Eric (Discworld #9) 8

This was the last mistake it ever made.

“You know that box of yours?” said the parrot.

“What about it?” said Rincewind.

“It's heading this way.”

The priests peered down at the running figure far below. The Luggage had a straightforward way of dealing with things between it and its intended destination: it ignored them.

It was at this moment, against all his instincts, in great trepidation and, most unfortunately of all, in deep ignorance of what was happening, that Quezovercoatl himself chose to materialise on top of the pyramid.

Several of the priests noticed him. The knives fell from their fingers.

“Er,” squeaked the demon.

Other priests turned around.

“Right. Now, I want you all to pay attention,” squeaked Quezovercoatl, cupping his tiny hands around his main mouth in an effort to be heard.

This was very embarrassing. He'd enjoyed being the Tezumen god, he'd been really impressed by their single-minded devotion to duty, he'd been very gratified by the incredible lifelike statue in the pyramid, and it really hurt to have to reveal that, in one important particular, it was incorrect.

He was six inches high.

“Now then,” he began, “this is very important -”

Unfortunately, no-one ever found out why. At that moment the Luggage breasted the top of the pyramid, its legs whirring like propellers, and landed squarely on the slabs.

There was a brief, flat squeak.

It was a funny old world, said da Quirm. You had to laugh, really. If you didn't, you'd go mad, wouldn't you? One minute strapped to a slab and about to undergo exquisite torture, the next being given breakfast, a change of clothes, a hot tub and a free lift out of the kingdom. It made you believe there was a god. Of course the Tezumen knew there was a god, and that he was currently a small and distressing greasy patch on top of the pyramid. Which left them with a bit of a problem.

The Luggage squatted in the city's main plaza. The entire priesthood was sitting around it and watching it carefully, in case it did anything amusing or religious.

“Are you going to leave it behind?” said Eric.

“It's not as simple as that,” said Rincewind. “It generally catches up. Let's just go away quickly.”

“But we'll take the tribute, won't we?”

“I think that could be an amazingly bad idea,” said Rincewind. “Let's just quietly go, while they're in a good temper. The novelty will wear off soon, I expect.” “And I've got to get on with my search for the Fountain of Youth,” said da Quirm. “Oh yes,” said Rincewind. “I've devoted my whole life to it, you know,” said the old man proudly. Rincewind looked him up and down. “Really?” he said. “Oh, yes. Exclusively. Ever since I was a boy.”

Rincewind's expression was one of acute puzzlement. “In that case,” he began, in the manner of one talking to a child, “wouldn't it have been better... you know, more sensible... if you'd just got on with...”

“What?” said da Quirm. “Oh, never mind,” said Rincewind. “I'll tell you what though,” he added, "I think, in order to prevent you getting, you know, bored, we should present you with this

wonderful talking parrot.“ He made a swift grab, while keeping his thumbs firmly out of harm's way. ”It's a jungle fowl,“ he said. ”Cruel to subject it to city life, isn't it?“ ”I was born in a cage, you raving wossname!" screamed the parrot. Rincewind faced it,

nose to beak.

“It's that or fricassee time,” he said. The parrot opened its beak to bite his nose, saw his expression, and thought better of it. “Polly want a biscuit,” it managed, adding, sotto voce, “wossnamewossnamewossname.” “A dear little bird of my very own,” said da Quirm. “I shall look after it.” “wossnamewossname.”

They reached the jungle. A few minutes later the Luggage trotted after them.

It was noon in the kingdom of Tezuma.

From inside the main pyramid came the sounds of a very large statue being dismantled.

The priests sat around thoughtfully. Occasionally one of them stood up and made a short speech.

It was clear that points were being made. For example, how the economics of the kingdom depended on a buoyant obsidian knife industry, how the enslaved neighbouring kingdoms had come to rely on the smack of firm government, and incidentally on the hack, slash and disembowelling of firm government as well, and on the terrible fate that awaited any people who didn't have gods. Godless people might get up to anything, they might turn against the fine old traditions of thrift and non-self-sacrifice that had made the kingdom what it was today, they might start wondering why, if they didn't have a god, they needed all these priests, anything.

The point was well put by Mazuma, the high priest, when he said: “[Squashed-figurewith-broken-nose, jaguar claw, three feathers, stylised spiny anteater].”

After a while a vote was taken.

By nightfall, the kingdom's leading stonemasons were at work on a new statue.

It was basically oblong, with lots of legs.

The Demon King drummed his fingers on his desk. It wasn't that he was unhappy about the fate of Quezovercoatl, who would now have to spend several centuries in one of the nether hells while he grew a new corporeal body. Serve him right, the ghastly little imp. Nor was it the broad trend of events on the pyramid. After all, the whole point of the wish business was to see to it that what the client got was exactly what he asked for and exactly what he didn't really want.

It was just that he didn't feel in control of things.

