Eric

“Look, Vizzimuth,” he said, “couldn’t we just sort of miss out one or two paragraphs—”

“It’s my job,” said the demon wretchedly. “You know He checks up, it’s more than my job’s worth—” He broke off, gave Rincewind a sad grimace, and patted the sobbing figure with a gentle talon.

“Tell you what,” he said kindly, “I’ll skip some of the sub-clauses.”

Rincewind took Eric by an unresisting shoulder.

“We’d better get along,” he said quietly.

“This is really horrible,” said Eric, as they walked away. “It gives evil a bad name.”

“Um,” said Rincewind. He didn’t like the sound of Him being back and Him being angry. Whenever something important enough to deserve capital letters was angry in the vicinity of Rincewind, it was usually angry with him.

“If you know such a lot about this place,” he said, “perhaps you can remember how to get out?”

Eric scratched his head. “It helps if one of you is a girl,” he said. “According to Ephebian mythology, there’s a girl who comes down here every winter.”^{22}

“To keep warm?”

“I think the story says she actually creates the winter, sort of.”

“I’ve known women like that,” said Rincewind, nodding wisely.

“Or it helps if you’ve got a lyre, I think.”^{23}

“Ah. We could be on firmer ground here,” said Rincewind. He thought for a bit and then said, “Er. My dog … my dog has six legs.”

“The kind you play,” said Eric patiently.

“Oh.”

“And, and, and when you do leave, if you look back … I think pomegranates come into it somewhere, or, or, or you turn into a piece of wood.”

“I never look back,” said Rincewind firmly. “One of the first rules of running away is, never look back.”

There was a roar behind them.

“Especially when you hear loud noises,” Rincewind went on. “When it comes to cowardice, that’s what sorts out the men from the sheep. You run straight away.” He grabbed the skirts of his robe.

And they ran and ran, until a familiar voice said: “Ho there, dear lads. Hop up. It’s amazing how you meet old friends down here.”

And another voice said, “Wossname? Wossname?”

“Where are they!”

The sub-lords of Hell trembled. This was going to be dreadful. It might even result in a memo.

“They can’t have escaped,” rasped Astfgl. “They’re here somewhere. Why can you not find them? Am I surrounded by incompetents as well as fools?”

“My lord—”

The demon princes turned.

The speaker was Duke Vassenego, one of the oldest demons. How old, no-one knew. But if he didn’t actually invent original sin, at least he made one of the first copies. In terms of sheer enterprise and deviousness of mind he might even have passed for human and, in fact, generally took the form of an old, rather sad lawyer with an eagle somewhere in his ancestry.

And every demonic mind thought: poor old Vassenego, he’s done it this time. This won’t be just a memo, this will be a policy statement, c.c.’d to all departments and a copy for files.

Astfgl turned slowly, as though mounted on a turntable. He was back in his preferred form now but had pulled himself together, as it were, on a higher level of emotion. The mere thought of living humans in his domain made him twang with fury like a violin string. You couldn’t trust them. They were unreliable. The last human allowed down here alive had given the place a terribly bad Press. Above all, they made him feel inferior.

Now the full wattage of his anger focused on the old demon.

“You had a point to make?” he said.

“I was merely going to say, lord, that we have made an extensive search of all eight circles and I am really certain—”

“Silence! Don’t think I don’t know what’s going on,” growled Astfgl, circling the drawn figure. “I’ve seen you — and you, and you”—his trident pointed at some of the other old lords—”plotting in corners, encouraging rebellion! I rule here, is that not so? And I will be obeyed!”

Vassenego was pale. His patrician nostrils flared like jet intakes. Everything about him said: you pompous little creature, of course we encourage rebellion, we’re demons! And I was maddening the minds of princes when you were encouraging cats to leave dead mice under the bed, you small-minded, paper-worshipping nincompoop! Everything about him said this except for his voice, which said, calmly, “No-one is denying this, sire.”

“Then search again! And the demon who let them in is to be taken to the lowest pit and disassembled, is that clear?”

Vassenego’s eyebrows rose. “Old Urglefloggah, sire? He was foolish, certainly, but he is a loyal—”

“Are you by any chance endeavouring to contradict me?”

Vassenego hesitated. Dreadful as he privately held the King to be, demons are strong believers in precedence and hierarchy. There were too many young demons pressing below them for the senior lords to openly demonstrate the ways of regicide and coup, no matter what the provocation. Vassenego had plans of his own. No sense in spoiling things now.

“No, sire,” he said. “But that will mean, sire, that the dread portal is no longer—”

“Do it!”

***

The Luggage arrived at the dread portal.