Pratchett, Terry - Discworld 27 - The Last Hero

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The Last Hero
Terry Pratchett
The place
where the story happened was a world on the back of four elephants
perched on the shell of a giant turtle. That’s the advantage of space. It’s big
enough to hold, practically anything, and so, eventually, it does.
People think that it is strange to have a turtle ten thousand miles long and an
elephant more than, two thousand miles tall, which just shows that the human
brain is ill-adapted for t
hinking and was probably originally designed for cooling the
blood. It believes mere size is amazing.
There’s nothing amazing about size. Turtles are amazing, and elephants are
quite astonishing. But the fact that there’s a big turtle is far less amazing than the
fact that there is a turtle anywhere.
The reason
for the story was a mix of many things. There was humanity’s desire
to do forbidden deeds merely because they were forbidden. There was its desire
to find new horizons and kill the people who live beyond them. There were die
mysterious scrolls. There was the cucumber. But mostly there was the knowledge
that one day, quite soon, it would be all over.
“Ah. well, life goes on,” people say when someone dies. But from the point of
view of the person who has just died, it doesn’t. It’s the universe that goes on.
Just as die deceased was getting the
hang of everything it’s all whisked away, by
illness or accident or, in one case, a cucumber. Why this has to be is one of the
imponderables of life, in the face of which people either start to pray ...
or become
really, really angry.
The beginning of the story happened tens of thousands of years ago, on a wild
and stormy night, when a speck of flame came down the mountain at the cen
tre of
the world. It moved in dodges and jerks, as if the unseen person carrying it was
sliding and falling from rock to rock. At one point the line became a streak of
sparks, ending in a snowdrift at the bottom of a crevasse. But a hand thrust up
through the snow held the smoking embers of the torch, and the wind, driven by
the anger of the gods, and with a sense of humour of its own, whipped the flame
back into life ... And, after that, it never died.
The end of the story began high above the world, but got lower and lower as it
circled down towards the ancient and modern city of Ankh-Morpork,
where, it was
said, anything could be bought and sold -
they could steal it for you.
Some of them could even dream it...
The creature now seeking out a particular build
ing below was a trained Pointless
Albatross and, by the standards of the world, was not particularly unusual.*
(*Compared to, say, the Republican Bees, who committeed
rather than swarmed
and tended to stay in the hive a lot.) It was, though, pointless. It spent its entire
life in a series of lazy journeys between the
Rim and the Huh, and where was the
point in that?
This one was more or less tame. Its beady mad eye spotted where, for reasons
entirely beyond its comprehension, anchovies could be found. And someone
would remove this uncomfortable cylinder from its leg. It seemed a pretty good
deal to the albatross and from this it can be deduced that
these albatrosses are, if
not completely pointless, at least rather dumb.
Not at all like humans, therefore.
Flight has been been said to be one of the great dreams of Mankind. In fact it
merely harks back to Man’s ancestor
s, whose greatest dream was of falling off the
branch. In any case, other great dreams of Mankind
have included the one about
being chased by huge boots with teeth. And no one says that one has to make
sense.
Three busy hours later Lord Vetinari, the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, was stand
ing in the main hall of Unseen University, and he was impressed. The wizards,
once they understood the urgency of a problem, and then had lunch, and argued
about the pudding, could actually work quite fast.
Their method of finding a solution, as far as the Patrician could see, was by
creative hubbub. If the question was, What is the best spell for turning a book of
poetry into a frog?”, then the one tiling they would not do was look in any book
with a title like Major Amphibian Spells in a Literary Environment: A Comparison.
That would, somehow, be cheating. They would argue about it instead, standing
around a blackboard, seizing the chalk from one another and rubbing out bits of
what the current chalk-holder was writing before he’d finished the other end of
the sentence. Somehow, though, it all seemed to work.
Now something stood in the centre of the hall. It looked, to the arts-educated
Patrician, like a big magnifying glass surrounded by rubbish.
