Terry Pratchett - Discworld 17 - Interesting Times

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KSEBJHCNKE Interesting Times Terry Pratchett 6/18/01

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There is a curse.

They say:

May You Live in Interesting Times

This is where the gods play games with the lives of men, on a board

which is at one and the same time a simple playing area and the whole

world.

And Fate always wins.

Fate always wins. Most of the gods throw dice but Fate plays chess,

and you don't find out until too late that he's been using two queens

all along.

Fate wins. At least, so it is claimed. Whatever happens, they say

afterwards, it must have been Fate.[1]

Gods can take any form, but the one aspect of themselves they cannot

change is their eyes, which show their nature. The eyes of Fate are

hardly eyes at all - just dark holes into an infinity speckled with what

may be stars or, there again, may be other things.

He blinked them, smiled at his fellow players in the smug way winners

do just before they become winners, and said:

'I accuse the High Priest of the Green Robe in the library with the

double-handed axe.'

And he won.

He beamed at them.

'No-one likesh a poor winner,' grumbled Offler the I Crocodile God,

through his fangs.

'It seems that I am favouring myself today,' said Fate. 'Anyone fancy

something else?'

The gods shrugged.

'Mad Kings?' said Fate pleasantly. 'Star-Crossed Lovers?'

'I think we've lost the rules for that one,' said Blind Io, chief of the

gods.

'Or Tempest-Wrecked Mariners?'

'You always win,' said Io.

'Floods and Droughts?' said Fate. 'That's an easy one.'

A shadow fell across the gaming table. The gods looked up.

'Ah,' said Fate.

'Let a game begin,' said the Lady.

There was always an argument about whether the newcomer was a

goddess at all. Certainly no-one ever got anywhere by worshipping

her, and she tended to turn up only where she was least expected,

such as now. And people who trusted in her seldom survived. Any

temples built to her would surely be struck by lightning. Better to

juggle axes on a tightrope than say her name. Just call her the

waitress in the Last Chance saloon.

She was generally referred to as the Lady, and her eyes were green;

not as the eyes of humans are green, but emerald green from edge to

edge. It was said to be her favourite colour.

'Ah,' said Fate again. 'And what game will it be?'

She sat down opposite him. The watching gods looked sidelong at one

another. This looked interesting. These two were ancient enemies.

'How about. . .' she paused,'. . . Mighty Empires?'

'Oh, I hate that one,' said Offler, breaking the sudden silence.

'Everyone dief at the end.'

'Yes,' said Fate, 'I believe they do.' He nodded at the Lady, and in

much the same voice as professional gamblers say 'Aces high?' said,

'The Fall of Great Houses? Destinies of Nations Hanging by a Thread?'

'Certainly,' she said.

'Oh, good.' Fate waved a hand across the board. The Discworld

appeared.

'And where shall we play?' he said.

'The Counterweight Continent,' said the Lady. Where five noble

families have fought one another Jor centuries.'

'Really? Which families are these?' said Io. He had little involvement

with individual humans. He generally looked after thunder and

lightning, so from his point of view the only purpose of humanity was

to get wet or, in occasional cases, charred.

'The Hongs, the Sungs, the Tangs, the McSweeneys and the Fangs.'

'Them? I didn't know they were noble,' said Io.

'They're all very rich and have had millions of people butchered or

tortured to death merely for reasons of expediency and pride,' said the

Lady.

The watching gods nodded solemnly. That was certainly noble

behaviour. That was exactly what they would have done.

'McFweeneyf?' said Offler.

'Very old established family,' said Fate.

'Oh.'

'And they wrestle one another for the Empire,' said Fate. 'Very good.

Which will you be?'

The Lady looked at the history stretched out in front of them.

'The Hongs are the most powerful. Even as we speak, they have taken

yet more cities,' she said. 'I see they are fated to win.'

'So, no doubt, you'll pick a weaker family.'

Fate waved his hand again. The playing pieces appeared, and started

to move around the board as if they had a life of their own, which was

of course the case.

'But,' he said, 'we shall play without dice. I don't trust you with dice.

You throw them where I can't see them. We will play with steel, and

tactics, and politics, and war.'

The Lady nodded.

Fate looked across at his opponent.

'And your move?' he said.

She smiled. 'I've already made it.'

