Eric

The King growled. The problem with being evil, he’d been forced to admit, was that demons were not great innovatory thinkers and really needed the spice of human ingenuity. And he’d really been looking forward to Eric Thursley, whose brand of super-intelligent gormlessness was a rare delight. Hell needed horribly-bright, self-centred people like Eric. They were much better at being nasty than demons could ever manage.

“Indeed, lord,” said the demon, “And the duke has been awaiting the summons there for years, shunning all other temptations, steadfastly and patiently studying the world of men—”

“So where was he?”

“Er. Call of supernature, lord,” the demon gabbled. “Hadn’t turned his back for two minutes when—”

“And someone went through?”

“We’re trying to find out—”

Lord Astfgl’s patience, which in any case had the tensile strength of putty, snapped at this point. That just about summed it up. He had the kind of subjects who used the words “find out” when they meant “ascertain”. Damnation was too good for them.

“Get out,” he whispered. “And I shall see to it that you get a commendation for this—”

“O master, I plead—”

“Get out!”

The King stamped along the glowing corridors to his private apartments.

His predecessors had favoured shaggy hind legs and hoofs. Lord Astfgl had rejected all that sort of thing out of hand. He held that no-one would ever get taken seriously by those stuck-up bastards in Dunmanifestin when their rear end kept ruminating all the time, and so he favoured a red silk cloak, crimson tights, a cowl with two rather sophisticated little horns on it, and a trident. The end kept dropping off the trident but, he felt, it was the sort of get-up in which a demon king could be taken seriously …

In the coolness of his chambers — oh, by all the gods or, rather, not by all the gods, it had taken him ages to get them up to some sort of civilised standard, his predecessors had been quite content just to lounge around and tempt people, they had never heard of executive stress — he gently lifted the cover off the Mirror of Souls and watched it flicker into life.

Its cool black surface was surrounded by an ornate frame, from which curls of greasy smoke constantly unfolded and drifted.

Your wish, master? it said.

“Show me the events around the Pseudopolis gate over the last hour,” said the King, and settled down to watch.

After a while he went and looked up the name “Rincewind” in the filing cabinet he had recently had installed, in place of the distressingly-bound old ledgers that had been there; the system still needed ironing out, though, because the bewildered demons filed everything under P for People.

Then he sat watching the flickering pictures and absent-mindedly played with the stuff on his desk, to soothe his nerves.

He had any amount of desk things: notepads with magnets for paperclips, handy devices for holding pens and those tiny jotters that always came in handy, incredibly funny statuettes with slogans like “You’re the Boss!”, and little chromium balls and spirals operated by a sort of ersatz and short-lived perpetual motion. No-one looking at that desk could have any doubt that they were, in cold fact, truly damned.

“I see,” said Lord Astfgl, setting a selection of shiny balls swinging with one tap of a talon.

He couldn’t remember any demon called Rincewind. On the other hand, there were millions of the wretched things, swarming all over the place with no sense of order, and he hadn’t yet had time to carry out a proper census and retire the unnecessary ones. This one seemed to have fewer appendages and more vowels in its name than most. But it had to be a demon.

Vassenego was a proud old fool, one of the elder demons who smiled and despised him and not-quite-obeyed him, just because the King’d worked hard over the millennia to get from humble beginnings to where he was today. He wouldn’t put it past the old devil to do this on purpose, just to spite him.

Well, he’d have to see about that later. Send him a memo or something. Too late to do anything about it now. He’d have to take a personal interest. Eric Thursley was too good a prospect to pass up. Getting Eric Thursley would really annoy the gods.

Gods! How he hated the gods! He hated the gods even more than he hated the old guard like Vassenego, even more than he hated humans. He’d thrown a little soiree last week, he’d put a lot of thought into it, he wanted to show that he was prepared to let bygones be bygones, work with them for a new, better and more efficient universe. He’d called it a “Getting to Know You!” party. There’d been sausages on sticks and everything, he’d done his best to make it nice.

They hadn’t even bothered to answer the invitations. And he’d made a special point of putting RSVP on them.

“Demon?”

Eric peered around the door.

“What shape are you?” he said.

“Pretty poor shape,” said Rincewind.

“I’ve brought you some food. You do eat, do you?”