Due Rimward

Part I

by Paul E. Jamison

 

PROLOGUE

In which the nature of Green Gas is discussed [You can skip this part if you want and go directly to the story; just think of Green Gas as a chaos generator and you should be fine.]

 

In the Beginning, everything started.

 

This is, granted, not a particularly useful thing to say. But it's the only statement that you'll get almost every Cosmologist to agree with. If you go beyond this, you get into arguments. Someone will say, "The act of Creation implies the existence of a Creator." Someone else will say, "Where did that come from?" A third person will say, "The chances of it all starting by chance are statistically infinitesmal", to which yet another person will reply, "It only had to happen once"… And so on. Eventually it will end in a fist fight.

 

[NOTE: There are, of course, some Cosmologists who will disagree with the whole "In the Beginning…" thing. They'll tell you that the Multiverse has been and will be around forever. But deep down they don't really believe it. No one can comprehend the concept of Infinity, so nobody really believes in it. So the Infinitists are generally ignored by everyone else. Unless they get obnoxious about it, in which case everyone else joins forces and beats them up.  Cosmology is a far more exciting field than most people realize.]

 

For current purposes, let's assume that there was a Creator. And, to placate some traditionalists and to upset other traditionalists, let's refer to this Creator as She.

 

Now, one day (using the word "day" figuratively), She decides to Create the Universe. She has some options available. She can Create everything all at once, complete, ready-to-run; the Creator is omniscient, after all. But where's the fun in that? It's much more interesting to put the final product together using a relatively small set of common building blocks. Of course, if the Creator wanted to be elegant about it, She would put together her set of building blocks from a smaller set of more common building blocks, which She would make from an even smaller set… By reductio-ing this ad absurdum, One starts out with a single, simple substance – the Ultimate Building Block.

 

Unfortunately, this means that everything – and one should take "everything" quite literally in this case – that you end up with depends entirely on the properties of the Ultimate Building Block you begin with. If there's something wonky about the Ultimate Building Block, the final product will be Really Out There In Left Field, in cosmic terms. No Creator wants that. So, She had to be very careful about Creating Her Ultimate Building Block.

 

This is tricky, especially if a Creator is Creating Her very first Universe. It's quite easy to get it wrong on the first try, and the resulting Ultimate Building Block will be all sorts of trouble to work with.

 

For the Creator we're considering, Green Gas was the first try, and as Ultimate Building Blocks go, Green Gas is a lulu. She found, once She had made it, that She had no control whatsoever over Green Gas, and that not a single constructive thing could be done with it.  Green Gas was, quite simply, Chaos, with a capital C-H-A-O-S. Its effects were unpredictable, and before She was able to contain it, Her whole Universe was a total cosmic mess. There was nothing else for Her to do but to tear it all down and start again, using a different Ultimate Building Block. Once She'd gotten to the level of quarks and mesons and gluons, She knew that the second one was the charm, and She went on from there.

 

You don't get rid of Green Gas so easily, though. There were still trace quantities of it floating about in the new Universe. Green Gas has caused some difficulties over the ages – civilizations have toppled, miracles have occurred where pockets of Green Gas have erupted – but not as often as it once did. It is extremely rare by now, and it's lost most of its potency; it can now be considered Chaos with merely a capital CH [NOTE: or a capital K, if you will]. But, when you do run across it today, it still packs a supernatural wallop.

 

Ask Benton Fraser and Ray Vecchio. They'll confirm this. Just make sure they're in a good mood.

 

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

 

Another day. Another drug bust. Another shootout in a Chicago warehouse.

 

Detective Ray Vecchio of the Chicago Police Department raised himself above the protection of a crate and fired his gun. As he ducked back down, he said, "You know, Fraser, one of these days you really oughta get a local gun permit! It would make things a lot easier!"

 

Beside him, Constable Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police calmly replied, "Well, you're probably right, Ray. I've just been busy."

 

"Yeah, well, at a time like this, a cop could use all the help he can get from his partner!"

 

"Oh, I'm sorry. Here." Fraser picked up a can and tossed it over the crates. It hit something, which said "Ouch!"

 

"Does that help, Ray?"

 

"Well… yeah, I guess it does. But I still think you need that permit!"

 

There was a bark, and Ray said, "No, you got yours already! Fraser, why did you have to bring the wolf with us?"

 

"Diefenbaker gets bored in the car, Ray."

 

"It's not boring now, is it? After today, I'm betting he'll enjoy boredom!"

 

Ray and Fraser were quiet as the exchange of gunfire continued. Finally Fraser said, "Wait, Ray, I think they're running low on ammunition."

 

"What gave you that idea, Sherlock Mountie? The guy that just told the whole world that 'Oh, Obscenity, I'm out of bullets!'?"

 

"Uh… yes, actually."

 

"Nothing gets past you – Okay, punks! Put down your guns and come out with your hands up! I'm not out of ammo!"

 

Ray got no answer, beyond someone muttering what sounded like, "Blasted thing cost us five holdups." Then something came flying over the crates and landed at Fraser and Ray's feet.

 

Fraser said, "Oh, dear – gas grenade."

 

Just as they began to scramble up, gas began to shoot out of the grenade. Neon green gas.

 

Ray howled. "Aww, NO! They've got hold of that stuff! They coulda gone with some lousy tear gas! They could've even used a frag grenade! But, noooo! These creeps have to use green –”

 

Ray opened his eyes and looked into the deep blue sky. He could feel the grass under his back. "…gas."

 

"Ray, are you all right?"

 

"Yeah, Benny, I feel fine…" He sat up and looked at Fraser. "Aw, terrific!"

 

"What's wrong, Ray?" Fraser sat up as well. Gone was the familiar red serge uniform. Fraser was wearing a peasant shirt and pair of baggy pants, made of coarse cloth, and a pair of suede leather boots.

 

"Your clothes are what's the matter, Fraser! If you're dressed that way, then I'm…" Ray looked down at his own shirt and pants. "Fine. That's just terrific! I start out today wearing a new Armani suit – granted, later I'm kneeling on the floor in a warehouse, ruining the pants, but at least it was a suit! Now I'm dressed like an extra at the local Renn Faire! What's that tell you, Fraser?"

 

"Well… It's possible that the criminals changed our clothing and left us out in the countryside."

 

Ray got up and began to honor his Italian heritage by pacing back and forth and waving his arms around while he talked. "Yeah, right. It's possible! But not very likely, is it? That was Green Gas, Fraser! Ares called it "pure Chaos from the Beginning of Time"! Even Gods like him don't mess with it! You know what happened the last time you sniffed some Green Gas – you switched places with Xena the Warrior Queen!"

 

"Princess."

 

"What!?"

 

"Warrior Princess. Xena was a Warrior Princess, not a Queen."

 

"Queen, Princess – whatever! You were her and she was you, and you and I had to go find some Inuit medicine man in Canada to straighten it all out!"

 

"Now that's not quite true, Ray. It was Xena you traveled to Canada with – granted, she was in my body, but it was basically her. Gabrielle and I – when I was in Xena's body – had to travel ourselves, to an Amazon sorceress –”

 

"Stop that, Fraser! There you go again, getting all nitpicky about the details and ignoring the big picture! Who traveled with who is not the point! The point is that Green Gas does totally unpredictable things to anyone who inhales it! And that's just what happened to us!"

 

"Ah. Right. Um… at least we're still in our own bodies."

 

"Yeah. Thank goodness for small favors. I look terrible in a dress. But there's still a little problem. We don't know where we are, or even when we are! I might be jumping to conclusions here, Benny, but I don't think that we're even close to the 20th Century anymore – not with these duds!"

 

Fraser studied his clothing. "I believe you're right, Ray. However, I can't tell for certain what time period this clothing represents; it could be anything from the early Middle Ages to the Late Renaissance. The boots are quite nice, though."

 

Ray sighed. "Okay. Right. We're lost and we're stuck here, whenever here is. And we're wearing some good boots. What do we do now?"

 

Fraser stood up. "Well, the answers aren't going to come to us while we wait – we're going to have to go looking for them!"

