Interesting Times (22 page)

“No, there aren’t! Because you’ve only got one life but you can pick up another five causes on any street corner!”

“Good grief, how can you
live
with a philosophy like that?”

Rincewind took a deep breath.

“Continuously!”

Six Beneficent Winds had thought it was a pretty good plan. The horrible old men were lost in the Forbidden City. Although they had a wiry look, rather like natural bonsai trees that had managed to flourish on a wind-swept cliff, they were nevertheless
very
old and not at all heavily armed.

So he led them in the direction of the gymnasium.

And when they were inside he screamed for help at the top of his voice. To his amazement, they didn’t turn and run.

“Can we kill him
now?
” said Truckle.

A couple of dozen muscular men had stopped pounding logs of wood and piles of bricks and were regarding them suspiciously.

“Got any ideas?” said Cohen to Mr. Saveloy.

“Oh, dear. They’re so very
tough
looking, aren’t they?”

“You can’t think of anything civilized?”

“No. It’s over to you, I’m afraid.”

“Hah! Hah! I bin
waiting
for this,” said Caleb, pushing forward. “Bin practicing every day, ’n I? With my big lump o’ teak.”

“These are ninjas,” said Six Beneficent Winds proudly, as a couple of the men wandered towards the door and pulled it shut. “The finest fighters in the world! Yield now!”

“That’s interesting,” said Cohen. “Here, you, in the black pyjamas…Just got out of bed, have you? Who’s the best out of all of you?”

One of the men stared fixedly at Cohen and thrust out a hand at the nearest wall. It left a dent.

Then he nodded at the tax gatherer. “What are these old fools you’ve brought us?”

“I think they’re barbarian invaders,” said the taxman.

“How’d you—How’d he know that?” said Boy Willie. “We’re wearin’ itchy trousers and eatin’ with forks and
everythin
’—”

The leading ninja sneered. “Heroic eunuchs?” he said. “Old men?”

“Who’re you calling a eunuch?” Cohen demanded.

“Can I just show him what I’ve been practicing with my lump o’ teak?” said Caleb, hopping arthritically from one foot to the other.

The ninja eyed the slab of timber.

“You could not make a dent on that, old man,” he said.

“You watch,” said Caleb. He held out the wood at arm’s length. Then he raised his other hand, grunting a little as it got past shoulder height.

“You watching this hand? You watching this hand?” he demanded.

“I am watching,” said the ninja, trying not to laugh.

“Good,” said Caleb. He kicked the man squarely in the groin and then, as he doubled up, hit him over the head with the teak. “’Cos you should’ve been watchin’ this foot.”

And that would have been all there was to it if there had only been one ninja. But there was a clatter of rice flails and an unsheathing of long, curved swords.

The Horde drew closer together. Hamish pushed back his rug to reveal their armory, although the collection of notched blades looked positively homely compared with the shiny toys ranged against them.

“Teach, why don’t you take Mr. Taxman over to the corner out of harm’s way?” said Ghenghiz.

“This is madness!” said Six Beneficent Winds. “They’re the finest fighters in the world and you’re just old men! Give in now and I’ll see if I can get you a rebate!”

“Calm down, calm down,” said Mr. Saveloy. “No one’s going to get hurt. Metaphorically, at least.”

Ghenghiz Cohen waved his sword a few times.

“Okay, you lads,” he said. “Give us your best ninje.”

Six Beneficent Winds looked on in horror as the Horde squared up.

“But it will be terrible slaughter!” he said.

“I’m afraid so,” said Mr. Saveloy. He fished in his pockets for a bag of peppermints.

“Who are these mad old men? What do they
do?
”

“Barbarian heroing, generally,” said Mr. Saveloy. “Rescuing princesses, robbing temples, fighting monsters, exploring ancient and terror-filled ruins…that sort of thing.”

“But they look old enough to be dead! Why do they do it?”

Saveloy shrugged. “That’s all they’ve ever done.”

A ninja somersaulted down the room, screaming, a sword in either hand; Cohen waited in an attitude rather similar to that of a baseball batter.

“I wonder,” said Mr. Saveloy, “if you have ever heard of the term ‘evolution’?”

The two met. The air blurred.

“Or ‘survival of the fittest’?” said Mr. Saveloy.

The scream continued, but rather more urgently.

