Interesting Times (Discworld, #17; Rincewind, #5)

by Terry Pratchett

He stared glumly at the floor. He quite liked the job of a water buffalo string holder. It sounded nearly as good as the profession of castaway. He longed for the kind of life where you could really concentrate on the squishiness of the mud underfoot, and make up pictures in the clouds; the kind of life where you could let your mind catch up with you and speculate for hours at a time about when your water buffalo was next going to enrich the loam.

When people who can read and write start fighting on behalf of people who can’t, you just end up with another kind of stupidity. If you want to help them, build a big library or something somewhere and leave the door open.

Two Fire Herb said that if we could assassinate the Emperor we would light the torch of freedom . . .” “Yes. It’d be you, burning.

It was impossible for him to get bored. He just didn’t have the imagination.

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.”

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.

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.

Because Rincewind knew very well that when the Four rather small and nasty Horsemen of Panic ride out there is a good job done by Misinformation, Rumor, and Gossip, but they are as nothing compared to the fourth horseman, whose name is Denial.

“Your wife is a big hippo!” SORRY. Rincewind froze, both hands clutching his aching foot. He knew only one person with a voice like a cemetery in midwinter. He tried to hop backwards, and collided with another horse. RINCEWIND, ISN’T IT? said Death. YES. GOOD EVENING. I DON’T BELIEVE YOU HAVE MET WAR. RINCEWIND, WAR. WAR, RINCEWIND.

War touched his helmet in salute. “Pleasure’s all mine,” he said. He indicated the other three riders. “Like to introduce you to m’sons, Terror and Panic. And m’daughter, Clancy.”

“I’ll, er, just be sort of going, then,” said Rincewind. DON’T BE A STRANGER, said Death, as the wizard hurried off.

“We’re getting out of here. I’ve done what I can. I just don’t care any more. It’s nothing to do with me. I don’t see why everyone depends on me. I’m not dependable. Even I don’t depend on me, and I’m me.”

The word tomb had presented itself for his consideration, and one thing Rincewind knew about large tombs was that their builders were often jolly inventive in the traps and spikes department.

The yellow cloud thronged up the slopes of the hill and then, carried on the uprising wind, rose. Above it the storm rose, too, piling up and up and spreading into a shape something like a hammer— It struck. Lightning hit the iron pagoda so hard that it exploded into white-hot fragments.

It wasn’t speed. The Horde couldn’t move very fast. But it was economy. Mr. Saveloy had remarked on it. They were simply always where they wanted to be, which was never where someone’s sword was. They let everyone else do the running around.

Rincewind sidled around the silver lake until he reached a slab of what looked very much like gold, set in the floor in front of a statue. He knew you got inscriptions in tombs, although he was never sure who it was who was supposed to read them. The gods, possibly, although surely they knew everything already? He’d never considered that they’d cluster round and say things like, “Gosh, ‘Dearly Beloved’ was he? I never knew that.” This one simply said, in pictograms: One Sun Mirror.

Rincewind looked closer. Of course, it was just an impression, but around the set of the mouth and the look of the eyes there was an expression he’d last seen on the face of Ghenghiz Cohen. It was the expression of someone who was absolutely and totally unafraid of anything.

Rincewind picked up the helmet. It didn’t look very strong, but it did look quite light. Normally he didn’t bother with protective clothing, reasoning that the best defense against threatening danger was to be on another continent, but right now the idea of armor had its attractions.

Ah. So . . . magic armor. Perfectly normal magic armor. It had never been very popular in Ankh-Morpork. Of course, it was light. You could make it as thin as cloth. But it tended to lose its magic without warning. Many an ancient lord’s last words had been, “You can’t kill me because I’ve got magic aaargh.”

He put his feet into them. He thought: Well, so what is supposed to happen now? He straightened up. And behind him, with the sound of seven thousand flower pots smashing together, the lightning still crackling over them, the Red Army came to attention.

“Listen, you know that long problem in thaumic fields you wanted me to put in?” “Yes. Well?” “It gave me the answer at midnight,” said Adrian, his face pale. “Good.” “Yes, good, except that I didn’t actually give it the problem until half past one, Ponder.”

Rincewind looked down at one of the gloves. He cautiously touched the little picture of a fighting soldier. The sound of seven thousand swords being simultaneously unsheathed was like the tearing of a thick sheet of steel. Seven thousand points were pointed right at Rincewind. He took a step back. So did the army.

The fact that he appeared to have control of them was no great comfort. He’d theoretically had control of Rincewind for the whole of his life, and look what had happened to him.

Mr. Saveloy’s hair streamed in the wind. He bounded through the dust, waving his sword and screaming. He’d never been so happy in all his life.

“No,” said Cohen, vacantly. “Abstract thinking is not a major aspect of the barbarian mental process. Now then, where was I?”

The warrior staggered drunkenly for a while and then managed to get within a yard or two of the wall without colliding with it. It raised a finger and wrote, shakily, in red dust that turned to a kind of paint on the wet plaster: HELP HELP ITS ME IM OUT HERE ON THEE PLAIN HELP I CANT GET THIS BLODY ARMER OFF.

He raised his sword. The air crackled. The Barking Dog dropped on to the flagstones in front of him. It was very hot. Its string was alight. There was a brief sizzle. Then the world went white.

“Nothing’s too good for ole Teach.” “But I assure you, I feel fine,” said Mr. Saveloy. “Really, I—er . . . Oh . . .” RONALD SAVELOY? Mr. Saveloy turned. “Ah,” he said. “Yes. I see.”

A small procession was picking its way through the square. In front, Twoflower recognized, was something he’d once owned. “It was a very cheap one,” he said, to no one in particular. “I always thought there was something a little warped about it, to tell you the truth.” It was followed by a slightly larger Luggage. And then, in descending order of size, four little chests, the smallest being about the size of a lady’s handbag.

“Can they do that?” he said. “Make new ones? I thought it needed carpenters.” “I suppose it learned many things in Ankh-More-Pork,” said Butterfly.

“Do you know,” said Ridcully, “I think I actually understood some of that? Certainly some of the shorter words.” “Oh, it’s perfectly simple,” said the Bursar brightly. “We sent the . . . dog thing to Hunghung. Rincewind was sent to some other place. And this creature was sent here. Just like Pass the Parcel.” “You see?” said Ridcully to Stibbons. “You’re using language the Bursar can understand. And he’s been chasing the dried frog all morning.”

Hex dreamed gently in its room. The wizards were right. Hex couldn’t think. There weren’t words, yet, for what it could do. Even Hex didn’t know what it could do. But it was going to find out. The quill pen scritched and blotted its way over a fresh sheet of paper and drew, for no good reason, a calendar for the year surmounted by a rather angular picture of a beagle, standing on its hind legs.

There were three reasons why Rincewind was no racist. He’d ended up in too many places too suddenly to develop that kind of mind. Besides, if he’d thought about it much, most of the really dreadful things that had happened to him had been done by quite pale people with big wardrobes. Those were two of the reasons. The third was that these men, who were just rising from a half-crouching position, were all holding spears pointing at Rincewind and there is something about the sight of four spears aimed at your throat that causes no end of respect and the word “sir” to arise spontaneously in the mind.

clearly very important. He’d— Oh, no. He’d say something or do something, wouldn’t he, and then they’d say, yes, you are the Great Bloke or something, and they’d drag him off and it’d be the start of another Adventure, i.e., a period of horror and unpleasantness. Life was full of tricks like that. Well, this time Rincewind wasn’t going to fall for it.

*Much later, Rincewind had to have therapy for this. It involved a pretty woman, a huge plate of potatoes, and a big stick with a nail in it.