Interesting Times

It was something about Cohen. Maybe it was what they called charisma. It overpowered even his normal smell of a goat that had just eaten curried asparagus. He did everything wrong. He cursed people and used what Mr Saveloy considered very offensive language to foreigners. He shouted terms that would have earned anyone else a free slit throat from a variety of interesting ethnic weapons - and he got away with it, partly because it was clear that there was no actual malice there but mainly because he was, well, Cohen, a sort of basic natural force on legs.

It worked on everything. When he wasn't actually fighting them, he got on a lot better with trolls than did people who merely thought that trolls had rights just like everyone else. Even the Horde, bloody-minded individualists to a man, fell for it.

But Mr Saveloy had also seen the aimlessness in their lives and, one night, he'd brought the conversation round to the opportunities offered in the Aurient...

There was a light in Six Beneficent Winds' expression.

'Have you got an accountant?' he said.

'Well, no, as a matter of fact.'

'Will this theft be treated as income or capital?'

'I haven't really thought like that. The Horde doesn't pay taxes.'

'What? Not to anyone?'

'No. It's funny, but they never seem to keep their money for long. It seems to disappear on drink and women and high living. I suppose, from a heroing point of view, they may count as taxes.'

There was a 'pop' as Six Beneficent Winds uncorked a small bottle of ink and licked his writing brush.

'But those sort of things probably count as allowable expenses for a barbarian hero,' he said. 'They are part of the job specification. And then of course there is wear and tear on weaponry, protective clothing... They could certainly claim for at least one new loincloth a year—'

'I don't think they've claimed for one per century.'

'And there's pensions, of course.'

'Ah. Don't use that word. They think it's a dirty word. But in a way that is what they're here for. This is their last adventure.'

'When they've stolen this very valuable thing that you won't tell me about.'

'That's right. You'd be very welcome to join us. You could perhaps be a barbarian... to push beans... a length of knotted string... ah... accountant. Have you ever killed anyone?'

'Not outright. But I've always thought you can do considerable damage with a well-placed Final Demand.'

Mr Saveloy beamed. 'Ah, yes,' he said. 'Civilization.'

The last ninja was upright, but only just; Hamish had run his wheelchair over his foot. Mr Saveloy patted the taxman's arm. 'Excuse me,' he said. 'I find I often have to intervene at this stage.'

He padded over to the surviving man, who was looking around wildly. Six swords had become interlaced around his neck as though he'd taken part in a rather energetic folk dance.

'Good morning,' said Mr Saveloy. 'I should just point out that Ghenghiz here is, despite appearances, a remarkably honest man. He finds it hard to understand empty bravura. May I venture to suggest therefore that you refrain from phrases like "I would rather die than betray my Erflperor" or "Go ahead and do your worst" unless you redly, really mean them. Should you wish for mercy, a simple hand signal will suffice. I strongly advise you not to attempt to nod.'

The young man looked sideways at Cohen, who gave him an encouraging smile.

Then he waved a hand quickly.

The swords unwove. Truckle hit the ninja over the head with a club.

'It's all right, you don't have to go on about it, I didn't kill him,' he said sulkily.

'Ow!' Boy Willie had been experimenting with a rice flail and had hit his own ear. 'How'd they manage to fight with this rubbish?'

'Whut?'

'These little Hogswatch decoration thingies look the business, though,' said Vincent, picking up a throwing star. 'Aaargh!' He sucked his fingers. 'Useless foreign junk.'

'That bit where that lad sprang backwards right across the room with them axes in his hands was impressive, though.'

'Yeah.'

'You didn't ought to have stuck your sword out like that, I thought.'

'He's learned an important lesson.'

'It won't do him much good now where he's gone.'

'Whut?'

Six Beneficent Winds was half laughing, half shocked.

'But... but... I've seen these guards fight before!' he said. 'They're invincible!'

'No-one told us.'

'But you beat them all!'

'Yep!'

'And you're just eunuchs!'

There was a scrape of steel. Six Beneficent Winds closed his eyes. He could feel metal touching his neck in at least five places.

'There's that word again,' said the voice of Cohen the Barbarian.

'But... you're... dressed... as... eunuchs...' murmured Six Beneficent Winds, trying not to swallow.

Mr Saveloy backed away, chuckling nervously.

'You see,' he said, speaking fast, 'you're too old to be taken for guards and you don't look like bureaucrats, so I thought it would be, er, a very good disguise to—'

'Eunuch?' roared Truckle. 'You mean people've been looking at me and thinking I mince around saying, Helluo, Saltat?'