“Technically, my lord, an omniscope can see anywhere.” said Arch chancellor
Ridcully, who was technically the head of All Known Wizardry.*(*That is, all those
wizards who knew Archchancellor Ridcully, and were prepared to be led.)
“Really? Remarkable.”
“Anywhere and any time.” Ridcully went on, apparently not impressed himself.
“How extremely useful.”
“Yes, everyone says that,” said Ridcully, kicking the floor morosely. “The trouble
is, because the blasted thing can see everywhere,
it’s practically impossible to get
it to see anywhere. At least, any
where worth seeing. And you’d be amazed at how
many places there are in the universe. And times, too.”
“Twenty past one, for example.” said the Patrician.
“Among others, indeed. Would you care to have a look, my lord?” Lord Vetinari
advanced cautiously and peered into the big round glass. He frowned. “All I can
see is what’s on the other side of it,” he said.
“All, that’s because it’s set to here and now, sir.” said a young wizard who was
still adjusting the device.
“Oh, I see? said die Patrician. “We have these at the palace, in fact. We call
them win-dows?
“Well, if I do this? said the wizard, and did something to the rim of the glass, “it
looks the other way.” Lord Vetinari looked into his own face. “And these we call
mir-rors? he said, as if explaining to a child.
“I think not, sir.” said the wizard. “It takes a moment to realise what you’re
seeing. It helps if you hold up your hand - -”
Lord Vetinari gave him a severe look, but essayed a little wave. “Oh. How
curious. What is your name, young man?”
“Ponder Stibbons. sir. The new Head of Inadvisably Applied Magic, sir. You see,
sir. the trick isn’t to build an omniscope because, after all, that’s just a
development of the old-fashioned crystal ball. It’s to get it to see what you want.
It’s like tuning a string, and if-”
“Sorry, what applied magic?” said the Patrician.
“Inadvisably, sir.” said Ponder smoothly, as if hoping that he could avoid the
problem by driving straight through it. “Anyway ... I think we can get it to the right
area, sir. The power drain is considerable: we may have to sacrifice another
gerbil.”
The wizards began to gather around the device.
“Can you see into the future?” said Lord Vetinari.
“In theory yes, sir,” said Ponder. “But that would be highly ... well, inadvisable,
you see, because initial studies indicate that the fact of observation would
collapse the waveform in phase space.”
Not a muscle moved on the Patrician’s face.
“Pardon me, I’m a little out of date
on faculty staff.” he said. Are you the one who
has to take the dried frog pills?”
“No, sir. That’s the Bursar, sir,” said Ponder. “He has to have them because
he’s insane, sir.”
“Ah,” said Lord Vetinari. and now he did have an expression. It was that of a
man
resolutely refraining from saying what was on his mind.
“What Mr.Stibbons means, my lord,” said the Archchancellor, “is that there are
billions and billions of futures that, er, sort of exist, d’yer see? They’re all... the
possible shapes of the future. But apparently the first one you actually look at is
the one that becomes die future. It might not be one you’d like. Apparently it’s all
to do with the Uncertainty Principle.”
“And that is ... ?”
“I’m not sure. Mr.Stibbons is the one who knows about that sort of thing.”
An orangutan ambled past, carrying an extremely large number of books under
each arm. Lord Vetinari looked at the hoses that snaked from the omniscope and
out through the open door and across the lawn to ... what was it? ... the High
Energy Magic building?
He remembered the old days, when wizards had been gaunt and edgy and full
of guile. They wouldn’t have allowed an Uncertainty Principle to exist for any
length of time; if you weren’t certain, they’d say, what were you doing wrong?
What you were uncertain of could kill you.
The omniscope flickered and showed a snowfield, with black mountains in the
distance. The wizard called Ponder Stibbons appeared to be very pleased with
this.
I thought you said you could find him with this thing?” said Vetinari to the
Archchancellor.
