Eric - Terry Pratchett [26]
The hole led into a tunnel. The tunnel, after winding a bit, led to stairs. Lavaeolus mooched along it, occasionally kicking bits of fallen masonry as if he had a personal grudge against them.
“Er,” said Rincewind, “where does this lead?”
“Oh, it’s just a secret passageway into the center of the citadel.”
“You know, I thought it would be something like that,” said Rincewind. “I’ve got an instinct for it, you know. And I expect all the really top Tsorteans will be up there, will they?”
“I hope so,” said Lavaeolus, trudging up the steps.
“With lots of guards?”
“Dozens, I imagine.”
“Highly trained, too?”
Lavaeolus nodded. “The best.”
“And this is where we’re going,” said Rincewind, determined to explore the full horror of the plan as one probes the site of a rotting tooth.
“That’s right.”
“All six of us.”
“And your box, of course.”
“Oh, yes,” said Rincewind, making a face in the darkness.
The sergeant tapped him gently on the shoulder and leaned forward.
“Don’t you worry about the captain, sir,” he said. “He’s got the finest military brain on the continent.”
“How do you know? Has anyone ever seen it?” said Rincewind.
“You see, sir, what it is, he likes to get it over with without anyone getting hurt, sir, especially him. That’s why he dreams up things like the horse, sir. And bribing people and that. We got into civvies last night and come in and got drunk in a pub with one of the palace cleaners, see, and found out about this tunnel.”
“Yes, but secret passages!” said Rincewind. “There’ll be guards and everything at the other end!”
“No, sir. They use it to store the cleaning things, sir.”
There was a clang in the darkness ahead of them. Lavaeolus had tripped over a mop.
“Sergeant?”
“Sir?”
“Just open the door, will you?”
Eric was tugging at Rincewind’s robe.
“What?” said Rincewind testily.
“You know who Lavaeolus is, don’t you?” whispered Eric.
“Well—”
“He’s Lavaeolus!”
“Get away?”
“Don’t you know the Classics?”
“That isn’t one of these horse races we’re supposed to remember, is it?”
Eric rolled his eyes. “Lavaeolus was responsible for the fall of Tsort, on account of being so cunning,” he said. “And then afterward it took him ten years to get home and he had all sorts of adventures with temptresses and sirens and sensual witches.”
“Well, I can see why you’ve been studying him. Ten years, eh? Where did he live?”
“About two hundred miles away,” said Eric earnestly.
“Kept getting lost, did he?”
“And when he got home he fought his wife’s suitors and everything, and his dear old dog recognized him and died.”
“Oh, dear.”
“It was the carrying his slippers in its mouth for fifteen years that killed it off.”
“Shame.”
“And you know what, demon? All this hasn’t happened yet. We could save him all that trouble!”
Rincewind thought about this. “We could tell him to get a better navigator, for a start,” he said.
There was a creak. The soldiers had got the door open.
“Everyone fall in, or whatever the bloody stupid command is,” said Lavaeolus. “The magic box to the front, please. No killing anyone unless it’s really necessary. Try not to damage things. Right. Forward.”
The door led into a column-lined corridor. There was the distant murmur of voices.
The troop crept toward the sound until it reached a heavy curtain. Lavaeolus took a deep breath, pushed it aside and stepped forward and launched into a prepared speech.
“Now, I want to make myself absolutely clear,” he said. “I don’t want there to be any unpleasantness of any kind, or any shouting for guards and so forth. Or indeed any shouting at all. We will just take the young lady and go home, which is where anyone of any sense ought to be. Otherwise I shall really have to put everyone to the sword, and I hate having to do things like that.”
The audience to this statement did not appear to be impressed. This was because it was a small child on a potty.
Lavaeolus changed mental gear and went on smoothly: “On the other hand, if you