 

Ray nodded. "Yeah, that makes sense. So we hoof it. Figures. We might – aw, no…"

 

"What's wrong, Ray?"

 

Ray pointed over to where Diefenbaker lay sprawled in the grass. "The wolf isn't moving. Benny – the Gas – could Dief –?"

 

Fraser bent over Diefenbaker and looked closely at him. "No, he's not, Ray. Dief is being lazy." Fraser shouted at the wolf, "Come on and get up! You're not fooling anybody!"

 

The wolf didn't move, except to open one eye and stare at the human balefully. Finally, reluctantly, Diefenbaker rose.

 

Ray shrugged. "Can't blame him, I guess – it is kind of peaceful here. Okay, Daniel Boone, which way do we go?"

 

Fraser said, "I'd say we should –” He looked in one direction; he looked in another direction. Then he looked worried. "Oh, dear."

 

"What's wrong?"

 

"I can't tell which way to go! Normally I have an excellent sense of direction – but I can't feel it now!" He looked at Ray in horror. "I could get lost here."

 

Diefenbaker whined. Fraser continued, "Dief feels the same way. His own animal instincts seem to be useless."

 

Ray had been with Fraser long enough to respect the other man's remarkable senses, so this worried him. "What's causing it, Benny? Is it where we are?"

 

"I think it is, Ray. When I was back in Xena's day, I still could find my way around easily. So it's not a question of when. It's where. Wherever we are, we're very, very far away from our own land." Fraser looked at Ray. "We may not even be on Earth."

 

All Ray could say was, "Oh, dear…"

 

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

 

In the end, Ray and Fraser just picked one direction and started walking that way.

 

"What we'll do, Ray, is travel in a straight line until we come across a river and follow it downstream. We'll either come across a settlement along the banks, or at worst will eventually come to an ocean. There are bound to be seaports along the shore somewhere."

 

"And what if there aren't any settlements or seaports, Fraser? You said this might be a different world – what if there's no intelligent life here?"

 

"If that had been the case, Ray, we would have woken up naked." Ray couldn't think of an argument against that, and so they started hiking, with Diefenbaker trailing behind.

 

Luck turned out to be with them. In less than an hour they came across their first sign of civilization.

 

"Aha! A road! A paved one at that! Excellent!"

 

"Yeah, it's a road, all right, but it's not exactly Interstate 75. What, haven't these folks invented asphalt yet? They gotta make do with big bricks? I wouldn't want to drive the Riv along here!"

 

"Well, this is the way the Romans built their roads, Ray, and it suited their needs just fine."

 

"The surface looks worn down in places. You think people still use this?"

 

"I'm sure they do, Ray. Someone has kept the road clear of grass and weeds. – And we're in further luck; here comes someone!" A two-wheeled cart, pulled along by two donkeys, was making its way down the road.

 

The driver was the roundest man Ray had ever seen. It wasn't just that he had no neck – he had no hips either. He had an equally round head, topped with a woolen cap. Fraser waved him down.

 

"Whoa, Terence! Whoa, Philip! Hello, there – what can I do for you gentlemen?" The man in the cart spoke with a very nasal voice.

 

"How do you do, sir! My name is Benton Fraser and this is my friend, Ray Vecchio. We're from… another country, and we seem to be lost. Perhaps you could tell us where we are?"

 

"No problemo! My name is Eric, and you're on the main road between the cities of Ankh-Morpork and Sto Lat – right about halfway between them, in fact."

 

"Ah!" Fraser smiled. "Thank you kindly! Sto Lat and Ankh-Morpork! I see! Never heard of either one."

 

Eric, the man in the cart, replied, "Really! Never heard of Ankh-Morpork or Sto Lat? Where on the Disc have you been?"

 

Ray wondered at the use of the word "disc" but said nothing. Fraser tried to be dismissive about the question. "Oh, well… here and there, really. We've had a lot on our minds lately."

 

Fraser then hesitated. "My friend and I need to travel to either one or another of those places. I have to ask you a strange question, if you don't mind. Ankh-Morpork or Sto Lat – which of those places is more… important?"

 

Eric sighed. "Well, now. It depends on who you ask, doesn't it? Some folks would say that Sto Lat is much more important, because they live there – like I do. Others would think that Ankh-Morpork is much more influential than Sto Lat – as if that's a good answer. At any rate, Ankh-Morpork is much larger than Sto Lat. Is that what you want to know?"

 

Ray spoke up. "Alright! Benny, I think the bigger one is for us! We oughta get some help there! Thanks loads for the info, fella! Now, which way to Ankh-Morpork?"

 

Eric pointed back over his shoulder. "Ankh-Morpork is that way, about ten miles Rimwards. I'm just coming from there myself." He pointed forward. "Sto Lat is that way, Hubwards about ten miles, and will I be glad to get home!"

 

Ray and Fraser stared silently at him for a few seconds, then turned and stared silently at each other for a few more seconds. Then they stared again at the man in the cart.

 

Finally, Fraser said, "Rimwards."

 

"Yessir. That way." Eric pointed behind him again.

 

"And Hubwards."

 

"Yep."

 

"Like on a wheel – that type of Rimwards and Hubwards?"

 

Eric chuckled. "Of course like a wheel! This is the Disc, isn't it?"

 

Ray and Fraser looked at each other again. Ray asked, "Are you saying this world is flat?"

 

Eric thought for a moment. "Well, not entirely flat. The Ramtop mountains make it a little lumpy." Then his mind finished processing the conversation and he frowned at the two men. "Are you saying it isn't?"

 

It was time for some quick thinking on the part of Fraser and Ray. For Fraser, quick thinking was along the lines of We're strangers trapped on a strange world, and we have no idea how long we'll be stuck here, and if we question the prevailing belief system, we'll get in trouble. For Ray, quick thinking was Follow Benny's lead. So they both began denying that they were saying any such thing.

 

"Oh, no, no, no! It's just – for the past few months we've been – ah…"

 

"Detained!"

 

"That's right, Ray! Detained! – We've been detained and we've forgotten so much about the world around us – so…" Fraser petered out.

 

Eric scowled suspiciously at them. He asked in a cold – and nasally – voice, "And just where have you been detained that you'd forget something like that?"

 

Ray stammered, "Well, sir – we were – we were in…"

 

"The insane asylum!"

 

Ray's first thought was that this was a bit much, and he had to restrain himself from yelling at Fraser. But then, he thought about it a little more and realized that this was an excellent answer. A person can get away with a lot if they're fresh out of the loony bin. He said, "Yeah, that's right. We didn't want to say anything, because – well… But we were cured, so they let us go! Things are fine for us now! Right, Benny?"

 

"Perfectly correct, Ray."

 

And Eric bought it. The suspicious frown cleared away. The man in the cart said, "Okay, that makes sense. You have been out of it, haven't you? If that's the case, I would recommend Ankh-Morpork. You two would fit right in there!"

 

"Thank you kindly – I think. Just a couple of questions about directions and we'll be on our way." Fraser extended his right arm out. "That direction is…"

 

"Turnwise."

 

Fraser extended his left arm. "And that is…"

 

"Widdershins."

 

"Very good. Thank you again."

 

"You're quite welcome. I've got a question for you guys now. I'm curious." The man in the cart leaned forward. "What were you guys in the booby hatch for? How crazy were you?"

 

There is a difference between quick thinking and inspired thinking. Following Fraser's lead earlier had been quick thinking on Ray's part. Now he had a truly inspired idea. He leaned forward himself and replied, "You wouldn't believe it – we were really out there. We actually thought the World is round!"

 

Eric pondered this briefly, then said, "That is out there. I'd say it almost goes beyond insanity and gets into Religion. Sweet! Well, I'm heading in the opposite direction, so we'll be parting company. Best of luck in Ankh-Morpork. Bugger this, you guys – I'm going home!"

 

"Thanks again – goodbye!" And Fraser and Ray headed down the road as Eric got the donkeys moving forward again. For some time, the man in the cart could be heard singing a cheerfully insulting song about the mother of somebody named Kyle.

