Interesting Times - Terry Pratchett [101]
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. Gray-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!”
“Oh, dear,” said Mr. Saveloy.
He trailed after the other two towards the warlords.
Lord Hong raised his