Interesting Times

'Me? I can't do anything! Especially not magic! I'm famous for it! Don't go around believing that Great Wizards solve all your problems, because there aren't any and they don't and I should know because I'm not one!'

He backed away. This is always happening to me! I'm just minding my own business and everything goes wrong and suddenly everyone's relying on me and saying, 'Oh, Rincewind, what are you going to do about it?' Well, what Mrs Rincewind's little boy, if she was a Mrs Rincewind of course, what he's going to do about it is nothing, right? You have to sort it all out yourselves! No mysterious magical armies are going to — Will you stop looking at me like that? I don't see why it's my fault! I've got other things to do! It's not my business!'

And then he turned and ran.

The crowds didn't take much notice of him.

The streets were deserted by Hunghung standards, which meant you could quite often see the cobbles. Rincewind pushed and shoved his way along the alleys nearest the Wall, looking for another gateway with guards too busy to ask questions.

There were footsteps behind him.

'Look,' he said, spinning round, 'I told you, you can all—'

It was the Luggage. It contrived to look a little ashamed of itself.

'Oh, turned up at last, have we?' said Rincewind savagely. 'What happened to the following-master- everywhere thing?'

The Luggage shuffled its feet. From out of an alleyway came a slightly larger and far more ornate version of itself. Its lid was inset with decorative wood and, it seemed to Rincewind, its feet were rather more dainty than the horny-nailed, calloused ones of the Luggage. Besides, the toenails had been painted.

'Oh,' he said. 'Well. Good grief. Fair enough, I suppose. Really? I mean… yes. Well. Come on, then.'

He reached the end of the alley and turned round. The Luggage was gently bumping the larger chest, urging it to follow him.

Rincewind's own sexual experiences were not excessive although he had seen diagrams. He hadn't the faintest idea about how it applied to travel accessories. Did they say things like 'What a chest!' or 'Get a load of the hinges on that one!'?

If it came to that, he had no real reason for considering that the Luggage was male. Admittedly it had a homicidal nature, but so had a lot of the women that Rincewind had met, and they had often become a little more homicidal as a result of meeting him. Capacity for violence, Rincewind had heard, was unisexual. He wasn't certain what unisex was, but expected that it was what he normally experienced.

There was a small gate ahead. It seemed to be unguarded.

Despite his fear he walked through it, and refrained from running. Authority always noticed a running man. The time to start running was around about the 'e' in 'Hey, you!'

No-one paid him any attention. The attention of the people along the Wall was all on the armies.

'Look at them,' he said bitterly, to the generality of the universe. 'Stupid. If it was seven against seventy, every one'd know who'd lose. Just because it's seven again 700,000, everyone's not sure. As though suddenly numbers don't mean anything any more. Huh! Why should I do anything? It's not as if I even know the guy all that well. Admittedly he saved my life a couple of times, but that's no reason to die horribly just because he can't count. So you can stop looking at me like that!'

The Luggage backed away a little. The other Luggage…

… Rincewind supposed it just looked female. Women had bigger luggage than men, didn't they? Because of the — he moved into unknown territory — extra frills and stuff. It was just one of those things, like the fact that they had smaller handkerchiefs than men even though their noses were generally the same size. The Luggage had always been the Luggage. Rincewind wasn't mentally prepared for there to be more than one. There was the Luggage and… the other Luggage.

'Come on, both of you,' he said. '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.'

Cohen looked at the horizon. Grey-blue clouds were piling up.

'There's a storm coming,' he said.

'It's a mercy that we won't be alive to get wet, then,' said Boy Willie, cheerfully.

'Funny thing, though. It looks like it's coming from every direction at once.'

'Filthy foreign weather. You can't trust it.'

Cohen turned his attention to the armies of the five warlords.

There seemed to have been some agreement.

They'd arranged themselves around the position that Cohen had taken up. The tactic seemed quite clear. It was simply to advance. The Horde could see the commanders riding up and down in front of their legions.

'How's it supposed to start?' said Cohen, the rising wind whipping at what remained of his hair. 'Does someone blow a whistle or something? Or do we just scream and charge?'

'Commencement is generally by agreement,' said Mr Saveloy.

'Oh.'

Cohen looked at the forest of lances and pennants. Hundreds of thousands of men looked like quite a lot of men when you saw them close to.

'I suppose,' he said, slowly, 'that none of you has got some amazing plan you've been keeping quiet about?'

'We thought you had one,' said Truckle.

Several riders had now left each army and approached the Horde in a group. They stopped a little more than a spear's throw away, and sat and watched.

'All right, then,' said Cohen. 'I hate to say this, but perhaps we should talk about surrender.'

'No!' said Mr Saveloy, and then stopped in embarrassment at the loudness of his own voice. 'No,' he repeated, a little more quietly. 'You won't live if you surrender. You just won't die immediately.'

Cohen scratched his nose. 'What's that flag… you know… when you want to talk to them without them killing you?'

'It's got to be red,' said Mr Saveloy. 'But look, it's no good you—'

'I don't know, red for surrender, white for funerals…' muttered Cohen. 'All right. Anyone got something red?'

'I've got a handkerchief,' said Mr Saveloy, 'but it's white and anyway—'

'Give it here.'

The barbarian teacher very reluctantly handed it over.

Cohen pulled a small, worn knife from his belt.

'I don't believe this!' said Mr Saveloy. He was nearly in tears. 'Cohen the Barbarian talking surrender with people like that!'

'Influence of civilization,' said Cohen. ''S probably made me go soft in the head.'

He pulled the knife over his arm, and then clamped the handkerchief over the cut.

'There we are,' he said. 'Soon have a nice red flag.'

The Horde nodded approvingly. It was an amazingly symbolic, dramatic and above all stupid gesture, in the finest traditions of barbarian heroing. It didn't seem to be lost on some of the nearer soldiers, either.

'Now,' Cohen went on, 'I reckon you, Teach, and you, Truckle… you two come with me and we'll go and talk to these people.'

They'll drag you off to their dungeons!' said Mr Saveloy. 'They've got torturers that can keep you alive for years!'

'Whut? Whutzeesay?'

'He said THEY CAN KEEP YOU ALIVE FOR YEARS IN THEIR DUNGEONS, Hamish.'

'Good! Fine by me!'