 

As they began to hike down the road to Ankh-Morpork, Ray said, "Say, Benny, we've got no idea where the Gas sent us. This may not even be our Universe. Do you think this world may really be flat?"

 

"I don't know, Ray. Perhaps the laws of Physics are different here. I know Dief and I feel different here. It might be that we can sense the magnetic fields like back home, and there aren't any here. In any case, I'm not sure that the shape of the world will make any difference to us."

 

"Yeah, but you never know. It would be nice to find out. Now I'm not saying I believe we're on a disc of some kind! But you're right – it doesn't seem to make any never mind for us."

 

After awhile, Ray spoke again. "Hey, Benny, how far have we walked since we woke up?"

 

"About 16 kilometers, Ray."

 

"Could you translate that into English?"

 

"Approximately ten miles."

 

"Ah – Fraser, what would you call the phrase 'healthy Chicago boy'?"

 

"I don't know, Ray. What do you think I should call it?"

 

"An oxymoron, that's what! I'll be the first to admit that I'm not a fine physical specimen. I've eaten Ma's cooking all my life –”

 

"Your Mother is a fine cook, Ray."

 

"Yeah, that's nice of you, Benny. But she's an Italian cook. Heavy on the starches and the cholesterol and all that stuff that's not good for you, and that's been my principal diet for years. I don't exercise – if I have to travel farther than two blocks I jump in the Riv. And the wolf can tell you how many donuts I snarf down at my desk. What I'm saying is that I'm not in good physical shape, and here I've walked over ten miles. My feet aren't used to that! Do you know how my feet feel right now?"

 

"Are you saying your feet hurt, Ray?"

 

Ray shook his head. "That's just it, Benny! My feet fell fine! I'm walking farther than I've ever walked at one time, and no sore toes or blisters on the heels. The way I feel now, I could probably walk twice as far as we have! It's bugging me, I can tell you!"

 

"Ah. I'd say then that these are very very good boots!"

 

"Remind me never to make fun of you again for fussing over your boots back home."

 

"I'll do that, Ray."

 

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

 

Lance Constable Goree of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch paced along the walkway above the Hubward Gate, occasionally glancing down at the foot traffic. He was also working on his opera.

 

Theoretically speaking, the duties of a Gate Watchman consisted of keeping an eye out for any invading barbarian hordes and, on sighting same, raising the alarm. In addition, the Watchman was supposed to observe the traffic in and out of the gate, note any suspicious-looking individuals and send a runner to the Gatewatch Sergeant to inform him about it.

 

In practice, the Watchman's duties were a bit more relaxed. Invading barbarian hordes would be easy to spot, for one thing. [NOTE: The gates were never closed to invaders in any case. The citizens of Ankh-Morpork had the ability of separating a barbarian's ready cash from him in exchange for cheaply made souvenirs, postcards and restaurant guides, and if he ran out of ready cash early, well, that sword and that chain mail ought to be worth something, Squire, so let's talk. An invading barbarian horde quickly became yet another minority community in Ankh-Morpork.]

 

As for checking for suspicious persons – It's easy to see how boring that would become, eight hours a day, day in and day out. Long before it's time to receive the Scroll and the Golden Sundial and retire on an inadequate pension, a Gate Watchman would go mad. So he learns how to place the visual-processing part of his brain on Autopilot and figures out something to keep the rest of his grey matter busy.

 

For Constable Goree, he occupied himself by composing his own opera. He'd attended a performance of The Magic Bassoon at the Ankh-Morpork Opera House not long after joining the Watch and had become fascinated with the intricacies that had to be involved with writing an opera. Did the composer actually write every single note for every single instrument in the orchestra? Every note sung by everyone on stage, down to the last spear-carrier? Did he work out every stage direction? Goree figured that it must be so. Later, while on duty at the Hubward Gate, he'd tried working it out in his head just how you went about it. Somewhere along the way, Goree worked out a plot to help visualize it all. And one thing lead to another…

 

Goree had purchased a seasonal subscription to the Opera House so he could watch and learn the details. More than once he'd had to throw out all his work and start again. Soon, he'd had something worth keeping, and within two years he'd composed the Grand Opera The Watcher at the Gate in his head. The three years since then had been taken up with fine-tuning and polishing. So much fine-tining and polishing, in fact, that if The Watcher at the Gate were ever performed, it would be acclaimed by critics and the public as a masterpiece. Goree didn't know this; he just told himself that it "seemed right – maybe work on this scene a little more".

 

One of these days, Goree knew, he'd have to write all this down and see what could be done with it. There were obstacles to overcome first, though. It would help him if he'd learn how to read.

 

On this day, there wasn't much Gate traffic. Constable Goree was pacing the walkway and trying to smooth out a rather rough flute solo in the Third Act, when his eyes skimmed over a couple of men, with a large dog, who were walking toward the Gate. A portion of his brain switched from Autopilot to Alert status and he swung around to look at the taller man more closely. His eyes widened, and the flutes went into complete discord.

 

Without a word, he motioned for his duty partner to come over. Constable Daphetid put aside his work on the Great Ankh-Morporkian Novel and did so. Daphetid was not an eye-widener; he was an eyebrow man. When the tall man was pointed out to him, his eyebrows climbed up and disappeared under the brim of his helmet.

 

Goree and Daphetid looked at each other, wide eyeball to ascending eyebrow, and then down at the two men and the dog entering the Gate. If it weren't for the hair color…

 

The two Gate Watchmen then shrugged, a gesture with "Not my problem" written all over it, and resumed pacing the Gate walkway.

 

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

 

Someone once said that Ankh-Morpork was like the institution of Marriage; specifically, "Those that are outside want to get in, and those that are inside want to get out". This is one of those remarks which are sometimes useful in getting a free round down at the local pub, but in general serve only to illustrate that the speaker doesn't really know much about the subject – in this case, both Ankh-Morpork and marriage.

 

In truth, Ankh-Morpork is like the institution of marriage; those that are outside do want to get in, and those on the inside speculate about what it's like outside and some do venture or are forced outside, but for the most part, they're at least comfortable inside. Oh, the outside looks attractive, and the insiders will complain once in awhile about the inside. But let an Outsider disparage the inside, and the Insiders become fiercely defensive.

 

In this way, Ankh-Morpork strongly resembles New York City. And Chicago.

 

When Ray realized that gasoline-powered vehicles didn't exist on this world, he felt the expected pangs of yearning for his beloved Riviera. But he also reasoned that, without the exhaust fumes, there would be much less pollution in a large city like Ankh-Morpork and therefore the air would smell better. He didn't think much on the alternative modes of transport – ie, the large, four-legged kind – or how they created pollution problems all their own. Cars don't create pollution that you can step in if you're not careful.

 

He and Fraser smelled Ankh-Morpork long before they saw it. It was the smell of a city of one million souls and no working sewer system. The citizens of Ankh-Morpork are oddly proud of the smell, and if they could bottle it, they'd sell it as a souvenir. [NOTE: It says much about the entrepreneurial spirit of the citizenry that even though they can't bottle it, they try and sell it anyway. The souvenir business is like that.]

 

Ray and Fraser saw a city that looked like depictions of old London – two- and three-story wooden houses and shops that fronted cobblestoned streets. There was a difference, though – the depictions of old London weren't usually crammed with people. Ankh-Morpork on a busy day was just as noisy and crowded as Chicago would be.

 

There were all sorts of people in the street; Ray did his best not to stare. He and Fraser fit right in; many folks were dressed like them. Some people were dressed in finer clothing, and some were dressed in rags. Then Ray and Fraser found out that not all of the people who lived in Ankh-Morpork were what is traditionally considered human.

 

Ray was in the process of dealing with the Ankh-Morpork Waste Disposal system – an open window on an upper story – and was not looking where he was going when he almost ran into a statue. It was a very tall statue, about eight feet high, and as he looked up at it, he could see that it was a particularly ugly one at that.