He looked down. 'But I don't see your pieces on the board.'

'They're not on the board yet,' she said.

She opened her hand.

There was something black and yellow on her palm. She blew on it,

and it unfolded its wings.

It was a butterfly.

Fate always wins . . .

At least, when people stick to the rules.

According to the philosopher Ly Tin Wheedle, chaos is found in

greatest abundance wherever order is being sought. It always defeats

order, because it is better organized.

This is the butterfly of the storms.

See the wings, slightly more ragged than those of the common

fritillary. In reality, thanks to the fractal nature of the universe, this

means that those ragged edges are infinite - in the same way that the

edge of any rugged coastline, when measured to the ultimate

microscopic level, is infinitely long - or, if not infinite, then at least so

close to it that Infinity can be seen on a clear day.

And therefore, if their edges are infinitely long, the wings must

logically be infinitely big.

They may look about the right size for a butterfly's wings, but that's

only because human beings have always preferred common sense to

logic.

The Quantum Weather Butterfly (Papilio tempestae) is an

undistinguished yellow colour, although the mandelbrot patterns on

the wings are of considerable interest. Its outstanding feature is its

ability to create weather.

This presumably began as a survival trait, since even an extremely

hungry bird would find itself incon-venienced by a nasty localized

tornado.[2] From there it possibly became a secondary sexual

characteristic, like the plumage of birds or the throat sacs of certain

frogs. Look at me, the male says, flapping his wings lazily in the

canopy of the rain forest. I may be an undistinguished yellow colour

but in a fortnight's tone, a thousand miles away, Freak Gales Cause

Road Chaos.

This is the butterly of the storms.

It flaps its wings . . .

This is the Discworld, which goes through space on the back of a giant

turtle.

Most worlds do, at some time in their perception. It's a cosmological

view the human brain seems preprogrammed to take.

On veldt and plain, in cloud jungle and silent red desert, in swamp and

reed marsh, in fact in any place where something goes 'plop' off a

floating log as you approach, variations on the following take place at

a crucial early point in the development of the tribal mythology . . .

'You see dat?'

'What?'

'It just went plop off dat log.'

'Yeah? Well?'

'I reckon . . . I reckon . . . like, I reckon der world is carried on der

back of one of dem.'

A moment of silence while this astrophysical hypothesis is considered,

and then . . .

'The whole world?'

'Of course, when I say one of dem, I mean a big one of dem.'

'It'd have to be, yeah.'

'Like . . . really big.'

' 'S funny, but . . . I see what you mean.'

'Makes sense, right?'

'Makes sense, yeah. Thing is . . .'

'What?'

'I just hope it never goes plop.'

But this is the Discworld, which has not only the turtle but also the

four giant elephants on which the wide, slowly turning wheel of the

world revolves.[3]

There is the Circle Sea, approximately halfway between the Hub and

the Rim. Around it are those countries which, according to History,

constitute the civilized world, i.e., a world that can support histor-ians:

Ephebe, Tsort, Omnia, Klatch and the sprawling city state of Ankh-

Morpork.

This is a story that starts somewhere else, where a man is lying on a

raft in a blue lagoon under a sunny sky. His head is resting on his

arms. He is happy - in his case, a mental state so rare as to be almost

unprecedented. He is whistling an amiable little tune, and dangling his

feet in the crystal clear water.

They're pink feet with ten toes that look like little piggy-wiggies.

From the point of view of a shark, skimming over the reef, they look

like lunch, dinner and tea.

It was, as always, a matter of protocol. Of discretion. Of careful

etiquette. Of, ultimately, alcohol. Or at least the illusion of alcohol.

Lord Vetinari, as supreme ruler of Ankh-Morpork, could in theory

summon the Archchancellor of Unseen University to his presence and,

indeed, have him executed if he failed to obey.

On the other hand Mustrum Ridcully, as head of the college of wizards,

had made it clear in polite but firm ways that he could turn him into a

small amphibian and, indeed, start jumping around the room on a

pogo stick.

Alcohol bridged the diplomatic gap nicely. Sometimes Lord Vetinari

invited the Archchancellor to the palace for a convivial drink. And of

course the Archchancellor went, because it would be bad manners not

to. And everyone understood the position, and everyone was on their

best behaviour, and thus civil unrest and slime on the carpet were

averted.