Ponder Stibbons looked up. “Do we have something that he has owned? Some
personal item he has left lying around?” he said. “We could put it in the morphic
resonator, connect that up to the omniscope and it’ll home in on him like a shot.”
“Whatever happened to the magic circles and dribbly candles?” said Lord
Vetinari.
“Oh, they’re for when we’re not in a hurry, sir.” said Ponder.
“Cohen the Barbarian is not known for leaving things lying around. I fear,” said
the Patrician.
“Bodies, perhaps. All we know is that he is heading for Cori Celesti.”
“The mountain at the Hub of the world, sir? Why?”
“I was hoping you would tell me, Mr.Stibbons. That’s why I’m here?
The Librar
ian ambled past again, with another load of books. Another response
of the wizards, when faced with a new and unique situation, was to look through
their libraries to see if it had ever happened before. This was, Lord Vetinari
reflected, a good survival trait. It meant that in times of danger you spent the day
sitting very quietly in a building with very thick walls.
He looked again at the piece of paper in his hand. Why were people so stupid?
One sentence caught his eye: “He says the last hero ought to ret
urn what the first
hero stole.”
And, of course, everyone knew what the first hero stole.
The gods play games with the fate of men. Not complex ones, obviously,
because gods lack patience.
Cheating is part of the rules. And gods play hard. To lose all believers is, for a
god, the end. But a believer who survives the
game gains honour and extra belief.
Who wins with the most believers, lives.
Believers can include other gods, of course. Gods believe in belief.
There were always many games going on in Dunmanifestin, the abode of die
gods on Cori Celesti. It looked, from outside, like a crowded city.*(*Few religions
are definite about the size of Heaven, but on the planet Earth the Book of
Revelation (ch. XXI, v.l6) gives it as a cube 12,000 furlongs on a side. This is
somewhat less than 500,000,000.000,000,000,000 cubic feet. Even allowing that
the Heavenly Host and other
essential services take up at least two thirds of this
spate, this leaves about one million cubic feet of space for each human
occupant-
assuming that every creature that could be called ‘human’ is allowed in,
and that the human race eventually totals a thousand times the number of
humans alive up until now. This is such a generous amount of space that it
suggests that room has also been provided for some alien races or - a happy
thought - that pets are allowed.) Not all gods lived there, many of them being
bound to a particular country or in the case of the smaller ones, even one tree.
But it was a Good Address. It was where you hung your metaphysical equivalent
of
the shiny brass plate, like those small discreet buildings in the smarter areas of
major cities which nevertheless appear to house one hundred and fifty lawyers
and accountants, presumably on some sort of shelving.
The city’s domestic appearance was because, while people are influenced by
gods, so gods are influenced by people.
Most gods were people-shaped: people don’t have much imagination, on the
whole. Even Offler the Crocodile God was only crocodile-headed. Ask people to
imagine an annual god and they will, basically,
come up with the idea of someone
in a really bad mask. Men have been much better at inventing demons, which is
why there are so many.
Above the wheel of die world, the gods played on. They sometimes forgot what
happened if you let a pawn get all the way up the board.
It took a little longer for the rumour to spread around the city, but in twos and
threes the leaders of the great Guilds hurried into the University.
Then the ambassadors picked up the news. Around the city the big semaphore
towers faltered in their endless task of exporting market prices to the world, sent
the signal to clear the line for high-priority emergency traffic, and then clack’d the
little packets of doom to chancelleries and castles across the continent.
They were in code, of course. If you have news about the end of the world, you
don’t want everyone to know.
Lord Vetinari stared along the table. A lot had been happening in the past few
hours.
“If I may recap, then, ladies and gentlemen.” he said, as the hubbub died away,
“according to the authorities in Hunghung, the capital of the Agatean Empire, the
Emperor Ghengiz Cohen, formerly known to the world as Cohen th
e Barbarian, is
well en route to the home of the gods with a device of considerable destructive
power and the intention, apparently, of, in his words, “returning what was stolen”.