 

He was about to ask Fraser why someone would put an ugly statue in the middle of the sidewalk when the ugly statue said, "'Scuse me", and walked around Ray.

 

Ray stared at the creature as it made its way down the street; nobody else seemed surprised to see it – whatever it was. Ray looked around and saw that he was alone; Fraser hadn't stopped. "Fraser! Hey, Fraser!"

 

Fraser looked back. "Is something wrong, Ray?"

 

"Something wrong? You didn't see that – that thing??"

 

"Um, no, I'm afraid not, Ray; I wasn't paying attention. What thing was that?"

 

"Some thing! It was eight feet tall, ugly as sin and it looked like it was made out of rock! Do you have any idea what it was?"

 

"Hm. Most likely a troll."

 

"A troll?! A fairy-tale type troll that lives under bridges and gets into trouble with billy goats? You mean it's bad enough that we're on a strange world that might be flat – or it might not – but we've got mythical creatures with us?" Ray caught up with Fraser and they continued down the street. "Oh, that's just fine. What next? Elves? Dainty little fairies?"

 

"Watch where you're going, fella!"

 

Ray looked in front of him for the source of the voice. Then he looked down. There was a man scowling at him. A very short man. Stocky, with a long beard, rough features and equally rough clothing.

 

Ray held up his hands in the classic sarcastically-giving-up gesture that he could do so well. "Okay, okay. Sorry. I'll be more careful next time!" As they walked away, Ray said to Fraser, "That's what's next. We meet up with garden gnomes!"

 

Abruptly someone stepped in front of Ray. It was another little man; in fact, it was the same one, except that he scowled even more this time. The little man asked, very very calmly, "Who are you calling a gnome, mister?"

 

Ray could see that the little man had produced a very serviceable-looking axe from somewhere on his person. It was very sharp and very close to intimate portions of Ray. He carefully replied, "I'm not having any luck at all today, am I? I take it you're not a gnome?"

 

"Why, no, I'm not a gnome. I am not now, nor have I ever been, a gnome. No self-respecting dwarf from beneath the Ramtops would be caught dead admitting that he's a –” The word oozed contempt. “– gnome."

 

At which point the dwarf gave out a cry and disappeared.

 

This disoriented Ray somewhat – dwarfs didn't usually disappear like magic in the fairy tales. Then he looked further down, and there was the little man stretched out on his stomach at Ray's feet.

 

Clearly the dwarf was not down there voluntarily. He was face-to-face with a tiny little humanoid creature, who had hold of tiny little handfuls of the dwarf's shirt. In a squeaky little voice, the little creature said, "And what's wrong with being a gnome, might I ask, digger-boy?"

 

The dwarf tried to get up, but the gnome pulled him down again. Gnomes are far stronger than you'd expect; it's something to do with concentration of force in a small volume.

 

The dwarf growled, "Oh, nothing, I suppose. You get to see familiar things from a whole new angle. Things like the soles of people's shoes."

 

This was answered by a high-pitched growl that would cause a grizzly bear to remember that he had business elsewhere, and Ray could see a fight brewing. So could others; a crowd was already giving them some room and bets were being placed. The citizens of Ankh-Morpork are experts at the fine art of Spectating.

 

"Gentlemen, gentlemen – excuse me, but there's no need for anyone to get hurt. There's just been a misunderstanding."

 

Ray decided that he wasn't surprised; he'd come to know Fraser too well. He watched as Fraser tried to defuse the situation. Ray wondered if he could do it. There was quite a bit of hostility there. And a big axe. And from the way the crowd grumbled, they didn't like the idea of losing their entertainment. Maybe together the two of them could hold out for a few minutes…

 

Surprisingly, the gnome said, "I know you!"

 

Fraser looked nonplussed. "I beg your pardon?"

 

The dwarf said, "That's right. You're him, aren't you? Hair color's different, but I'd know that face anywhere."

 

"I'm sorry, but I don't know what you're talking about."

 

The gnome said, "He certainly sounds like him, doesn't he?" He let go of the dwarf's shirt and sighed. "All right, all right. We can do without a brawl, I guess. I'll back off if this dig– this dwarf will do the same thing."

 

The dwarf stood up and grudgingly nodded his head. "All right. It was just one of those cultural differences, I guess. Happens all the time." He picked up the axe and put it someplace. Then he reached down and gingerly shook hands with the gnome. The crowd grumbled a little more, but they dispersed quickly enough and everyone went on their way.

 

Before he left, the dwarf looked up at Fraser and said, "Next time you write your Dad, tell him Old Thunderguts says 'Hello'."

 

The two men stared after the dwarf as he walked away. Ray turned to Fraser and asked, "What was that all about?!"

 

Fraser looked thunderstruck. He finally replied, "I don't know."

 

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

 

It's important for a person to have a sense of humor. Like it says in the old fable about the mighty oak tree and the grass, sometimes you have to bend or else you'll break. [NOTE: The tree bragged about how strong it was compared to the blades of grass; during a windstorm, the tree was blown over but the grass just bent and survived. Just so you know.] A sense of humor helps a person to bend.

 

There are some people that are very much aware of the importance of a sense of humor. Their idea of cultivating one is to develop a rich, hearty laugh – practicing in front of the mirror if necessary – and using it as much as possible in everyday conversation. In a way, it was like the mighty oak tree rocking back and forth in an effort to convince itself that it was bending.

 

Lord George C. Dorking, head of one of the noble families of Ankh-Morpork, was such a person as this, although he had the wit to take it further; he developed an intimate chuckle to go along with the rich, hearty laugh and took great care to use the two alternately.

 

Lord Dorking took a sound-effects-library quality slurp from his cup and set it down on the table in front of him. He said to the man across the table from him, "If nothing else, I must say that you serve very good tea, Lord Vetinari." Rich, hearty laugh.

 

Lord Havelock Vetinari, Patrician of the city of Ankh-Morpork, smiled and acknowledged the compliment with a nod of his head. Vetinari was tall, thin and dressed in his usual black; black suited him so well. "Thank you, Lord Dorking. I'll relay your words to the maid; she'll be quite pleased. I'm terribly sorry we have no scones; the larder is getting a bit low."

 

"Oh, quite all right, quite all right. It's the way things are nowadays." Intimate chuckle.

 

Vetinari looked again at the city map spread out on the table. Ankh-Morpork had originally been two towns, Ankh and Morpork, founded on opposite banks of the River Ankh. As they'd grown, the two towns naturally fused together and now formed a single, roughly circular city. Ankh, on the Turnwise side of the river, was more upscale; Dorking lived there, as did most of the bluebloods. Morpork was, in many senses of the word, more earthy.

 

The mapmaker was apparently used to working for the aristocracy. The map was a quality product, drawn on high-grade paper with inks that hardly smeared at all. More to the point, Vetinari could detect some personal bias in the draftsmanship. The Ankh portion of the city had been rendered in very fine detail; all the streets were delicately labeled down to the smallest side street. The Morpork side, however, was much sketchier; much detail was missing, and many of the streets, even the major ones, weren't named at all. It was a surprise that the mapmaker didn't just label Morpork HERE BEE DRAGONS.

 

Vetinari leaned back and steepled his fingertips; he was good at steepling his fingertips. He said, "Let me see if I understand your proposal correctly. Your, ah, committee is suggesting that the Palace should be moved to the exact center of Ankh-Morpork – in other words, the Isle of Gods?”

 

"That's correct, your Lordship." Rich laughter.

 

Vetinari considered asking what the joke was, but he let it pass. "And all of the bridges across the Ankh, with the exceptions of the Ankh Bridge and the Brass Bridge, would be pulled down?"

 

"You have it, your Lordship." Intimate chuckle.

 

"H'm. A massive undertaking, no matter how you look at it." The Patrician looked around his office. "Why, the cart to transport the Palace would need wheels several stories tall. Not to mention that the cart would have to be very narrow to get across the Brass Bridge."

 

Lord Dorking looked confused for a second, and then realized that the Patrician had made a joke. Dorking roared with laughter and slapped his knee; he'd expanded his repertoire lately. "Why, no, your Lordship – you don't understand! We'd take the Palace apart and carry it across in pieces! We could never move it whole! The very idea!"