“I didn’t even see his sword move!” whispered Six Beneficent Winds.

“Yes. People often don’t,” said Mr. Saveloy.

“But…they’re so old!”

“Indeed,” said the teacher, raising his voice above the screams, “and of course this is true. They are very
old
barbarian heroes.”

The taxman stared.

“Would you like a peppermint?” said Mr. Saveloy, as Hamish’s wheelchair thundered past in pursuit of a man with a broken sword and a pressing desire to stay alive. “You may find it helps, if you are around the Horde for any length of time.”

The aroma from the proffered paper bag hit Six Beneficent Winds like a flamethrower.

“How can you smell anything after eating those?”

“You can’t,” said Mr. Saveloy happily.

The taxman continued to stare. The fighting was a fast and furious affair but, somehow, only on one side. The Horde fought like you’d expect old men to fight—slowly, and with care. All the activity was on the part of the ninjas, but no matter how well flung the throwing star or speedy the kick, the target was always, without any obvious effort, not there.

“Since we have this moment to chat,” said Mr. Saveloy, as something with a lot of blades hit the wall just above the taxman’s head, “I wonder: could you tell me about the big hill just outside the city? It is quite a remarkable feature.”

“What?” said Six Beneficent Winds distractedly.

“The big hill.”

“You want to know about
that? Now?
”

“Geography is a little hobby of mine.”

Someone’s ear hit Six Beneficent Winds on the ear.

“Er. What? We call it the Big Hill…Hey, look at what he’s doing with his—”

“It seems remarkably regular. Is it a natural feature?”

“What? Eh? Oh…I don’t know, they say it turned up thousands of years ago. During a terrible storm. When the first Emperor died. He…he’s going to be killed! He’s going to be killed! He’s going to be—How did he do that?”

Six Beneficent Winds suddenly remembered, as a child, playing
Shibo Yangcong-san
with his grandfather. The old man always won. No matter how carefully he’d assembled his strategy, he’d find Grandfather would place a tile quite innocently right in the crucial place just before he could make his big move. The ancestor had spent his whole life playing
shibo
. The fight was just like that.

“Oh, my,” he said.

“That’s right,” said Mr. Saveloy. “They’ve had a lifetime’s experience of not dying. They’ve become very good at it.”

“But…why here? Why come here?”

“We’re going to undertake a robbery,” said Mr. Saveloy.

Six Beneficent Winds nodded sagely. The wealth of the Forbidden City was legendary. Probably even blood-sucking ghosts had heard of it.

“The Talking Vase of Emperor P’gi Su?” he said.

“No.”

“The Jade Head of Sung Ts’uit Li?”

“No. Wrong track entirely, I’m afraid.”

“Not the secret of how silk is made?”

“Good grief. Silkworms’ bottoms. Everyone knows that. No. Something rather more precious than that.”

Despite himself, Six Beneficent Winds was impressed. Apart from anything else, only seven ninjas were still standing and Cohen was fencing with one of them while rolling a cigarette in the other hand.

And Mr. Saveloy could see
it
dawning in the fat man’s eyes.

The same thing had happened to him.

Cohen came into people’s lives like a rogue planet into a peaceful solar system, and you felt yourself being dragged along simply because nothing like that would ever happen to you again.

He himself had been peacefully hunting for fossils during the school holidays when he had, more or less, stumbled into the camp of those particular fossils called the Horde. They’d been quite friendly, because he had neither weapons nor money. And they’d taken to him, because he knew things they didn’t. And that had been it.

He’d decided there and then. It must have been something in the air. His past life had suddenly unrolled behind him and he couldn’t remember a single day of it that had been any fun. And it had dawned on him that he could join the Horde or go back to school and, pretty soon, a limp handshake, a round of applause and his pension.

It was something about Cohen. Maybe it was what they called charisma. It overpowered even his normal smell of a goat that had just eaten curried asparagus. He did everything wrong. He cursed people and used what Mr. Saveloy considered very offensive language to foreigners. He shouted terms that would have earned anyone else a free slit throat from a variety of interesting ethnic weapons—and he got away with it, partly because it was clear that there was no actual malice there but mainly because he was, well, Cohen, a sort of basic natural force on legs.

It worked on everything. When he wasn’t actually fighting them, he got on a lot better with trolls than did people who merely thought that trolls had rights just like everyone else. Even the Horde, bloody-minded individualists to a man, fell for it.

