Nation - Пратчетт Терри Дэвид Джон - Страница 47

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“Leave the lamps here,” panted Mau. “We don’t need them now. I’m going to carry him!”

He scooped up the priest and slung him over his back.

They ran. The dot didn’t seem to get bigger. No one looked back. There was no point. All you could do was face the speck of day and run until your legs screamed.

They only looked at the god statues, thought Daphne, trying to keep her mind off what was crashing down behind them. They should have looked at the walls! But of course they wouldn’t have known what they were looking at! It’s lucky I’m here… in a way.

Something crunched under her foot. She risked a quick glance down and saw little bits of bone bouncing along, overtaking her.

“They’re right behind us!”

“I know,” said Mau. “Run faster!”

“I can’t. The dust is going to get me!”

“Does not happen! Give me your hand!” Mau shifted the weight of the old priest on his back and grabbed her hand, almost jerking her off her feet. Mau’s legs were pounding across the rock as if driven by steam. All she could do was kick at the ground whenever it came near, to stop herself being dragged along it.

Now the circle of daylight was getting closer, and after having been so tiny for so long, it was opening fast. The ancient dust, which stung the skin and choked the throat, ran ahead of them across the ceiling, cutting out the daylight.

— they burst into evening sunlight, suddenly and intensely bright after the gloom of the tunnel. It dazzled the eyes, and Daphne felt herself begin to stumble into the sea of white that had taken the place of the world. Mau must have been blinded too, because he let go of her. There was nothing for it but to put her arms over her head and hope for a soft place to fall.

She staggered and folded up, while the dust of the Grandfathers, free after thousands of years, escaped at last on the wind, streaming away across the mountain.

It would have been nice if she’d heard thousands of little voices fading away as the cloud of dust was scattered to the wind, but to her regret she didn’t. Reality so often fails when it comes to small, satisfying details, she thought.

She could hear people now, and her sight was coming back. She could make out the ground in front of her as she carefully pushed herself up.

The dry, dusty grass crackled softly and someone walked into her view.

There were boots! Big sturdy boots with tight laces, caked with sand and salt! And above the boots, there were trousers! Real, heavy trouserman trousers! She said he would come and he had! Just in time, too!

She stood up, and the shock hit her like a shovel.

“Well, well, your ladyship, here’s a stroke of luck,” said the man, grinning at her. “So the ol’ Judy fetched up here, eh? Who’d have thought the ol’ bugger could manage it. Didn’t do him any good, I see, bein’ as it’s his hat I do see on that darkie’s head. What happened to the old fool? Ate him, did they? And never said no grace aforehand, too, I have no doubt. I bet that made him wild!”

Foxlip! Not the worst of the mutineers, but that didn’t mean much because he had two pistols in his belt, and they don’t care who pulls the trigger.

Most of the islanders were in the clearing. They must have led the men up here. Why shouldn’t they? She’d been saying for weeks that her father would find her. Most of them had probably never even seen a trouserman before.

“Where’s your friend, Mr. Foxlip? Is Mr. Polegrave with you?” she asked, managing a smile.

“Right here, miss,” said a hoarse voice.

She shuddered. Polegrave! And where she could not see him, which was even worse. He’d sidled up behind her, as was his way, the sneaky little worm.

“And will we be joined by Mr. Cox?” she asked, trying to hold on to the smile.

Foxlip looked around the little valley. He was counting people; she could see his lips moving.

“Him? I shot ’im,” said Foxlip.

Liar, she thought. You wouldn’t dare. You’re not that brave. You’re not even that stupid. If you missed, he’d have cut your heart out. Good heavens, a couple of months ago I wouldn’t have been able to even think a sentence like that. How broad can horizons get?

“Well done, you,” she said.

Her thoughts tumbled through her head. Two men with pistols. And they’d fire them, too. If she said the wrong thing, someone would get killed. She had to get them away from here — get them away and remind them that she was valuable to them.

“My father will pay you a great deal if you get me to Port Mercia, Mr. Foxlip,” she said.

“Oh, I daresay there will be a lot of payin’ one way or another, yes, I daresay,” said Foxlip, looking around again. “There’s ways and ways, oh yes. So you’re the queen of the savages, are you? One white girl, all by yourself. Terrible shame. I bet you could do with a bit o’ civilized company, such as might be provided by a pair of gentlemen such as us — well, I say us, but o’ course Mr. Polegrave here does indulge in the questionable habit o’ wiping his boogers on his sleeve, but bishops have been known to do worse.”

And, later on, she thought, It could still have worked if it hadn’t been for Ataba.

He’d seen the gods, in the darkness underground. And now he was spinning with the holy memory. He was out of breath and confused, but he had seen the gods, and all uncertainty had been blown away with the dust of history. They were made of stone, indeed, but they had gleamed in their hidden home, and he was sure they had spoken to him, told him that everything he believed was true, and that in this new world he would be their prophet, delivered out of the darkness on the burning wings of certainty.

And there were… trousermen! The bringers of all that was bad! They were a disease that weakened the soul! They brought steel and beef and infernal devices, which made people lazy and stupid! But now the holy fire had filled him, just in time.

They all heard him scream ancient curses and march across the clearing with his knees clicking loudly. Daphne barely understood any of it. The words tumbled out on top of one another, fighting to be heard. Who knew what his blazing eyes were really seeing as he snatched a spear from a young man and waved it menacingly at Foxlip —

— who shot him dead.

THE CRACK OF THE PISTOL echoed around the mountain. It was even louder in Daphne’s head. Ataba went over backward, like a falling tree.

Only Milo and Pilu know what’s just happened, she thought. No one else here has even seen a gun before. There was a loud noise and the old man fell over. I might just be able to stop everyone from being killed. Mau was crouched over the body of Ataba, halfway toward getting up. She waved at him frantically to stay down.

Then Foxlip committed suicide. He didn’t know it at the time, but that’s how it started.

He pulled out his other pistol and growled, “Tell ’em not to move. First one who does, he’s a dead darkie. You tell ’em that right now!”

She stepped forward with her hands up. “I know these men! They’re Foxlip and Polegrave! They were crew on the Sweet Judy. They kill people! They shot Mister Wainsly and Mister Plummer! They laughed about it! They — Pilu, tell them what a gun is!”

“They are bad men!” said Milo.

“Yes! They are! And they’ve got more pistols. Look! Stuck in their belts!”

“You mean the spark-makers?” said Mau, still crouched. She could see his muscles, wound up to spring.

Oh dear, thought Daphne, what a time to have a good memory….

“There’s no time to explain. They can point them at you and kill you better than any spear. And they will kill you, do you understand? And they probably won’t kill me. I’d be worth too much. Keep away. This is between… trouser-people!”

“But you pointed one at me — ”

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