 

Vetinari smiled. He had a very well-developed sense of humor. Metaphorically speaking, he'd developed it to the point where it could score a bulls'-eye at fifty paces. His use of irony – tinged with a slight hint of sarcasm – was enough to drive a grown man to his knees.

 

"Oh, I see. How silly of me. Still, it will cost an enormous amount, though I see you and your committee have thought of that. Something about recruiting cheap labor from the people of Morpork, I believe? That plus raising taxes and charging tolls on the two bridges?"

 

"You're correct, your Lordship!" Intimate chuckle.

 

"About the committee – you have quite a few members?"

 

Rich laughter. "Yes, your Lordship! Just waiting for you to join us!" Actually, there were several people that, well, maybe would go along with it – if Dorking could persuade the Patrician to agree to it. A little stretching of the truth didn't hurt any, did it?

 

"I can see problems with putting the palace on the Isle of Gods, though." Vetinari looked at the map again. The Ankh doubled back on itself in the center of Ankh-Morpork, forming a peninsula. Some enterprising soul had cut a canal through the narrowest part, forming what was now called the Isle of Gods. And in the center of the Isle was one of the city's cultural landmarks. "What would we do with the Opera House?"

 

"Well, we could rebuild it someplace else later, I suppose. When we get around to it." Intimate chuckle.

 

"H'm. Where would we put the New Watch House? It's next to the Opera House, you know."

 

Lord Dorking cleared his throat; he knew where the Watch House was. "Well, Your Lordship, there's no reason why the Watch couldn't go back to the old location on Treacle Mine Road. Most of the crime is in that area anyway." Laughter.

 

"Actually, I feel that an enhanced Watch presence in Ankh might be welcomed. At times that part of the city can be a hotbed of crime."

 

"Eh? I hardly think, Your Lordship –”

 

"Granted, most of the time it's on the level of Drunk and Disorderly, but the Law is the Law, and it applies to all citizens of Ankh-Morpork." Vetinari gave the other man a look that could have served as a Platonian template for the concept of "bland".

 

Dorking did not laugh. Or chuckle.

 

Vetinari leaned back. "I can see this has its merits", he said, in a tone that conveyed that he couldn't think of what they were right at the moment. "And I applaud the noble motivation that must lie behind it. But, as I say, it would be a massive undertaking. And I can see where some short-sighted people might misinterpret the motives."

 

Dorking still didn't laugh. "What do you mean?"

 

"Well – some people would think that Ankh was trying to, ah, separate itself from Morpork. They'd come to the reprehensible conclusion that certain of the city's upper classes were trying to isolate themselves from the lower classes. Misguided thinking, of course; there is far too much civic pride and brotherhood among the nobility, wouldn't you agree?"

 

Dorking stared at him for a moment. Finally he said, "Your Lordship, the city is in the middle of a crisis –”

 

"Oh, really? Another one? I hadn't noticed."

 

"Your Lordship, please! Some of us are worried about the foreign elements that have moved into Ankh-Morpork in recent years! It threatens our heritage –”

 

"Ah." Vetinari raised his forefinger. In the balance of such gestures men's lives have hung. "Is that all that's bothering you? Well, let me assure you that there's nothing to worry about. Once they become citizens of Ankh-Morpork, they're no longer foreign, are they? Besides, weren't we all foreigners once? Unless the Creator – whoever He or She was – actually put the first people together here on the banks of the Ankh. And from what I know, no religion has come forth and said that's what happened. I tell you what." Vetinari began to roll up the map. "I'll think about this proposal of yours for a few days. Mind you, as I say, it would be a massive undertaking, so don't get your hopes up. But I'm always open to hearing new ideas. Now, I have some work to do, so if you don't mind… I'll ring for the butler to see you out. It was good to see you again, Lord Dorking. Please don't be a stranger. Oh, and say hello to you son for me, will you?"

 

Lord Dorking glowered at the Patrician. He stood up and said, coldly, "I'll see myself out if you please your Lordship." Without another word, he turned and walked out the door.

 

Vetinari sat and watched until the door to the broom closet opened and Lord Dorking emerged with a remarkable amount of dignity. He found the real exit on the second try.

 

The Patrician of the city of Ankh-Morpork sighed and said, "Oh, dear."

 

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

 

"Okay, Benny, we're here in the big city. Fine. What do we do now?"

 

"Well, I would guess we find some sort of magic practitioner who will help us get home."

 

Ray and Fraser strolled down the street, Diefenbaker trotting alongside. They hadn't met anyone else as colorful as the troll, though they saw a few more dwarfs.

 

There were several shops along the street, selling all sorts of goods, some of which were obviously meant to appeal to tourists. [NOTE: In other words, they were overpriced.] There were many food stalls as well. There was a low growl.

 

"What's wrong, Diefenbaker?"

 

"That wasn't the wolf growling, Fraser, that was his stomach! Unless it was mine! Finding a shaman or whatever is all well and good, but I think our first priority would be getting something to eat!"

 

"Sausage inna bun?"

 

Ray was quick enough that he didn't run into anyone. He was getting used to people stepping in front of him. This time it was a street vendor holding an open box in front of him.

 

"Sausage inna bun! Dibbler's famous sausages! Meat so fresh it was wallerin' in the sty just this morning!" He was a scrawny little man with the charming-cum-predatory smile of a shark introducing himself to the new neighbors. "Special today! Three sausages for the price of four! Rock bottom prices and I'm cuttin' me own throat!"

 

"Ah! Something to eat! Let's look at what he has – oh, dear."

 

Ray was inclined to agree. He'd read a book once about the appalling things that went on in slaughterhouses; there had been pictures, which had almost driven him to vegetarianism. Dibbler's wares looked like they might be made from all the atrocities of a typical slaughterhouse, concentrated to fit into a half-dozen small packages. He noticed what looked like an eyeball in one of the sausages; at least he hoped it was an eyeball.

 

Diefenbaker sniffed tentatively at Dibbler's box, yelped and moved a few feet away, in a fight-or-flight quandary – should he run away and save himself, or stay to save the humans from the terror?

 

"Super fresh these are, sir! Care to try one?"

 

Ray was about to answer that with some rubbing liniment he could probably get these things back on their feet in ten minutes, buddy, when he looked into Dibbler's eyes. And he saw pure concentrated Essence of Salesmanship there. He could feel those eyes pull at him, and in a trance he began to reach for his money…

 

And found nothing.

 

Fraser said, "Oh, dear. I'm afraid my friend and I are broke –”

 

Ray blinked. There was no one in front of him. Down the street he could hear someone shouting "Sausages inna bun! Today's special…"

 

"Shall we try someplace for something to eat, Ray? Perhaps we'll find someone charitable enough…"

 

"Huh? Oh, no, not now, Benny. I lost my appetite." He looked after Dibbler. "Probably just in time. So – how do we go about finding a magician? Got any ideas?"

 

"Ah… No, not really. I'm not certain what qualifies as a magic user here. A wizard, perhaps. I'm not even certain where to start looking."

 

Oh, is that what you're worried about? Finding a wizard? Is that all? In a city like this, why shouldn't there be a wizard standing on every street corner? How about this guy? Hey, mister, you're a wizard, aren't you?"

 

"Buggerit!"

 

"Beg pardon?"

 

"I told 'em! Wacko lushford! Screaming yellow! Bug'r'm!"

 

Ray began to carefully back away. "Uh, Fraser – maybe he really is a wizard! Is he putting a curse on me or something?"

 

"Uh, I don't think so, Ray. I think he's an indigent."

 

"Millennium hand and shrimp!"

 

The man did, indeed, look like a street person. He was dirty and dressed in disheveled clothing. Surprisingly he didn't smell. [NOTE: Foul Ole Ron's Smell had over time become so strong that it had developed a life of its own. A social life, in fact. At the moment, the Smell was attending an outdoor musical concert over in Hide Park.] Foul Ole Ron was accompanied by what was mostly a wire-haired, mongrel dog; the remainder was canine diseases.