And, in short, they ask us to stop him.”
“Why us?” said Mr.Boggis, head of the Thieves’ Guild. “He’s not our Emperor!”
“I understand the Agatean government believes us to be capable of anything,”
said Lord Vetinari. “We have zip, zing, vim and a go-getting, can-do attitude.”
“Can do what?”
Lord Vetinari shrugged. “In this case, save the world.”
“But we’ll have to save it for everyone, right?” said Mr.Boggis. “Even
foreigners?”
“Well, yes. You cannot just save the bits you like,” said Lord Vetinari. “But the
thing about saving the world, gentlemen and ladies, is that it inevitably includes
whatever you happen to be standing on. So let us move forward. Can magic help
us, Archchancellor?”
“No. Nothing magical can get within a hundred miles of the mountains,” said the
Archchancellor.
“Why not?”
“For the same reason you can’t sail a boat into a hurricane. There’s just too
much magic. It overloads anything magical. A magic carpet would unravel in
midair.”
“Or turn into broccoli,” said the Dean. “Or a small volume of poetry.”
“Are you saying that we cannot get there in time?”
“Well... yes. Exactly. Of course. They’re already near the base of the
mountain.”
“And they’re heroes!” said Mr.Betteridge of the Guild of Historians.
“And that means, exactly?” said the Patrician, sighing.
“They’re good at doing what they want to do.”
“But they are also, as I understand it, very old men.”
“Very old heroes?”
the historian corrected him. “That just means they’ve had a lot
of experience in doing what they want to do.”
Lord Vetinari sighed again. He did not like to live in a world of heroes. You had
civilisation, such as it was, and you had heroes.
“What exactly has Cohen the Barbarian done that is heroic?” he said. “I seek
only to understand.”
“Well... you know ... heroic deeds ...”
“And they are ... ?”
“Fighting monsters, defeating tyrants, stealing rare treasures, rescuing maidens
... that sort of thing,” said Mr.Betteridge vaguely. “You know ... heroic things.”
“And who, precisely, defines the monstrousness of the monsters and the
tyranny of the tyrants?” said Lord Vetinari, his voice suddenly like a scalpel - not
vicious like a sword, but probing its edge into vulnerable places.
Mr.Betteridge shifted uneasily. “Well... the hero, I suppose.”
“Ah. And the theft of these rare items ... I think the word that int
erests me here is
the term “theft”, an activity frowned on by most of the world’s major religions, is it
not? The feeling stealing over me is that all these terms are defined by the hero.
You could say: I am a hero, so when I kill you that makes you, de facto,
the kind of
person suitable to be killed by a hero. You could say that a hero, in short, is
someone who indulges every whim that, within the rule of law. would have him
behind bars or swiftly dancing what I believe is known as the hemp fandango.
The
words we might use are: murder, pillage, theft and rape. Have I understood the
situation?”
“Not rape. I believe,” said Mr.Betteridge, finding a rock on
which he could stand.
“Not in the case of Cohen the Barbarian. Ravishing, possibly.”
“There is a difference?”
“It’s more a matter of approach, I understand.” said the historian. “I don’t believe
there were ever any actual complaints.”
“Speaking as a lawyer,” said Mr. Slant of the Guild of Lawyers, “it is clear that the
first ever recorded heroic deed to which the message refers was an act of theft
from the rightful owners. The legends of many different cultures testify to this.”
“Was it something you could actually steal?” said Ridcully.
“Manifestly yes,” said the lawyer. “Theft is central to the legend. Fire was stolen
from the gods.”
“This is not currently the issue.” said Lord Vetinari. “The issue, gentlemen, is
that Cohen the Barbarian is climbing the mountain on which the gods live. And we
cannot stop him. And he intends to return fire
to the gods. Fire, in this case, in the
shape of... let me see-
” Ponder Stibbons looked up from his notebooks, where he
had been scribbling. A fifty-pound keg of Agatean Thunder Clay.” he said. “I’m
amazed their wizards let him have it.”