It was a beautiful afternoon. Lord Vetinari was sitting in the palace

gardens, watching the butterflies with an expression of mild

annoyance. He found something very slightly offensive about the way

they just fluttered around enjoying themselves in an unprofitable way.

He looked up.

'Ah, Archchancellor,' he said. 'So good to see you. Do sit down. I trust

you are well?'

'Yes indeed,' said Mustrum Ridcully. 'And yourself? You are in good

health?'

'Never better. The weather, I see, has turned out nice again.'

'I thought yesterday was particularly fine, certainly.'

'Tomorrow, I am told, could well be even better.'

'We could certainly do with a fine spell.'

'Yes, indeed.'

'Yes.'

'Ah . . .'

'Certainly.'

They watched the butterflies. A butler brought long, cool drinks.

'What is it they actually do with the flowers?' said Lord Vetinari.

'What?'

The Patrician shrugged. 'Never mind. It was not at all important. But -

since you are here, Archchancellor, having dropped by on your way to

something infinitely more important, I am sure, most kind - I wonder

if you could tell me: who is the Great Wizard?'

Ridcully considered this.

'The Dean, possibly,' he said. 'He must be all of twenty stone.'

'Somehow I feel that is not perhaps the right answer,' said Lord

Vetinari. 'I suspect from context that "great" means superior.'

'Not the Dean, then,' said Ridcully.

Lord Vetinari tried to recollect the faculty of Unseen University. The

mental picture that emerged was of a small range of foothills in pointy

hats.

'The context does not, I feel, suggest the Dean,' he said.

'Er . . . what context would this be?' said Ridcully.

The Patrician picked up his walking stick.

'Come this way,' he said. 'I suppose you had better see for yourself. It

is very vexing.'

Ridcully looked around with interest as he followed Lord Vetinari. He

did not often have a chance to see the gardens, which had been

written up in the 'How Not To Do It' section of gardening manuals

everywhere.

They had been laid out, and a truer phrase was never used, by the

renowned or at least notorious landscape gardener and all round

inventor 'Bloody Stupid' Johnson, whose absent-mindedness and

blindness to elementary mathematics made every step a walk with

danger. His genius . . . well, as far as Ridcully understood it, his genius

was exactly the opposite of whatever kind of genius it was that built

earthworks that tapped the secret yet beneficent forces of the leylines.

No-one was quite certain what forces Bloody Stupid's designs tapped,

but the chiming sundial frequently exploded, the crazy paving had

committed suicide and the cast iron garden furniture was known so

have melted on three occasions.

The Patrician led the way through a gate and into something like a

dovecot. A creaking wooden stairway led around the inside. A few of

Ankh-Morpork's indestructible feral pigeons muttered and sniggered in

the shadows.

'What's this?' said Ridcully, as the stairs groaned under him.

The Patrician took a key out of his pocket. 'I have always understood

that Mr Johnson originally planned this to be a beehive,' he said.

'However, in the absence of bees ten feet long we have found . . .

other uses.'

He unlocked a door to a wide, square room with a big unglazed

window in each wall. Each rectangle was surrounded by a wooden

arrangement to which was affixed a bell on a spring. It was apparent

that anything large enough, entering by one of the windows, would

cause the bell to ring.

In the centre of the room, standing on a table, was the largest bird

Ridcully had ever seen. It turned and fixed him with a beady yellow

eye.

The Patrician reached into a pocket and took out a jar of anchovies.

'This one caught us rather unexpectedly,' he said. 'It must be almost

ten years since a message last arrived. We used to keep a few fresh

mackerel on ice.'

'Isn't that a Pointless Albatross?' said Ridcully.

'Indeed,' said Lord Vetinari. 'And a highly trained one. It will return

this evening. Six thousand miles on one jar of anchovies and a bottle

of fish paste my clerk Drumknott found in the kitchens. Amazing.'

'I'm sorry?' said Ridcully. 'Return to where?'

Lord Vetinari turned to face him.

'Not, let me make it clear, to the Counterweight Continent,' he said.

'This is not one of those birds the Agatean Empire uses for its message

services. It is a well-known fact that we have no contact with that

mysterious land. And this bird is not the first to arrive here for many

years, and it did not bring a strange and puzzling message. Do I make

myself clear?'

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