 

The litany continued. "Buggerit! Stormatography! Liebnitz crystals! – Nope, not a wizard, squire, just a humble beggar – Defconomics! Bug'r'mall!"

 

Fraser blinked and wrinkled his brow. He looked down at the mangy dog, who wagged his stumpy tail and said, "Woof".

 

Ray said, "It's not gonna be easy to find a wizard, is it? But we gotta eat! What we gonna do?"

 

"Ah – well, we may be here awhile. I think the only alternative we have to starving is to find jobs."

 

"Jobs? Here, in Fantasyland? What can we do? Running a freakshow is out – too much competition in the streets!"

 

"Simple, Ray. We do what we know."

 

"What – cops? We take jobs on the local police force?" Ray paused, then resumed thoughtfully, "Cops?… You think we can do it, Benny?"

 

"Why not? Crime is crime. Law enforcement is law enforcement, wherever you are."

 

"But we'd be at a disadvantage – I'd be at a disadvantage! They can't have guns here! I'm used to pointing something at a perp and shouting 'Stop or I'll shoot'!"

 

"Look at it this way, Ray. You won't have a gun, but neither will they. You can't shoot at them, but they can't shoot at you!"

 

"But they'll have swords and knives and stuff! I don't know how to use any of that!"

 

"You'll just have to learn. And if nothing else, you can always bully them."

 

Ray frowned. "Was that sarcasm, Fraser?"

 

Fraser didn't answer. Instead, he turned back to the beggar and said, "Excuse me, sir, but could you tell us where to find the local constabulary?"

 

"Benny, are you nuts? This guy couldn't tell what reality is if it tried to bite him on the leg! You're wasting –”

 

"T'Hell'with'm! I told 'em! Millennium hand and shrimp! – You want the City Watch, mister. Just go down this street past the Patrician's Palace, cross the bridge and it's on the left just before you get to the Opera House. Can't miss it. – Mechanistic pneumonia see if I don't."

 

Fraser frowned down at the dog, who cheerfully said, "Bow wow."

 

"Ray, did you hear that dog talk?"

 

"What – You are crazy, Benny! Of course he didn't talk! Everybody knows dogs can't talk – so he didn't say anything except 'woof' and 'bow wow'!"

 

"Well, yes he did, Ray. But it wasn't like he was actually barking. It's more like he said the words 'woof' and 'bow wow'. It's not the same thing –”

 

"Fraser – don't go there. Dogs can't talk. You've been having too many conversations with your wolf!"

 

"Conservative compassion! Ixnay amscray nutbubbles! – He's right, mister, dogs can't talk. Silly idea! – Pope in the laundry room with the cupcake! Didn't I say so?"

 

Fraser looked at the dog one more time and finally shook his head. "Very well, Ray. Shall we go talk to the Watch? We ought to find employment there!"

 

"Okay, Benny, what have we got to lose?" And the two men began to walk down the street. Diefenbaker gave the beggar's dog one parting glance, then followed.

 

Gaspode, known in some circles as the Wonder Dog, sat down and vigorously scratched at his ear to dislodge whatever fleas, ticks or small rodents that had taken residence there. He casually remarked to Foul Ole Ron, "Nice coupla blokes. Hope they can find jobs." The encounter held little significance to him. Dogs go by smell, and those two were obviously strangers; hair color means nothing to dogs.

 

Foul Ole Ron watched Ray and Fraser as they walked away, and said, thoughtfully, "Buggerit…"

 

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

 

The street split in two and went around both sides of a large fenced-off enclosure. The entrance was guarded by two men in elaborate uniforms with golden chest plates and helmets. Set behind some well-tended lawns and gardens was the Patrician's Palace.

 

"Nice setup. You think he runs the show?"

 

"I would think so, Ray." Fraser was studying the coat of arms and motto mounted next to the gateway. "Hm. Very odd."

 

"What's that?" Ray looked up and his eyebrows rose. "Benny, I don't know a thing about this coat of arms stuff –”

 

"Heraldry, Ray."

 

"My point exactly; I don't even know what it's called. But even I can tell there's something funny about that one. Shouldn't a coat of arms thing actually show something?"

 

The heraldic shield beside the gate was pure black.

 

"Well, if a coat of arms shows us nothing, surely that tells us something!"

 

"Too deep for me, Benny." Ray tried to read the motto: "SI NON CONFECTVS NON REFICIAT". "I've never been good at Latin, either, Benny. What's that say?"

 

Fraser frowned. "Well – it's confusing, Ray. That looks like Latin. But it's very bad Latin. The words are Latin, but they're strung together all wrong. Perhaps it's only something like Latin."

 

"Can you figure out what it's supposed to say?"

 

"Well, just going by the words, more or less it says 'If It Isn't Broken, Don't Fix It'."

 

Ray nodded. "I can think of worse mottoes for politicians." He looked over the guards. "These guys here – think they're what we're looking for? Should we ask them about jobs?"

 

"I don't think it's the same thing, Ray. Their duty is just to guard the Palace from intruders. Not like regular policemen at all."

 

"Not beat guys, huh? Yeah, wouldn't be for me. Standing here, day in and day out? It would be boring as Hell to me!"

 

The Guard on the Right didn't move a muscle. But somewhere deep in his consciousness, a small voice said, "You've got that right, mate!"

 

A carriage was coming down the Palace drive, heading for the gate. Fraser watched it approach and said, "I wonder who this is? Perhaps we can flag him down and ask him some questions. Excuse me, there – Oh, dear!"

 

Ray shouted at the retreating carriage, "Why don't you watch where you're goin'?"

 

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

 

Lord Dorking was preoccupied, so he paid no attention to the two pedestrians as they jumped out of the way of his carriage. Not that he would have paid attention anyway; not to the sort of pedestrians in this part of the city.

 

Dorking was furious. Damn that fool Vetinari! Couldn't he see what he's doing to the city?

 

Like many members of Ankh-Morpork aristocracy, Lord Dorking yearned for the Old Days, or at least for what he thought of as the Old Days. The days when the Right Sort of People (the aristocracy) had power, and People (everyone else) Knew Their Place. No trolls or dwarfs or – Dorking made a face – Klatchians wandering the streets unchallenged. Back then, people knew how to treat foreigners.

 

Not like today. Dorking looked out at the rabble lining the streets. His carriage passed a Klatchian restaurant and he curled his lips. Now the rabble were everywhere, especially the Klatchians, with their vile food and vile religious practices. They wouldn't dare offer up their human sacrifices here – not in Ankh-Mopork – or would they? He'd heard rumors. And such ugly people! How they could bear to touch their own women, he'd never know!

 

Dorking felt himself an expert on the Klatchians. He had gleaned his knowledge of them from many expeditions to the country of Klatch. These had consisted of staying at whatever abode was as luxurious as what he was used to in Ankh-Morpork, and interacting with the locals as a master with his servants, which is what they were at the time.

 

The city was decaying from within. And that fool Vetinari was to blame! He let these – these creatures invade the city, and look at it now! The carriage passed over the Brass Bridge and Dorking looked out over the Ankh River. Would the river be so polluted if the rabble weren't here? [NOTE: The answer to that is "Yes". The Ankh has been the way it is for centuries; archeologists are just now finding out that the river water has strata, like the ground. They estimate that the lowest layers may be over six hundred years old. Actual confirmation is pending the development of tools that won't get eaten away by the river water's unique cleansing abilities. Nostalgia tends to be selective about historical fact.]

 

The carriage turned right and headed down Body Street. It could be like it was in the Old Days. Lord Dorking knew it. It wouldn't be easy to achieve, but it could be done. He knew it. The biggest obstacle was Vetinari. Once something was done about him, the Right Sort Of People would be in charge again, and the rest would be Put In Their Place. Something Had To Be Done about the Patrician first.

