The Last Hero - Terry Pratchett [7]
"Yes, my lord. But I believe that sufficient down eventually becomes up, my lord."
"Ah. Is this philosophy?"
"Practical philosophy, my lord."
"Nevertheless, I find myself amazed, Leonard, that you appear to have come up with a solution just as soon as I presented the problem..."
Leonard of Quirm cleaned his brush. "I always say, my lord, that a problem correctly posed contains its own solution. But it is true to say that I have given some thought to issues of this nature. I do, as you know, experiment with devices... which of course, obedient to your views on this matter, I subsequently dismantle because there are, indeed, evil men in the world who might stumble upon them and pervert their use. You were kind enough to give me a room with unlimited views of the sky, and I... notice things. Oh... I shall require several dozen swamp dragons, too. No, that should be... more than a hundred, I think."
"Ah, you intend to build a ship that can be drawn into the sky by dragons?" said Lord Vetinari, mildly relieved. "I recall an old story about a ship that was pulled by swans and flew all the way to —"
"Swans, I fear, would not work. But your surmise is broadly correct, my lord. Well done. Two hundred dragons, I suggest, to be on the safe side."
"That at least is not a difficulty. They are becoming rather a pest."
"And the help of, oh, sixty apprentices and journeymen from the Guild of Cunning Artificers. Perhaps there should be a hundred. They will need to work round the clock."
"Apprentices? But I can see to it that the finest craftsmen —"
Leonard held up a hand.
"Not craftsmen, my lord," he said. "I have no use for people who have learned the limits of the possible."
The Horde found Cohen sitting on an ancient burial mound a little way from the camp.
There were a lot of them in this area. The members of the Horde had seen them before, sometimes, on their various travels across the world. Here and there an ancient stone would poke through the snow, carved in a language none of them recognised. They were very old. None of the Horde had ever considered cutting into a mound to see what treasures might lie within. Partly this was because they had a word for people who used shovels, and that word was 'slave'. But mainly it was because, despite their calling, they had a keen moral Code, even if it wasn't the sort adopted by nearly everyone else, and this Code led them to have a word for anyone who disturbed a burial mound. That word was 'die!'.
The Horde, each member a veteran of a thousand hopeless charges, nevertheless advanced cautiously towards Cohen, who was sitting cross-legged in the snow. His sword was thrust deep into a drift. He had a distant, worrying expression.
"Coming to have some dinner, old friend?" said Caleb.
"It's walrus," said Boy Willie. "Again."
Cohen grunted.
"I havfen't finiffed," he said, indistinctly.
"Finished what, old friend?"
"Rememb'rin'," said Cohen.
"Remembering who?"
"The hero who waff buried here, all right?"
"Who was he?"
"Dunno."
"What were his people?"
"Fearch me," said Cohen.
"Did he do any mighty deeds?"
"Couldn't fay."
"Then why— ?"
"Fomeone 'f got to remember the poor bugger!"
"You don't know anything about him!"
"I can ftill remember him!"
The rest of the Horde exchanged glances. This was going to be a difficult adventure. It was a good job that it was to be the last.
"You ought to come and have a word with that bard we captured," said Caleb. "He's getting on my nerves. He don't seem to understand what he's about."
"He'f juft got to write the faga afterwardf," said Cohen flatly and damply. A thought appeared to strike him. He started to pat various parts of his clothing, which, given the amount of clothing, didn't take long.
"Yeah, well, this isn't your basic heroic saga kind of bard, y'see," said Caleb, as his leader continued the search. "I told you he wasn't the right sort when we grabbed him. He's more the kind of bard you want if you need some ditty being sung to a girl. We're talking flowers and spring here,