Discworld and Member Articles
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Written by TheJackal
Tuesday, 30 August 2005 |
Events were reaching comical proportions inside Gee’s home but Brother Parthas, who duly remained outside, would never be told the full story later on of what transpired.
Things had started to go wrong from the get go:
‘Charge!’ said one.
‘Shhh!’ said another. ‘Don’t give the game away.’
The game, if you wished to call it that, had well and truly been given away after two burly cadets had knocked the front door off its hinges and onto the hallway inside.
The soldiers ran forwards, took a left and entered the living room.
‘It’s pitch black in here. Can’t see a thing.’
‘Yeh, can’t even see me hand and I’m waving it in front of me face.’
At that moment, the second group, who had entered via the back door, joined them. The last group could be heard bounding about upstairs.
It was a small enough house and there were not very many hiding spaces remaining on offer for three fugitives.
‘Alright, alright,’ said the Sergeant in charge of the group. ‘They have got to be in here somewhere. Just pan out and grab anything that moves.’
This order was not to be one of the Sarge’s best ones.
Groups one and two moved forward tentatively, like mummies awoken from a deep slumber, or perhaps, like blind lobsters exercising their pinchers.
The net result of all this was hard to calculate. The men did achieve a certain degree of success when it came to inanimate objects. Thus far, seven of them had groped and attempted to commandeer the same couch.
When it came animate matter, there was mixed success, as the Sarge was finding out.
‘Arrrggh.
‘I got one, Sarge,’ shouted Brother Hilbert, pouncing on his prize.
‘You got me, you idiot. Now get off.’
‘Sorry, Sarge.’
‘Ouch. That’s my eye,’ shouted someone in the fracas.
Similar moans of pain and alarm were being taken up around the room.
The Sarge had had enough.
‘Quiet…QUIET,’ shouted Sergeant Wilcox.
The group gradually heeded the order. Eventually, only a slight whimper or two broke the near silence.
‘Listen, we are getting nowhere here. Does anyone have a light?’
One of the younger cadets pulled a candle from somewhere on his person and lit it, illuminating the room.
One of the men still had his mouth wrapped around a fellow soldier’s foot. Another was trying to strangle a chair.
‘There’s no-one here, Sarge.’
‘Yes, I can see that. So where the bloody hell have they gone?’
‘Dunno, Sarge.’
‘There is a cellar down here,’ said Brother Edmunds.
‘Well, check it then.’
He did. It was empty.
‘No-one down here either, Sarge,’ Edmunds called out.
‘Damn. Parthas is going to blame me for this. I just know it.’
Rubeus’ words had undoubtedly rocked Nemoy but he tried to remain resilient.
‘If this Brother Eisic guy became immortal, then how come he’s not here?’
‘That is another interesting story: Brother Eisic lived many years longer than he should have. After a while, his defences relaxed somewhat from what they used to be. Eisic presumed he needn’t be watching his back all the time because his immortality would do that for him. He was wrong.’
‘How come?’ asked Nemoy.
‘Some time in the year 1066, another attempt was made to assassinate him. It was successful.’
‘But you said he couldn’t be killed?’
‘No. As far as Brother Eisic knew, the hand of another man could not kill him. However, someone else did not kill him. You see, the records of his death say Eisic died by consuming something poisonous. Someone must have placed poison in his food.
‘Now this fact puzzled me for a many months,’ continued Rubeus. ‘I wondered for a long time how it could be possible for him to die in the manner in which he did. Finally, I figured it out. It was true that someone else had placed poison in his food with the intent of killing him, but it was Brother Eisic himself who consumed it. Technically, by his own negligence, Eisic killed himself.’
Nemoy looked straight up at Brother Rubeus. He saw intelligence in those eyes that Nemoy himself could never achieve. It was hard not to admire in some small way what Rubeus was trying to do.
‘I must admit that your plan was quite ingenious. Everything seems to have worked out.’
‘Yes, but it wasn’t quite perfect. At your birth there was always a fifty percent chance that the Brothers would both vote for the same person. If they had, then you wouldn’t be here today.’
Nemoy hadn’t thought about that but tried not to show it.
‘Ah,’ said Rubeus, who had indeed noticed Nemoy’s surprise. ‘You should know by now that I think of every eventuality.’
‘Oh really? But I think you’re wrong,’ said Nemoy.
‘Is that so?’ replied Rubeus.