 

Many had tried – Lord d'Eath, Lord Rust, most recently de Worde – but they'd all failed. In Dorking's mind, that was simply because they were all fools. To Lord Dorking, failure was a sure sign of a fool. Dorking knew he could succeed where the others had failed. He knew that he could dispose of Vetinari once and for all. The tricky bit was how to do it.

 

Something he'd seen – he wasn't certain what – had reminded him of the City Watch. Dorking scowled; he had reason to feel animosity toward the Watch Captain. Carrot Ironfoundersson? That was a dwarf name! Never mind that the man was red-headed and over six feet tall – he had to have dwarf blood in him! What kind of organization would give a dwarf a position of importance?

 

Dorking glowered as he remembered. His oldest son, Derwin, had drunk his fill from the family's wine stock – a bottle or two, no more – and had decided to drive one of the family carriages in circles around the Opera House. Mere youthful exuberance, and no one of importance had gotten hurt. And here this Carrot person had come around to arrest Derwin! For Driving While Intoxicated, Reckless Driving, Endangerment of Innocent Bystanders – someone was knocked down, but only a person of the lower classes – as well as something about Cruelty to Animals. So the horses were driven a bit hard – what else were they for, if you needed to get somewhere?

 

Lord Dorking hadn't been able to believe that anyone would have the audacity to actually press charges, but he'd thought he'd known what the Watch Captain was really after, so he'd offered Carrot what he considered a reasonable sum. And that fool Carrot had proposed to charge him with Attempted Bribery! He would have, too, if he hadn't been talked out of it by his superior officer, Commander Sir Samuel Vimes, on the grounds that "It wouldn't do any good, Carrot. That's the way they think." Dorking had little use for Vimes; the man had married into the aristocracy through Lady Sybil Ramkin, and Dorking thus believed that Vimes had to be a leech trying to climb the social ladder by devious means. He was wrong there, but belief counted more than facts.

 

The carriage turned on to King's Way; it would be home soon. Dorking realized that it wasn't enough that he rid the city of Vetinari; he wanted to strike a blow at the Watch as well. Perhaps he could do both at the same time.

 

Dorking would think of something…

 

Intimate chuckle.

 

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

 

Ray and Fraser had passed part of the way alongside of the Palace Grounds (On the "Turnwise" side, Fraser said – he'd already gotten the hang of directions) when they saw two uniformed individuals coming toward them along a side street.

 

"Ah – those have to be Watchmen! Let's go meet them, Ray!"

 

"Fine with me, Benny." But as they got closer to the Watchmen, Ray wasn't so sure how fine it really was. These two looked very strange.

 

One of the Watchmen was hunchbacked, and his face looked like it was patched together out of spare parts. Not only were the eyes of different colors, but they were set at different levels in the head; they were even looking in different directions. He didn't so much walk as shuffle along; one foot seemed to want to stay behind.

 

The other man looked more or less normal, if a bit pale and scrawny. He was walking along cradling his right hand in his left arm. This would not be remarkable in itself, if his right arm hadn't been swinging by his side. He looked somewhat depressed, particularly when he looked down at his hand. As Ray got closer, he could make out lines of stitches around various parts of the man's body.

 

It looked like the City Watch didn't so much hire new recruits as it assembled them.

 

This of course didn't faze Fraser one bit. He stepped forward and smiled. "Hello, gentlemen! Are we correct in assuming that you two are with the Watch?"

 

The one with the portable hand smiled and replied, "Of course we are! You of all people ought to know! You –” Then he frowned and looked at Fraser more closely. "Hang on; you're not – Igor, is that him? If it weren't for the color of his hair –”

 

Igor shuffled up and closely eyed Fraser; the other eye was looking in another direction entirely and took no part in the proceedings. Igor finally shook his head. "I don't think it ith, Redth. He lookth a lot like him, but the hair ithn't dyed. I can tell thethe thingth, y'know. But like you thay, if it weren't for the hair color…"

 

"Oh, well, our apologies, gentlemen. Yes, we are with the Watch. Constables Reg Shoe and Igor at your service. You'll excuse me if I don't shake hands."

 

"Pleased to meet you, Constable Shoe – Constable Igor. I'm Benton Fraser and this is my friend, Ray Vecchio." There was a bark. "And this is Diefenbaker, my wolf."

 

Constable Shoe warily eyed Diefenbaker. Dogs tended to grab at his limbs and sometimes made off with one of them; several times he'd have to give chase while hopping along on one foot. Fortunately, Diefenbaker was just as wary of Reg; something that smelled like that had no business being up and walking around.

 

"Pleathed to meet you folkth. Ith there thomething we can do for you?"

 

"Well, there might be. Ray and I are new in town. We're here from – someplace else – and until we can get back, we need to find some form of employment. We're both experienced in law enforcement, and we'd like to see if there's room in the City Watch."

 

Reg and Igor looked each other, then looked back at Fraser, then looked at each other again. Finally Reg said, "We're always short of manpower, so it won't hurt for you two to try. If you've got experience like you say, your chances ought to be good. Of course you'd have to check with the – ah –” He coughed. “– the captain. He's –” Another cough. “– a good judge of character."

 

Igor said, "We're on our way back to the Watthth House now. Come on with uth and we'll thee what we can do."

 

There was a low growl and Reg looked distinctly uncomfortable.

 

"Don't worry – that wasn't Dief. Ray and I haven't eaten in some time, so…"

 

Reg relaxed. "Ah! Maybe we can see about fixing you up with a meal if nothing else! The Watch House kitchen does quite well – at least that's what they tell me."

 

Ray said, "Okay, fine with us. But before we go any further, I gotta ask. You and your buddy here – I don't mean to be rude – but what are you?"

 

Reg promptly replied. "I'm a zombie." He smiled at Ray's expression and continued. "Please don't let it bother you. It's important for a person to accept what he is, and I did that about myself a long time ago." Reg proudly gestured to a button on his tunic that read Glad to be Grey. "I'm quite well-known in the Undead community here as an activist, if I may say so myself. My colleague here is – is –”

 

"I'm an Igor. Quite a proud heritage we have, uth Igorth. No mad thientitht on the Dithk could do a thing without an Igor for an athithtant. At any rate, it'th getting late. Thall we go?"

 

Ray was getting used to taking things in stride. He smiled and said, "Lead the way!" So off they set for the Watch House.

 

As the four men and the wolf walked along, Igor said to the other Watchman, "Redth, ith thomething wrong? You theem a little down."

 

Constable Shoe replied, "Oh, it's mainly things in general. This –” He held up his separated hand. “– is what started it, though."

 

"What, lothing a hand? I'm thorry about it for your thake, but it'th not like it hathn't happened before."

 

"I know, but it seems to be happening more often. You get used to sewing bits back on, but it seems that I'm doing it all the time, now. I could've sworn it hasn't been all that long since the last time I put this hand back." He turned to Ray and Fraser, "That's how it goes with zombies as they get older. You just wear out. Soon you can't keep up with putting things back. Old zombies never die – they just go to pieces." He shook his head; a loose seam caused an ear to wobble. "I guess I'm just feeling old."

 

Ray rolled his eyes. A zombie with a Mid-Life Crisis. A Mid-Undeath Crisis, really.

 

"Look, Redth, maybe I can help. We Igorth are ekthpertth at thewing limbth and thtuff back on. Look at me; my Dad did my nothe for me. I'm thure I could put that hand back ath good ath new. And you know what? I'd guarantee that it would look better and thtay on longer. I could probably help you with a lot of thingth!"

 

Reg looked skeptical. "You do revivification, don't you? I wouldn't want that. I'm comfortable with my unlife and I don't want to change it."

 

"Oh, no, no! I underthtand! All I'd do ith jutht put thingth back. Uthe better thtitththeth. I'm good at thtitththeth. You wouldn't hardly thee them."

 

Reg held up his right hand – in his left hand – and looked closely at the stitches where they'd pulled out. Finally he nodded. "Okay, what have I got to lose? Nothing I'm not already losing, certainly." He looked more closely at his hand. "Do you do fingers?"

 

"Oh, thertainly! Piethe of cake, fingerth are!"

