voice. But a train of thought had just reached the terminus . . . 'Yes?'

'You may have been wondering why you have only seen the . . . generals,' Rincewind went on, slowly, as if working it out as he went along. 'That is because, you see, the men themselves are . . . invisible. Er. Yes. Ghosts, in fact. Everyone knows this, don't they?' Cohen gaped at him in astonishment. 'Blood-sucking ghosts, as a matter of fact,' said Rincewind. 'After all, everyone knows that's what you get beyond the Wall, don't they?'

Lord Hong sneered. But the warlords stared at Rincewind with the expressions of people who strongly suspected that the people beyond the Wall were flesh and blood but who also relied on millions of people not believing that this was so. 'Ridiculous! You are not invisible blood-sucking ghosts,' said one of them. Cohen opened his mouth so that the diamond teeth glinted. '

'S right,' he said. 'Fact is . . . we're the visible sort.'

'Hah! A pathetic attempt!' said Lord Hong. 'Ghosts or no ghosts, we will beat you!'

'Well, that went better than I expected,' Mr Saveloy remarked as the warlords strode out. 'Was that an attempt at a little bit of psychological warfare there, Mr Rincewind?'

'Is that what it was? I know about that kind of stuff,' said Cohen. 'It's where you bang your shield all night before the fight so's the enemy can't get any sleep and you sing, “We're gonna cut yer tankers off,” and stuff like that.'

'Similar,' said Mr Saveloy, diplomatically. 'But it failed to work, I'm afraid. Lord Hong and his generals are rather too sophisticated. It's a great shame you couldn't try it on the common soldiers.' There was a faint squeak of rabbit behind them. They turned, and looked at the somewhat under-age cadre of the Red Army that was being ushered in. Butterfly was with them. She even gave Rincewind a very faint smile. Rincewind had always relied on running away. But sometimes, perhaps, you had to stand and fight if only because there was nowhere left to run. But he was no good at all with weapons. At least, the normal sort. 'Um,' he said, 'if we leave the palace now, we'll be killed, right?'

'I doubt it,' said Mr Saveloy. 'It's become a matter of the Art of War now. Someone like Hong would probably slit our throats, but now war is declared things have to be done according to custom.' Rincewind took a deep breath. 'It's a million-to-one chance,' he said, 'but it might just work . . .' The Four Horsemen whose Ride presages the end of the world are known to be Death, War, Famine and Pestilence. But even less significant events have their own Horsemen. For example, the Four Horsemen of the Common Cold are Sniffles, Chesty, Nostril and Lack of

Tissues; the Four Horsemen whose appearance foreshadows any public holiday are Storm, Gales, Sleet and Contra-flow. Among the armies encamped in the broad alluvial plain around Hunghung, the invisible horsemen known as Misinformation, Rumour and Gossip saddled up . . . A large army encamped has all the tedious problems of a city without any of the advantages. Its watchfires and picket lines are, after a while, open to local civilians, especially if they have anything to sell and even more so if they are women whose virtue has a certain commercial element and even, sometimes, if they appear to be selling food which is a break from the monotonous army diet. The food currently on sale was certainly such a break. 'Pork balls! Pork balls! Get them while they're . . .' There was a pause as the vendor mentally tried out ways of ending the sentence, and gave up. 'Pork balls! Onna stick! How about you, shogun, you look like -Here, aren't you the—?'

'd rather have some poisoner like this Hong instead of me?' said Cohen. 'But he's a bastard!'

'Yes, but . . . he's their bastard, you see.'

'We could hold out here. This place has got thick walls,' said Vincent. 'The ones not made of paper, that is.'

'Don't think about that,' said Truckle. 'Not a siege. Sieges are messy. I hate eating boots and rats.'

'Whut?'

'He said WE DON'T WANT A SIEGE WHERE WE HAVE TO EAT BOOTS AND RATS, Hamish.'

'Run outa legs, have we?'

'How many soldiers have they got?' said Cohen. 'I think . . . six or seven hundred thousand,' said the taxman. 'Excuse us,' said Cohen, getting off the throne. 'I have to join my Horde.' The Horde went into a huddle. There was an occasional 'Whut?' in the hoarse whispered interchanges. Then Cohen turned round. 'Seas of blood, wasn't it?' he said. 'Er. Yes,' said the taxman. The huddle resumed. After some further exchanges Truckle's head poked up. 'Did you say mountain of skulls?' he said. 'Yes. Yes, I think that's what I said,' said the taxman. He glanced nervously at Rincewind and Mr Saveloy, who shrugged. Whisper, whisper, Whut . . . 'Excuse me?'

'Yes?'

'About how big a mountain? Skulls don't pile up that well.'

'I don't know how big a mountain! A lot of skulls!'

'Just checking.'

The Horde seemed to reach a decision. They turned to face the other men. 'We're going to fight,' said Cohen. 'Yes, you should have said all that about skulls and Hood before,' said Truckle. 'We'll show ye whether we'm dead or not!' cackled Hamish. Mr Saveloy shook his head. 'I think you must have misheard. The odds are a hundred thousand to one!' he said. 'I reckon that'll show people we're still alive,' said Caleb. 'Yes, but the whole point of my plan was to show you that you could get to the top of the pyramid without having to fight your way up,' said Mr Saveloy. 'It really is possible in such a stale society. But if you try to fight hundreds of thousands of men you'll die.' And then, to his surprise, he found himself adding: 'Probably.' The Horde grinned at him. 'Big odds don't frighten us,' said Truckle. 'We like big odds,' said Caleb. 'Y'see, Teach, odds of a thousand to one ain't a lot worse than ten to one,' said Cohen. 'The reasons bein'—' He counted on his fingers. 'One, your basic soldier who's fightin' for pay rather than his life ain't goin' to stick his neck out when there's all these other blokes around who might as well do the business, and, two, not very many of 'em are goin' to be able to get near us at one time and they'll all be pushin' and shovin', and . . .' He looked at his fingers with an expression of terminal calculation. '. . . Three . . .' said Mr Saveloy, hypnotized by this logic. '. . . three, right. . . Half the time when they swings their swords they'll hit one of their mates, savin' us a bit of effort. See?'

'But even if that were true it'd only work for a little while,' Mr Saveloy protested. 'Even if you killed as many as two hundred you'd be tired and there'd be fresh troops attacking you.'

'Oh, they'd be tired too,' said Cohen cheerfully. 'Why?'

'Because by then, to get to us, they'd have to be running uphill.'

'That's logic, that is,' said Truckle, approvingly. Cohen slapped the shaken teacher on the back.

'Don't you worry about a thing,' he said. 'If we've got the Empire by your kind of plan, we'll keep it by our kind of plan. You've shown us civilization, so we'll show you barbarism.' He walked a few steps and then turned, an evil glint in his eye. 'Barbarism? Hah! When we kills people we do it there and then, lookin'

'em in the eye, and we'd be happy to buy 'em a drink in the next world, no harm done. I never knew a barbarian who cut up people slowly in little rooms, or tortured women to make 'em look pretty, or put poison in people's grub. Civilization? If that's civilization, you can shove it where the sun don't shine!'