‘Good of you to say that, lads,’ he mumbled. ‘I mean, you know, if it was up to me I wouldn't do this to yer, but I got a reputation to—’

‘I said we understand,’ said Cohen. ‘It's just like with us. You see a big hairy thing galloping towards you, you don't stop to think: Is this a rare species on the point of extinction? No, you hack its head off. 'Cos that's heroing, am I right? An' you see someone, you betray 'em, quick as wink, 'cos that's villaining.’

There was a murmur of approval from the rest of the Horde. In a strange way, this too was part of the Code.

‘You're letting him go?’ said the minstrel.

‘Of course. You haven't been paying attention, lad. The Dark Lord always gets away. But you'd better put in the song that he betrayed us. That'll look good.’

‘And… er… you wouldn't mind saying I fiendishly tried to cut your throats?’ said Harry.

‘All right,’ said Cohen loftily. ‘Put in that he fought like a black-hearted tiger.’

Harry wiped a tear from his eye. ‘Thanks, lads,’ he said. ‘I don't know what to say. I won't forget this. This could turn things right round for me.’

‘But do us a favour and see the bard gets back all right, though, will you?’ said Cohen.

‘Sure,’ said Evil Harry.

‘Um… I'm not going back,’ said the minstrel.

This surprised everyone. It certain surprised him. But life had suddenly opened two roads in front of him. One of them led back to a life singing songs about love and flowers. The other could lead anywhere. There was something about these old men that made the first choice completely impossible. He couldn't explain it. That was just how it was.

‘You've got to go back—’ said Cohen.

‘No, I've got to see how it ends,’ said the minstrel. ‘I must be mad, but that's what I want to do.’

‘You can make that bit up,’ said Vena.

‘No, ma'am,’ said the minstrel. ‘I don't think I can. I don't think this is going to end in any way that I could make up. Not when I look at Mr Cohen there in his fish hat and Mr Willie as the God of Being Sick Again. No, I want to come along. Mr Dread can wait for me here. And I'll be perfectly safe, sir. No matter what. Because I'm absolutely certain that when the gods find they're under attack by a man with a tomato on his head and another one disguised as the Muse of Swearing they're really, really going to want the whole world to know what happened next.’

Leonard was still out cold. Rincewind tried mopping his brow with a wet sponge.

‘Of course I watched him,’ said Carrot, glancing back at the gently moving levers. ‘But he built it, so it was easy for him. Um… I shouldn't touch that, sir…’

The Librarian had swung himself into the driver's seat and was sniffing the levers. Somewhere underneath them, the automatic tiller clicked and purred.

‘We're going to have to come up with some ideas soon,’ Rincewind said. ‘It won't fly itself for ever.’

‘Perhaps if we gently… I shouldn't do that, sir—’

The Librarian gave the pedals a cursory glance. Then he pushed Carrot away with one hand while the other unhooked Leonard's flying goggles from their hook. His feet curled around the pedals. He pushed the handle that operated Prince Haran's Tiller and, far under his feet, something went thud.

Then, as the ship shook, he cracked his knuckles, reached out, waggled his fingers for a moment, and grabbed the steering column.

Carrot and Rincewind dived for their seats.

The gates of Dunmanifestin swung open, apparently by themselves. The Silver Horde walked inside, keeping together, peering around suspiciously.

‘You better mark our cards for us, lad,’ whispered Cohen, looking around the busy streets. ‘I wasn't expecting this.’

‘Sir?’ said the minstrel.

‘We expected a lot of carousing in a big 'all,’ said Boy Willie. ‘Not… shops. And everyone's different sizes!’

‘Gods can be any size, I reckon,’ said Cohen, as gods hurried towards them.

‘Maybe we could… come back another time?’ said Caleb.

The doors slammed behind them.

‘No,’ said Cohen.

And suddenly there was a crowd around them.

‘You must be the new gods,’ said a voice from the sky. ‘Welcome to Dunmanifestin! You'd better come along with us!’

‘Ah, the God of Fish,’ said a god to Cohen, falling in beside him. ‘And how are the fish, your mightiness?’

‘Er… what?’ said Cohen. ‘Oh… er… wet. Still very wet. Very wet things.’

‘And things?’ a goddess asked Hamish. ‘How are things?’

‘Still lyin' aroond!’

‘And are you omnipotent?’

‘Aye, lass, but there's pills I'm takin' f'r it!’

‘And you're the Muse of Swearing?’ said a god to Truckle.

‘Bloody right!’ said Truckle desperately.

Cohen looked up and saw Offler the Crocodile God. He wasn't a god who was hard to recognise, but in any case Cohen had seen him many times before. His statue in temples throughout the world was a pretty good likeness, and now was the time for a man to reflect on the fact that so many of those temples had been left a good deal poorer as a result of Cohen's activities. He didn't, however, because it was not the kind of thing he ever did. But it did seem to him that the Horde was being hustled along. ‘Where're we off to, friend?’ he said.

‘To watch the Gameth, your fithneth,’ said Offler.

‘Oh, yeah. That's where yo – we play around with u – mortals, right?’ said Cohen.

‘Yes, indeed,’ said a god on the other side of Cohen. ‘And currently we've found some mortals actually attempting to enter Dunmanifestin.’

‘The devils, eh?’ said Cohen pleasantly. ‘Give 'em a taste of hot thunderbolt, that's my advice. It's the only language they understand.’

‘Mostly because it's the only language you use,’ mumbled the minstrel, eyeing the surrounded gods.

‘Yes, we thought something like that would be a good idea,’ said the god. ‘I'm Fate, by the way.’

‘Oh, you're Fate?’ said Cohen, as they reached the gaming table. ‘Always wanted to meet you. I thought you were supposed to be blind?’

‘No.’

‘How about if someone stuck two fingers in yer eyes?’

‘I'm sorry?’

‘Just my little joke.’

‘Ha. Ha,’ said Fate. ‘I wonder, O God of Fish, how good a player you are?’

‘Never been much of a gambler,’ said Cohen, as a solitary die appeared between Fate's fingers. ‘A mug's game.’

‘Perhaps you would care for a little… venture?’

The crowd went silent. The minstrel looked into Fate's bottomless eyes, and knew that if you played dice with Fate the roll was always fixed.

You could have heard a sparrow fall.

‘Yeah,’ said Cohen, at last. ‘Why not?’

Fate tossed the die on to the board. ‘Six,’ he said, without breaking eye contact.

‘Right,’ said Cohen. ‘So I've got to a get a six too, yeah?’

Fate smiled. ‘Oh, no. You are, after all, a god. And gods play to win. You, O mighty one, must throw a seven.’

‘Seven?’ said the minstrel.

‘I fail to see why this should present a difficulty,’ said Fate, ‘to one entitled to be here.’

Cohen turned the die over and over. It had the regulation six sides.

‘I could see that could present a difficulty,’ he said, ‘but only for mortals, o' course.’ He tossed the die up in the air once or twice. ‘Seven?’ he said.

‘Seven,’ said Fate.

‘Could be a knotty one,’ said Cohen.

The minstrel stared at him, and felt a shiver run down his spine.

‘You'll remember I said that, lad?’ Cohen added.

The Kite banked through high cloud.

‘Ook!’ said the Librarian happily.

‘He flies it better than Leonard did!’ said Rincewind.

‘It must come more… easily,’ whispered Carrot. ‘You know… what with him being naturally atavistic.’