The Last Hero

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. "I shall require the use of several sailing ships and a large barge," he said, after a while. "And I will make a list of other materials for you."
    "A sea voyage?"
    "To begin with, my lord."
    "Are you sure you don't want further time to think?" said Lord Vetinari.
    "Oh, to sort out the fine detail, yes. But I believe I already have the essential idea."
    Vetinari looked up at the ceiling of the workroom and the armada of paper shapes and bat-winged devices and other aerial extravaganzas that hung there, turning gently in the breeze.
    "This doesn't involve some kind of flying machine, does it?" he said suspiciously.
    "Um... why do you ask?"
    "Because the destination is a very high place, Leonard, and your flying machines have an inevitable downwards component."
    "Yes, my lord. But I believe that sufficient down eventually becomes up, my lord."
    "Ah. Is this philosophy?"
    " Practical philosophy, my lord."
    "Nevertheless, I find myself amazed, Leonard, that you appear to have come up with a solution just as soon as I presented the problem..."

Leonard of Quirm cleaned his brush. "I always say, my lord, that a problem correctly posed contains its own solution. But it is true to say that I have given some thought to issues of this nature. I do, as you know, experiment with devices... which of course, obedient to your views on this matter, I subsequently dismantle because there are, indeed, evil men in the world who might stumble upon them and pervert their use. You were kind enough to give me a room with unlimited views of the sky, and I... notice things. Oh... I shall require several dozen swamp dragons, too. No, that should be... more than a hundred, I think."
    "Ah, you intend to build a ship that can be drawn into the sky by dragons?" said Lord Vetinari, mildly relieved. "I recall an old story about a ship that was pulled by swans and flew all the way to —"
    "Swans, I fear, would not work. But your surmise is broadly correct, my lord. Well done. Two hundred dragons, I suggest, to be on the safe side."
    "That at least is not a difficulty. They are becoming rather a pest."
    "And the help of, oh, sixty apprentices and journeymen from the Guild of Cunning Artificers. Perhaps there should be a hundred. They will need to work round the clock."
    "Apprentices? But I can see to it that the finest craftsmen —"
    Leonard held up a hand.
    "Not craftsmen, my lord," he said. "I have no use for people who have learned the limits of the possible."
    The Horde found Cohen sitting on an ancient burial mound a little way from the camp.
    There were a lot of them in this area. The members of the Horde had seen them before, sometimes, on their various travels across the world. Here and there an ancient stone would poke through the snow, carved in a language none of them recognised. They were very old. None of the Horde had ever considered cutting into a mound to see what treasures might lie within. Partly this was because they had a word for people who used shovels, and that word was 'slave'. But mainly it was because, despite their calling, they had a keen moral Code, even if it wasn't the sort adopted by nearly everyone else, and this Code led them to have a word for anyone who disturbed a burial mound. That word was 'die!'.
    The Horde, each member a veteran of a thousand hopeless charges, nevertheless advanced cautiously towards Cohen, who was sitting cross-legged in the snow. His sword was thrust deep into a drift. He had a distant, worrying