Eric by Terry Pratchett Page A

the Tezuman god, he’d been really impressed by their single-minded devotion to duty, he’d been very gratified by the incredible lifelike statue in the pyramid, and it really hurt to have to reveal that, in one important particular, it was incorrect.
    He was six inches high.
    “Now then,” he began, “this is very important—”
    Unfortunately, no one ever found out why. At that moment the Luggage breasted the top of the pyramid, its legs whirring like propellers, and landed squarely on the slabs.
    There was a brief, flat squeak.

    It was a funny old world, said da Quirm. You had to laugh, really. If you didn’t, you’d go mad, wouldn’t you? One minute strapped to a slab and about to undergo exquisite torture, the next being given breakfast, a change of clothes, a hot tub and a free lift out of the kingdom. It made you believe there was a god. Of course, the Tezumen knew there was a god, and that he was currently a small and distressing greasy patch on top of the pyramid. Which left them with a bit of a problem.
    The Luggage squatted in the city’s main plaza. The entire priesthood was sitting around it and watching it carefully, in case it did anything amusing or religious.
    “Are you going to leave it behind?” said Eric.
    “It’s not as simple as that,” said Rincewind. “It generally catches up. Let’s just go away quickly.”
    “But we’ll take the tribute, won’t we?”
    “I think that could be an amazingly bad idea,” said Rincewind. “Let’s just quietly go, while they’re in a good temper. The novelty will wear off soon, I expect.”
    “And I’ve got to get on with my search for the Fountain of Youth,” said da Quirm.
    “Oh, yes,” said Rincewind.
    “I’ve devoted my whole life to it, you know,” said the old man proudly.
    Rincewind looked him up and down. “Really?” he said.
    “Oh, yes. Exclusively. Ever since I was a boy.”
    Rincewind’s expression was one of acute puzzlement.
    “In that case,” he began, in the manner of one talking to a child, “wouldn’t it have been better…you know, more sensible…if you’d just got on with…”
    “What?” said da Quirm.
    “Oh, never mind,” said Rincewind. “I’ll tell you what, though,” he added, “I think, in order to prevent you getting, you know, bored , we should present you with this wonderful talking parrot.” He made a swift grab, while keeping his thumbs firmly out of harm’s way. “It’s a jungle fowl,” he said. “Cruel to subject it to city life, isn’t it?”
    “I was born in a cage, you raving wossname!” screamed the parrot. Rincewind faced it, nose to beak.
    “It’s that or fricassee time,” he said. The parrot opened its beak to bite his nose, saw his expression, and thought better of it.
    “Polly want a biscuit,” it managed, adding, sotto voce, “wossnamewossnamewossname.”
    “A dear little bird of my very own,” said da Quirm. “I shall look after it.”
    “wossnamewossname.”
    They reached the jungle. A few minutes later the Luggage trotted after them.

    It was noon in the kingdom of Tezuma.
    From inside the main pyramid came the sounds of a very large statue being dismantled.
    The priests sat around thoughtfully. Occasionally one of them stood up and made a short speech.
    It was clear that points were being made. For example, how the economics of the kingdom depended on a buoyant obsidian knife industry, how the enslaved neighboring kingdoms had come to rely on the smack of firm government, and incidentally on the hack, slash and disemboweling of firm government as well, and on the terrible fate that awaited any people who didn’t have gods. Godless people might get up to anything , they might turn against the fine old traditions of thrift and non-self-sacrifice that had made the kingdom what it was today, they might start wondering why, if they didn’t have a god, they needed all these priests, anything .
    The point was well put by Mazuma, the high priest, when he said: