Interesting Times

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 Erflperor' or 'Go ahead and do your worst' unless you redly, 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.'