“He was ... indeed. I assume he still is the Emperor,” said Lord Vetinari. “So I
would imagine that when the supreme ruler of your continent asks you for
something, it is not the time for a prudent man to ask for a docket signed by
Mr.Jenkins of Requisitions.”
“Thunder Clay is terribly powerful stuff.” said Ridcully. “But it needs a special
detonator. You have
to smash ajar of acid inside the mixture. The acid soaks into
it. and then - kablooie, I believe the term is.
“Unfortunately the prudent man also saw fit to give one of these to Cohen.” said
Lord Vetinari. “And if the resulting kablooie takes place atop the mountain, which
is the hub of the world’s magic field, it will, as I understand it, result in the field
collapsing for ... remind me. Mister Stibbons?”
“About two years,” he said.
“Really? Well, we can do without magic for a couple of years, can’t we?” said Mr.
Slant, managing to suggest that this would be a jolly good thing, too.
“With respect,” said Ponder, without respect, “we cannot. The seas will run dry.
The sun will burn out and crash. The elephants and the turtle may cease to exist
altogether.”
“That’ll happen in just two years?”
“Oh, no. That’ll happen within a few minutes, sir. You see, magic isn’t just
coloured lights and balls. Magic holds the world together.”
In the sudden silence, Lord Vetinari’s voice sounded crisp and clear.
“Is there anyone who knows anything about Ghengiz Cohen?” he said. “And is
there anyone who can tell us why, before leaving the city, he and his men
kidnapped a harmless minstrel from our embassy? Explosives, yes
, very barbaric
... but why a minstrel? Can anyone tell me?”
There was a bitter wind this close to Cori Celesti. From here the world
mountain, which looked like a needle from afar, was a raw and ragged cascade
of ascending peaks. The central spire was lost in a haze of snow crystals, miles
high. The sun sparkled on them. Several elderly men sat huddled around a fire.
“I hope he’s right about the stair of light,” said Boy Willie. “We’re going to look
real muffins if it isn’t there.”
“He was right about the giant walrus,” said Truckle the Uncivil.
“When?”
“Remember when we were crossing the ice? When he shouted, “Look out!
We’re going to be attacked by a giant walrus!””
“Oh. yeah.”
Willie looked back up at the spire. The air seemed thinner already, the colours
deeper, making him feel that he could reach up and touch the sky. “Anyone
know
if there’s a lavatory at the top?” he said.
“Oh, there’s got to be.” said Caleb the Ripper. “Yeah, I’
m sure I heard tell about
it. The Toilet of the Gods.”
“What?”
They turned to what appeared to be a pile of furs on wheels. When the eye
knew what it was looking for this became an ancient wheelchair, mounted on skis
and covered with rags of blanket and animal skins. A pair of beady, animal eyes
peered out suspiciously from the heap. There was a barrel strapped behind the
wheelchair.
“It must be time tor his gruel,” said Boy Willie, putting a soot-
encrusted pot on the
fire.
“Whut?”
JUST WARMING UP YOUR GRUEL, HAMISH!”
“Bludy walrus again?”
“YES!”
“Whut?”
They were, all of them, old men. Their background conversation was a litany of
complaints about feet, stomachs and backs. They moved slowly. But they had a
look about them. It was in their eyes.
Their eyes said that wherever it was, they had been there. Whatever it was,
they had done it, sometimes more than once. But they would never, ever,
buy the
T-shirt. And they did know the meaning of the word “fear”. It was something that
happened to other people.
“I wish Old Vincent was here,” said Caleb the Ripper, poking the fire aimlessly.
“Well, he’s gone, and there’s an end of it,” said Truckle the Uncivil shortly. “We
said we weren’t going to bloody talk about it.”
“But what a way to go ... gods, I hope that doesn’t happen to me. Something
like that... it shouldn’t happen to anyone ...”
