Interesting Times

'But I thought we could do it without anyone getting hurt. By using our brains.'

'Can't. History don't work like that. Blood first, then brains.'

'Mountains of skulls,' said Truckle.

'There's got to be a better way than fighting,' said Mr Saveloy.

'Yep. Lots of 'em. Only none of 'em work. Caleb, take those… those…'

'—fine Bhong jade miniatures—' muttered Mr Saveloy.

'—take them off that feller. He's got one under his hat.'

Another set of carved doors was swung open. This room was already crowded, but the people shuffled backwards as the doors parted and tried to look keen while avoiding catching Cohen's eye.

As they pulled away they left Six Beneficent Winds standing all alone. The court had become very good at this manoeuvre.

'Mountains of skulls,' said Truckle, not a man to let go in a hurry.

'Er. We saw the Red Army rise out of the ground, er, just as the legend foretold. Er. Truly you are the preincarnation of One Sun Mirror.'

The little taxman had the decency to look embarrassed. As speeches went it was on a dramatic level with the one that traditionally began, 'As you know, your father — the king—' Besides, he'd never believed in legends up to now — not even the one about the peasant who every year filed a scrupulously honest tax return.

'Yeah, right,' said Cohen.

He strode to the throne and stuck his sword in the floor, where it vibrated.

'Some of you are going to get your heads cut off for your own good,' he said. 'But I haven't decided who yet. And someone show Boy Willie where the privy is.'

'No need,' said Boy Willie. 'Not after them big red statues turned up behind me so sudden.'

'Mountains of—' Truckle began.

'Dunno about mountains,' said Cohen.

'And where,' said Six Beneficent Winds tremulously, 'is the Great Wizard?'

'Great Wizard,' said Cohen.

'Yes, the Great Wizard who summoned the Red Army from the earth,' said the taxman.

'Don't know anything about him,' said Cohen.

The crowd staggered forward as more people piled into the room.

'They're coming!'

A terracotta warrior clomped its way into the room, its face still wearing a very faint smile.

It stopped, rocking a little, while water dripped off it.

People had crouched back in terror. Except the Horde, Mr Saveloy noticed. Faced with unknown yet terrible dangers, the Horde were either angry or puzzled.

Then he cheered up. They weren't better, just different. They're all right facing huge terrible creatures, he told himself, but ask them to go down the street and buy a bag of rice and they go all to pieces…

'What's my move now, Teach?' Cohen whispered.

'Well, you're Emperor,' said Mr Saveloy. 'I think you talk to it.'

'OK.'

Cohen stood up and nodded cheerfully at the terracotta giant.

''Morning,' he said. 'Nice bit of work out there. You and the rest of your lads can have the day off to plant geraniums in yourselves or whatever you do. Er. You got a Number One giant I ought to speak to?'

The terracotta warrior creaked as it raised one finger.

Then it pressed two fingers against one forearm, then raised a finger again.

Everyone in the crowd started talking at once.

The giant tugged one vestigial ear with two fingers.

'What can this mean?' said Six Beneficent Winds.

'I find this a little hard to credit,' said Mr Saveloy, 'but it is an ancient method of communication used in the land of blood-sucking vampire ghosts.'

'You can understand it?'

'Oh, yes. I think so. You have to try to guess the word or phrase. It's trying to tell us… er… one word, two syllables. First syllable sounds like…'

The giant cupped one hand and made circular, handle-turning motions with the other alongside it.

'Turning,' said Mr Saveloy. 'Winding? Reeling? Revolve? Grind? Grind? Chop? Mince—'

The giant tapped its nose hurriedly and did a very heavy, noisy dance, bits of terracotta armour clanking.

'Sounds like mince,' said Mr Saveloy. 'First syllable sounds like mince.'

'Er…'

A ragged figure pushed its way through the crowd. It wore glasses, one lens of which was cracked.

'Er,' it said, 'I've got an idea about that…'

Lord Fang and some of his more trusted warriors had clustered on the side of the hills. A good general always knows when to leave the battlefield, and as far as Lord Fang was concerned, it was when he saw the enemy coming towards him.

The men were shaken. They hadn't tried to face the Red Army. Those who had were dead.

'We… regroup,' panted Lord Fang. 'And then we'll wait until nightfall and — What's that?'

There was a rhythmic noise coming from the bushes further up the slope, where sliding earth had left another bush-filled ravine.

'Sounds like a carpenter, m'lord,' said one of the soldiers.

'Up here? In the middle of a war? Go and see what it is!'

The man scrambled away. After a while there was a pause in the sawing noise. Then it started again.

Lord Fang had been trying to work out a fresh battle plan according to the Nine Useful Principles. He threw down his map.

'Why is that still going on? Where is Captain Nong?'

'Hasn't come back, m'lord.'

'Then go and see what has happened to him!'

Lord Fang tried to remember if the great military sage had ever had anything to say about fighting giant invulnerable statues. He—

The sawing paused. Then it was replaced by the sound of hammering.

Lord Fang looked around.

'Can I have an order obeyed around here?' he bellowed.

He picked up his sword and scrambled up the muddy slope. The bushes parted ahead of him. There was a clearing. There was a rushing shape, on hundreds of little le—

There was a snap.

The rain was coming down so fast that the drops were having to queue.

The red earth was hundreds of feet deep in places. It produced two or three crops a year. It was rich. It was fecund. It was, when wet, extremely sticky.

The surviving armies had squelched from the field of battle, as red from head to toe as the terracotta men. Not counting those merely trodden on, the Red Army had not in fact killed very many people. Terror had done most of their work. Rather more soldiers had been killed in the brief inter-army battles and, in the scramble to escape, by their own sides.[25]

The terracotta army had the field to itself. It was celebrating victory in various ways. Many guards were walking around in circles, wading through the clinging mud as if it was so much dirty air. A number were digging a trench, the sides of which were washing in on them in the thundering rain. A few were trying to climb walls that weren't there. Several, possibly as a result of the exertion following centuries of zero maintenance, had spontaneously exploded in a shower of blue sparks, the red-hot clay shrapnel being a major factor in the opposition's death count.

And all the time the rain fell, a solid curtain of water. It didn't look natural. It was as though the sea had