The Last Hero Read Free Page B

the bridge of his nose. "Just tell me what you know about Cohen, please," he said wearily.
    "Him? He's just a hero who never died, sir. A leathery old man. Not very bright, really, but he's got so much cunning and guile you'd never know it."
    "Are you a friend of his?"
    "Well, we've met a couple of times and he didn't kill me," said Rincewind. "That probably counts as a 'yes'."
    "And what about the old men who're with him?"
    "Oh, they're not old men... well, yes, they are old men... but, well... they're his Silver Horde, sir."
    " Those are the Silver Horde? All of it?"
    "Yes, sir," said Rincewind.
    "But I thought the Silver Horde conquered the entire Agatean Empire!"
    "Yes, sir. That was them." Rincewind shook his head. "I know it's hard to believe, sir. But you haven't seen them fight. They're experienced . And the thing is... the big thing about Cohen is... he's contagious."
    "You mean he's a plague carrier?"
    "It's like a mental illness, sir. Or magic. He's as crazy as a stoat, but... once they've been around him for a while, people start seeing the world the way he does. All big and simple. And they want to be part of it."
    Lord Vetinari looked at his fingernails. "But I understood that those men had settled down and were immensely rich and powerful," he said. "That's what heroes want, isn't it? To crush the thrones of the world beneath their sandalled feet, as the poet puts it?"
    "Yes, sir."
    "So what's this? One last throw of the dice? Why ?"
    "I can't understand it, sir. I mean... they had it all."
    "Clearly," said the Patrician. "But everything wasn't enough, was it?"
    There was argument in the anteroom beyond the Patrician's Oblong Office. Every few minutes a clerk slipped in through a side door and laid another pile of papers on the desk. Lord Vetinari stared at them. Possibly, he felt, the thing to do would be to wait until the pile of international advice and demands grew as tall as Cori Celesti, and simply climb to the top of it.
    Zip, zing and can-do, he thought.
    So, as a man full of get up and go must do, Lord Vetinari got up and went. He unlocked a secret door in the panelling and a moment later was gliding silently through the hidden corridors of his palace.
    The dungeons of the palace held a number of felons imprisoned "at his lordship's pleasure', and since Lord Vetinari was seldom very pleased they were generally in for the long haul. His destination now, though, was the strangest prisoner of all, who lived in the attic.
    Leonard of Quirm had never committed a crime. He regarded his fellow man with benign interest. He was an artist and he was also the cleverest man alive, if you used the word "clever" in a specialised and technical sense. But Lord Vetinari felt that the world was not yet ready for a man who designed unthinkable weapons of war as a happy hobby. The man was, in his heart and soul, and in everything he did , an artist.
    Currently, Leonard was painting a picture of a lady, from a series of sketches he had pinned up by his easel.
    "Ah, my lord," he said, glancing up. "And what is the problem?"
    "Is there a problem?" said Lord Vetinari.
    "There generally is, my lord, when you come to see me."
    "Very well," said Lord Vetinari. "I wish to get several people to the centre of the world as soon as possible."
    "Ah, yes," said Leonard. "There is much treacherous terrain between here and there. Do you think I have the smile right? I've never been very good at smiles."
    "I said —"
    "Do you wish them to arrive alive?"
    "What? Oh... yes. Of course. And fast ."
    Leonard painted on, in silence. Lord Vetinari knew better than to interrupt.
    "And do you wish them to return?" said the artist, after a while. "You know, perhaps I should show the teeth. I believe I understand teeth."
    "Returning them would be a pleasant bonus, yes."
    "This is a vital journey?"
    "If it is not successful, the world will end."
    "Ah. Quite vital, then." Leonard laid down his brush and stood back, looking critically at his picture.