Small Gods - Terry Pratchett [115]
He hesitated, like a man opening a door to a familiar room and finding nothing there but a bottomless pit. The memories were still there. He could feel them. They had the right shape. It was just that he couldn’t remember what they were. There had been a voice…. Surely, there had been a voice? But all he could remember was the sound of his own thoughts, bouncing off the inside of his own head.
Now he had to cross the desert. What could there be to fear—
The desert was what you believed.
Vorbis looked inside himself.
And went on looking.
He sagged to his knees.
I CAN SEE THAT YOU ARE BUSY, said Death.
“Don’t leave me! It’s so empty!”
Death looked around at the endless desert. He snapped his fingers and a large white horse trotted up.
I SEE A HUNDRED THOUSAND PEOPLE, he said, swinging himself into the saddle.
“Where? Where?”
HERE. WITH YOU.
“I can’t see them!”
Death gathered up the reins.
NEVERTHELESS, he said. His horse trotted forward a few steps.
“I don’t understand!” screamed Vorbis.
Death paused. “YOU HAVE PERHAPS HEARD THE PHRASE, he said, THAT HELL IS OTHER PEOPLE?
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
Death nodded. IN TIME, he said, YOU WILL LEARN THAT IT IS WRONG.
The first boats grounded in the shallows, and the troops leapt into shoulder-high surf.
No one was quite sure who was leading the fleet. Most of the countries along the coast hated one another, not in any personal sense, but simply on a kind of historical basis. On the other hand, how much leadership was necessary? Everyone knew where Omnia was. None of the countries in the fleet hated the others worse than they did Omnia. Now it was necessary for it…not to exist.
General Argavisti of Ephebe considered that he was in charge, because although he didn’t have the most ships he was avenging the attack on Ephebe. But Imperiator Borvorius of Tsort knew that he was in charge, because there were more Tsortean ships than any others. And Admiral Rham-ap-Efan of Djelibeybi knew that he was in charge, because he was the kind of person who always thought he was in charge of anything. The only captain who did not, in fact, think that he was commanding the fleet was Fasta Benj, a fisherman from a very small nation of marsh-dwelling nomads of whose existence all the other countries were in complete ignorance, and whose small reed boat had been in the path of the fleet and had got swept along. Since his tribe believed that there were only fifty-one people in the world, worshiped a giant newt, spoke a very personal language which no one else understood, and had never seen metal or fire before, he was spending a lot of time wearing a puzzled grin.
Clearly they had reached a shore, not of proper mud and reeds, but of very small gritty bits. He lugged his little reed boat up the sand, and sat down with interest to see what the men in the feathery hats and shiny fish-scale vests were going to do next.
General Argavisti scanned the beach.
“They must have seen us coming,” he said. “So why would they let us establish a beachhead?”
Heat haze wavered over the dunes. A dot appeared, growing and contracting in the shimmering air.
More troops poured ashore.
General Argavisti shaded his eyes against the sun.
“Fella’s just standing there,” he said.
“Could be a spy,” said Borvorius.
“Don’t see how he could be a spy in his own country,” said Argavisti. “Anyway, if he was a spy he’d be creepin’ around. That’s how you can tell.”
The figure had stopped at the foot of the dunes. There was something about it that drew the eye. Argavisti had faced many an opposing army, and this was normal. One patiently waiting figure was not. He found he kept turning to look at it.
“S’carrying something,” he said eventually. “Sergeant? Go and bring that man here.”
A few minutes later the sergeant returned.
“Says he’ll meet you in the middle of the beach, sir,” he reported.
“Didn’t I tell you to bring him here?”
“He didn’t want to come, sir.”
“You’ve got a sword, haven’t you?”
“Yessir. Prodded him a bit,