But Mr. Saveloy had also seen the aimlessness in their lives and, one night, he’d brought the conversation round to the opportunities offered in the Aurient…

There was a light in Six Beneficent Winds’ expression.

“Have you got an accountant?” he said.

“Well, no, as a matter of fact.”

“Will this theft be treated as income or capital?”

“I haven’t really thought like that. The Horde doesn’t pay taxes.”

“What? Not to
anyone?
”

“No. It’s funny, but they never seem to keep their money for long. It seems to disappear on drink and women and high living. I suppose, from a heroing point of view, they may count as taxes.”

There was a “pop” as Six Beneficent Winds uncorked a small bottle of ink and licked his writing brush.

“But those sort of things probably count as allowable expenses for a barbarian hero,” he said. “They are part of the job specification. And then of course there is wear and tear on weaponry, protective clothing…They could certainly claim for at least one new loincloth a year—”

“I don’t think they’ve claimed for one per century.”

“And there’s pensions, of course.”

“Ah. Don’t use that word. They think it’s a dirty word. But in a way
that
is what they’re here for. This is their last adventure.”

“When they’ve stolen this very valuable thing that you won’t tell me about.”

“That’s right. You’d be very welcome to join us. You could perhaps be a barbarian…to push beans…a length of knotted string…
ah…
accountant. Have you ever killed anyone?”

“Not outright. But I’ve always thought you can do considerable damage with a well-placed Final Demand.”

Mr. Saveloy beamed. “Ah, yes,” he said. “Civilization.”

The last ninja was upright, but only just; Hamish had run his wheelchair over his foot. Mr. Saveloy patted the taxman’s arm. “Excuse me,” he said. “I find I often have to intervene at this stage.”

He padded over to the surviving man, who was looking around wildly. Six swords had become interlaced around his neck as though he’d taken part in a rather energetic folk dance.

“Good morning,” said Mr. Saveloy. “I should just point out that Ghenghiz here is, despite appearances, a remarkably honest man. He finds it hard to understand empty bravura. May I venture to suggest therefore that you refrain from phrases like ‘I would rather die than betray my Emperor’ or ‘Go ahead and do your worst’ unless you
really, really
mean them. Should you wish for mercy, a simple hand signal will suffice. I strongly advise you not to attempt to nod.”

The young man looked sideways at Cohen, who gave him an encouraging smile.

Then he waved a hand quickly.

The swords unwove. Truckle hit the ninja over the head with a club.

“It’s all right, you don’t have to go on about it, I didn’t kill him,” he said sulkily.

“Ow!” Boy Willie had been experimenting with a rice flail and had hit his own ear. “How’d they manage to fight with this rubbish?”

“Whut?”

“These little Hogswatch decoration thingies look the business, though,” said Vincent, picking up a throwing star. “Aaargh!” He sucked his fingers. “Useless foreign junk.”

“That bit where that lad sprang backwards right across the room with them axes in his hands was impressive, though.”

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t ought to have stuck your sword out like that, I thought.”

“He’s learned an important lesson.”

“It won’t do him much good now where he’s gone.”

“Whut?”

Six Beneficent Winds was half laughing, half shocked.

“But…but…I’ve seen these guards fight before!” he said. “They’re
invincible!
”

“No one told
us
.”

“But you beat them all!”

“Yep!”

“And you’re just eunuchs!”

There was a scrape of steel. Six Beneficent Winds closed his eyes. He could feel metal touching his neck in at least five places.

“There’s that word again,” said the voice of Cohen the Barbarian.

“But…you’re…
dressed…
as…eunuchs…” murmured Six Beneficent Winds, trying not to swallow.

Mr. Saveloy backed away, chuckling nervously.

“You see,” he said, speaking fast, “you’re too old to be taken for guards and you don’t look like bureaucrats, so I thought it would be, er, a very good disguise to—”

“
Eunuch?
” roared Truckle. “You mean people’ve been looking at me and thinking I mince around saying,
Helluo, Saltat?
”

Like many men whose testosterone had always sloshed out of their ears, the Horde had never finetuned their approach to the more complex areas of sexuality. A teacher to the core, Mr. Saveloy couldn’t help correcting them, even at swordpoint.