‘Yes, for you see, I’m not like that poor sod who was tortured or like that other Mediator guy who got poisoned. I’ll never kill myself and you will never trick me into suicide either.’
Rubeus sighed.
‘You simply have no idea, do you? You really believe that I hadn’t thought about that?’
The Grand Master looked scornfully at Nemoy.
‘Let me tell you something,’ he continued. ‘The term ‘Immortal’ has been brandished about too much in the past. People have lost the concept of what it really means to be an Immortal. If you were indeed a true Immortal, then you would never grow old. But you have aged since you were born. In other words, your so-called immortality only protects you from others trying to kill you; it cannot keep you alive forever. Even if you were to escape from here, which I might add is highly unlikely, then you would simply die a very, very old man.’
‘But I will die an old man,’ rallied Nemoy. ‘You’ll never be able to kill me.’
‘Ah, but that’s where you are wrong once more. Your body may be able to withstand being stabbed in the back or thrown from a cliff, but I have other plans.’
‘What plans?’
‘You’re public execution is scheduled for tomorrow evening, where you will be beheaded.’
There is a theory that everything in the Universe is connected. This is true. To illustrate this, it should be known that when someone on Stavromula is having a good time, you can be sure that a person somewhere else on the planet is feeling the consequences. It’s Nature’s way of balancing things out.
Unfortunately for Harry Froop, today was not his lucky day. As he crouched awkwardly over a bucket normally used for urine, spewing his guts out, a honeymooning couple up in Spring Hills were watching the sunset, while eating strawberries off of each others’ belly buttons.
‘Mbllllehhhhh,’ said Harry, or rather his oesophagus, which was masterminding an escape attempt involving of all of the food that Harry had eaten over the past couple of hours.
A few seconds passed. Harry gradually straightened his back and tried to stand up. Two seconds later, his head was back in the bucket.
‘Mbllllehhhhh.’
Four minutes later, Harry’s head resurfaced, although it was a bit soggy. He wiped his mouth on his jacket sleeve and flopped onto the bed.
Crunch.
Harry rolled over and looked onto the bed. He had broken his hand-mirror.
‘Damn.’
He picked up the shards of glass carefully. Well, as carefully as one could with blurry vision and a head that was being attacked by a band of migraines.
Harry looked at his reflection in one of the larger shards. He didn’t look too well. This didn’t bother Harry; he had never looked well in the whole of his life. His naturally pale complexion had always seemed to make him look ill. In his younger days, this hadn’t been a problem. In fact, Harry had gone home ‘sick’ from school on a number of occasions after the nurse had fallen for his routine.
In later years, Harry became familiar with the downside to being practically albino. For one thing, he couldn’t get a tan. Staying out in the sun for too long would result in simply getting burned. Consequently, Harry stayed inside a lot and kept to himself. Despite this, he’d gotten himself a fine job in the Order. He was the assistant Executioner.
The role of Executioner must have been invented just for someone like Harry. At least, that’s what he liked to believe anyway, for it suited him down to the ground.
The hours were very short and the pay was good. Harry even got to wear a big, black hood over his head while he worked. The hood was very convenient because not only did it protect his anonymity, it also protected him from getting burned by strong sunlight.
Harry knew that he could never show his face in public while performing his job. Killing someone with a big axe was seen as being acceptable if you hid your face, while foregoing this was apparently seen as being vulgar and inhumane. That was logic for you.
Nearly six hours later, a loud knocking on the front door woke Harry up. It took him another while to find his pants and the door handle. Harry didn’t even want to know how the handle had come off.
It soon became apparent that a door without a handle was not a good thing. Furthermore, a door minus a handle and a screwdriver to put the handle back on with, was definitely a bad thing.
Harry opened the window.
‘What you want?’
‘Fackin’ hell,’ said the man who was wearing a guard’s uniform. ‘You don’t look too good.’
‘Rough night,’ replied Harry. ‘So what you want then?’
‘I’ve been told to inform you Grand Master Rubeus wants to see you. Now.’
‘What? Me? Now?’ exclaimed Harry. ‘Whats he want me for?’
‘Couldn’t tell you mate. You didn’t do anything irregular last night, did you?’ asked the man, while gazing at Harry’s ragged appearance.
‘No,’ replied Harry. ‘At least, I don’t think so.’
What, in fact, could Harry remember of last night? Not much. Anything could have happened.
‘For your sake mate, I hope you didn’t. That Rubeus is a scary bastard. Anyway, can’t stand around here all day chatting. Got things to do. Have a nice day.’
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