Which was of course ridiculous. If the best came to the best he could always materialise and sort things out personally. But he liked people to believe that all the bad things happening to them were just fate and destiny. It was one of the few things that cheered

him up.

He turned back to the mirror. After a while he had to adjust the temporal control.

One minute the breathless, humid jungles of Klatch, the next... “I thought we were going back to my room,” Eric complained. “I thought that, too,” said Rincewind, shouting to be heard over the rumbling. “Snap your fingers again, demon.” “Not on your life! There's plenty of places worse than this!” “But it's all hot and dark.” Rincewind had to concede that. It was also shaking and noisy. When his eyes grew used

to the blackness he could make out a few spots of light here and there, whose dim radiance suggested that they were inside something like a boat. There was a definite feel of carpentry about everything, and a powerful smell of wood shavings and glue. If it was a boat, then it was having an awfully painful launching down a spillway greased with rocks.

A jolt slung him heavily against a bulkhead. “I must say,” complained Eric, "if this is where the most beautiful woman lives I don't

think much of her choice of boodwah. You'd think she'd put a few cushions or something around the place.“ ”Boodwah?“ said Rincewind. ”She's bound to have one,“ said Eric smugly. ”I've read about 'em. She reclines on it.“ ”Tell me,“ said Rincewind, ”have you ever felt the need to have a cold bath and a brisk

run around the playing fields?“ ”Never."

“It could be worth a try.”

The rumbling stopped abruptly. There was a distant clanging noise, such as might be made by a pair of great big gates being shut. Rincewind thought he heard some voices fading into the distance, and a

chuckle. It wasn't a particularly pleasant chuckle, it was more of a snigger, and it boded no good for someone. Rincewind had a pretty good idea who. He'd stopped wondering how he'd come to be here, wherever it was. Malign forces, that

was probably it. At least nothing particularly dreadful was happening to him right now.

Probably it was only a matter of time. He groped around a bit until his fingers encountered what turned out to be, following an inspection by the light of the nearest knot-hole, a rope ladder. Further probing at one end of the hull, or whatever it was, brought him in contact with a small, round hatchway. It was bolted on the inside.

He crawled back to Eric. “There's a door,” he whispered. “Where does it go?” “It stays where it is, I think,” said Rincewind. “find out where it leads to, demon!” “Could be a bad idea,” said Rincewind cautiously. “Get on with it!” Rincewind crawled gloomily to the hatch and grasped the bolt. The hatch creaked open. Down below - quite a long way below - there were damp cobblestones, across which a

breeze was driving a few shards of morning mist. With a little sigh, Rincewind unrolled the ladder.

Two minutes later they were standing in the gloom of what appeared to be a large plaza.

A few buildings showed through the mist.

“Where are we?” said Eric. “Search me.” “You don't know?” “Not a clue,” said Rincewind. Eric glared at the mist-shrouded architecture. "Fat chance of finding the most beautiful

woman in the world in a dump like this," he said. It occurred to Rincewind to see what they had just climbed out of. He looked up. Above them - a long way above them - and supported on four massive legs, which ran

down to a huge wheeled platform, there was undoubtedly a huge wooden horse. More

correctly, the rear of a huge wooden horse. The builder could have put the exit hatch in a more dignified place, but for humorous reasons of his own had apparently decided not to.

“Er,” said Rincewind. Someone coughed. He looked down. The evaporating mists now revealed a broad circle of armed men, many of them grinning

and all of them carrying mass-produced, soulless but above all sharp long spears. “Ah,” said Rincewind. He looked back at the hatchway. It said it all, really.

“The only thing I don't understand,” said the captain of the guard, “is: why two of you? We were expecting maybe a hundred.”

He leaned back on his stool, his great plumed helmet in his lap, a pleased smile on his

face.

“Honestly, you Ephebians!” he said. Talk about laugh! You must think we was born yesterday! All night nothing but sawing and hammering, the next thing there's a damn great wooden horse outside the gates, so I think, that's funny, a bloody great wooden horse with airholes. That's the kind of little detail I notice, see. Airholes. So I muster all the lads and we nips out extra early and drag it in the gates, as per expectations, and then we bides quiet, like, around it, waiting to see what it coughs up. In a manner of speaking. Now,“ he pushed his unshaven face close to Rincewind, ”you've got a choice, see? Top seat or bottom seat, it's up to you. I just have to put the word in. You play discus with me and I'll play discus with you*." (*Ball games were unknown in the Discworld at this time.)

“What seat?” said Rincewind, reeling from the gusts of garlic.

“It's the war triremes,” said the sergeant cheerfully. “Three seats, see, one above the other? Triremes. You get chained to the oars for years, see, and it's all according whether you're in the top seat, up in the fresh air and that, or the bottom seat where” - he grinned

-“you're not. So it's down to you, lads. Be co-operative and all you'll need to worry about will be the seagulls. Now. Why only the two of you?”