“Yes. all right,” said Truckle.
“He was a good bloke. Took everything the world threw at him.”
“All right!”
“And then to choke on-”
“We all know! Now bloody well shut up!”
“Dinners done,” said Caleb, pulling a smoking slab of grease out of the embers.
“Nice walrus steak, anyone? What about Mr. Pretty?”
They turned to an evidently human figure that had been propped against a
boulder. It was indistinct, because of the ropes, but it was clearly dressed in
brightly coloured clothes. This wasn’t the
place for brightly coloured clothes. This
was a land for fur and leather.
Boy Willie walked over to the colourful thing.
“We’ll take the gag off.” he said. “if you promise not to scream.”
Frantic eyes darted this way and that, and then the gagged head nodded.
“All right, then. Eat your your nice walrus ... er, lump,” said Boy Willie, pulling at
the cloth.
“How dare you drag me all-” the minstrel began.
“Now look,” said Boy Willie, “none of us like havin’ to wallop you alongside the
ear when you go on like this, do we? Be reasonable.”
““Reasonable? When you kidnap-”
Boy Willie snapped the gag back into place.
“Thin streak of nothin’.” be muttered at the angry eyes. “You ain’t even got a
harp. What kind of bard doesn’t even have a harp? Just this sort of little wooden
pot thing. Damn silly idea.”
“’s called a lute,” said Caleb, through a mouthful of walrus.
“Whut?”
“IT’S CALLED A LUTE, HAMISH!”
“Aye, I used to loot!”
“Nah, it’s for singin’ posh songs for ladies,” said Caleb. “About... flowers and
that. Romance?”
The Horde knew the word, although the activity had been outside the scope of
their busy lives.
“Amazin’, what songs do for the ladies,” said Caleb.
“Well, when I was a lad.” said Truckle, “if you wanted to get a girl’s int’rest, you
had to cut off your worst enemy’s wossname and present it to her.”
“Whut?”
“I SAID YOU HAD TO CUT OFF YOUR WORST ENEMY’S WOSSNAME AND
PRESENT IT TO HER!”
“Aye, romance is a wonderful tiling,” said Mad Hamish.
“What’d you do if you didn’t have a worst enemy?” said Boy Willie.
“You try and cut off anyone’s wossname.”“ said Truckle, “and you’ve soon got a
worst enemy.”
“Flowers is more usual these days,” said Caleb, reflectively.
Truckle eyed the struggling lutist.
“Can’t think what the boss was thinking of, draggin’ this thing along,” he said.
“Where is he, anyway?”
Lord Vetinari, despite his education, had a mind like an engineer.
If you wished
to open something, you found the appropriate spot and applied the minimum
amount of force necessary to achieve your end. Possibly the spot was between a
couple of ribs and the force was applied via a dagger, or between two warring
countries and applied via an army, but the important thing was to find that one
weak spot which would be the key to everything.
“And so you are now the unpaid Professor of Cruel and Unusual Geography?”
he said to the figure who had been brought before him.
The wizard known as Rincewind nodded slowly, just in case an admission was
going to get him into trouble.
“Er... yes?”
“Have you been to the Hub?”
“Er ... yes?”
“Can you describe the terrain?”
“Er ...”
“What did the scenery look like?” Lord Vetinari added helpfully.
“Er ... blurred, sir. I was being chased by some people.”
“Indeed? And why was this?”
Rincewind looked shocked. “Oh. I never
stop to find out why people are chasing
me, sir. I never look behind, either. That’d be rather silly, sir.”
摘要：

TheLastHeroTerryPratchettTheplacewherethestoryhappenedwasaworldonthebackoffourelephantsperchedontheshellofagiantturtle.That’stheadvantageofspace.It’sbigenoughtohold,practicallyanything,andso,eventually,itdoes.Peoplethinkthatitisstrangetohaveaturtletenthousandmileslongandanelephantmorethan,twothousan...

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