 

Reg smiled. "I'd like that. I haven't played the guitar in a long time. I'd love to play again without losing things. It's gotten tedious getting down on the floor to find my fingers. Alright, it's a deal!"

 

"Ekthellent!" As they continued on, Ray kept wondering what they were getting into.

 

Not long after leaving the Palace behind, the little group was crossing a bridge over what had to be the River Ankh. Ray looked down at the river, not the least surprised at the color. The river had to be the major source of Ankh-Morpork's smell. The water didn't look like it was flowing so much as oozing –

 

He did a double take. "What the –? Benny!"

 

Fraser stopped and looked back. "What's wrong, Ray?"

 

"There's a cat on the river!"

 

"Oh, dear…" Fraser started back. "Is he drowning?"

 

"Notice I didn't say he was in the river – I said he was on it! There's a cat down there walking on top of the water!"

 

Reg came back and looked down. "Oh, that's a River Cat. Special breed that's evolved for living around the Ankh. It can run fast, and the pads on its feet are very thick! If it stands still, it will sink sooner or later. So, it doesn't stand still."

 

Ray looked down at the cat, which went about its business doing something a holy man would give his eyeteeth to be able to do half as well. He started to speculate on what kind of ecosystem would develop around a river like this, and decided not to go too far down that road. He said to Reg, "How can the people here stand to live with such a polluted river?"

 

Reg got defensive at this. He was a citizen of Ankh-Morpork, after all. He said, somewhat huffily, "I'll have you know that we consider the waters of the Ankh to be very pure."

 

"You're kidding me – That stuff is pure? What's the logic behind that one?"

 

Reg patiently replied, "Look, friend, what are kidneys for?"

 

"Huh? To filter stuff out of the blood, I guess –”

 

"Right. Kidneys are filters. Now this water has passed through millions of kidneys – you see that?"

 

Ray sniffed. "Oh, I can believe that right enough!"

 

"And kidneys are filters! So, any water that's been filtered through that many kidneys must be pure!" Reg smiled triumphantly. "See?"

 

"Uh…"

 

"Right! Now, we've got a few more blocks to go, so let's get moving!"

 

Ray took one look at the Ankh before following. He could almost see the logic. If he stayed here much longer, he knew it would start making sense, and that unsettled him.

 

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

 

Once they walked into the Watch House, Ray felt right at home.

 

It didn't sound quite like he was used to. There were no sounds of the technology he was used to – not the clackity-clack of typewriters nor the glow of computer screens nor the constant ringing of telephones. But the feel was there – the feel of routine that doesn't quite cover the feel of tension. It was a combination of "We've got a job to do" and "We've got a dangerous job to do".

 

This was a police station, no doubt of it. If there were a power outage, the 27th Precinct would be just like this.

 

A fat, red-faced individual sat behind the front desk. He had to be a sergeant; anyone looking like that in any sort of organization involving uniforms was always a sergeant, and he was always a good sergeant. Leaning against the desk talking to the sergeant was a very short little man, bandy-legged with poor muscle tone. He almost resembled a chimpanzee of some sort, except for his face; a further description of his face would probably result in a class-action defamation suit from the Weasel family.

 

These two Watchmen took one look at Fraser and immediately came to attention – or at least something approximating it on the shorter man's part. Then they looked at him again and slumped a little in wonderment.

 

Reg said, "No, it's not him. – We've got a couple of potential recruits to the Force. Where's Captain Carrot?"

 

The sergeant said, "Er – he's with Commander Vimes over at the Armory. They're observing something Detritus and Toebiter have been working on. Ah – last time I knew, that's where they were." He looked at Fraser again.

 

"Okay, we'll send 'em over that way. Before I forget – May I introduce Benton Fraser and Ray Vecchio; they're from out of town. This is Sergeant Frederick Colon and Corporal C. W. St J. Nobbs."

 

The Corporal smiled the smile of a man trying to sell you feelthy postcards from a dark alley. "Friends call me Nobby," he said.

 

"Well, people who know him call him Nobby," Colon corrected. "Ah! Here's Corporal Angua! She's heading over to the Armory – she can escort you two over there!"

 

Corporal Angua proved to be a tall, lovely woman with ash-blonde hair. The type of girl that Ray would go for, in fact, except that he sensed that this was not a woman that you messed with. He knew the type – nice most of the time, strong when she needs to be, once in awhile a real bitch to be around.

 

As they were introduced, Angua smiled at Fraser and held out her hand. "Pleased to meet you," she said and they shook hands. Surprisingly, she was the first Watchman they'd met that didn't seem the least bit surprised at seeing Fraser.

 

Fraser smiled back, "I'm pleased to meet you, as well. I hope this doesn't sound forward, but you remind me somewhat of someone I once, ah, met. Her name was Xena. There is a slight resemblance."

 

"Really? Xena – never heard the name. Is she from Uberwald?"

 

"No – some place called Greece. You probably never heard of it."

 

"I'm afraid I haven't." Deifenbaker barked. Angua looked down at the wolf and her face lit up. "Oh, what a magnificent animal! Is he a friend of yours!" She knelt down to pat his head.

 

Fraser replied, "Yes, a good one – I can't really call him a pet, of course." Diefenbaker wagged his tail; he seemed to take to Angua quickly. Fraser continued, "I take it you like wolves."

 

"Oh, yes! I feel very close to them at times." Angua turned to Colon. "Sergeant, we'd better be on our way. The demonstration may be over by the time we get there, so we shouldn't be gone long."

 

"Ah – fine, fine. Carry on, Corporal."

 

After they'd left, Colon shook his head and said to the others, "If it weren't for the hair color…"

 

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

 

The Armory was a few blocks away from the Watch House. As they were walking along, Ray said, "Interesting force you got here, Corporal!"

 

Angua replied, "Some of us may seem a bit odd, but we know how to do the job. We try our best."

 

"That's all a cop can do. I'll admit I'm not used to working with – ah – non-humans, but I'm game. They still seem like typical cops to me; I can handle that. I am curious about Corporal Nobbs, though. The thing is – uh – what is he, exactly?"

 

Angua laughed. "Would you believe he's human?"

 

"Human?" It was the last answer Ray expected. "He looks like – like the way he looks – and he's human?"

 

Angua nodded. "Surprised me, too, the first time. He's one of the few citizens of Ankh-Morpork that has to carry papers with him confirming his species."

 

Ray shook his head. "I can believe it! Is everyone sure he's human?"

 

"Someone could study him in more detail, I suppose. Would you like to take the job, Ray Vecchio?"

 

Ray blinked. "Ah – the papers are good enough!"

 

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

 

Commander Sir Samuel Vimes, head of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch, was dressed in his finest uniform. It no longer looked like his finest uniform and had not since shortly after he had put it on. The fine pectoral muscles embossed on his breastplate were dented in quite a few places, the velvet breeches, leggings and cape were stained with blood in several places – some of it his own – and the elaborate plume which once topped his helmet had long ago succumbed to the fiery breath of a swamp dragon in what he still insisted to his skeptical wife had been an accident. Sir Vimes believed that a policeman's uniform was meant to be worn, not displayed.

 

Samuel Vimes had sort of moved sideways into his current position. He'd been appointed Captain of the Night Watch in its darker days, because no one else had wanted the position. Once the Watch regained its former glory, not to mention fresh recruits, Vimes had been promoted to Commander. Everything else had come to him quickly after that, much to his dismay. He'd fallen in love with and married Lady Sybil Ramkin, and had found that he couldn't dodge the aristocratic position that came with her. Later, Lord Vetinari had found reason to confer a Knighthood on Vimes, and he couldn't dodge that either. Deep down, Samuel Vimes was a policeman, and he always would be. Fancy clothing didn't have a chance.

 

Right now, Sir Vimes, with a cigar clamped between his teeth, was studying Lance-Constable Toebiter. The dwarf was wearing a suit of very peculiar armor. The various pieces didn't conform to his body very well; indeed, they looked like they were cut out from a hollow sphere. There was even a piece attached to the top of his helmet.

 

Captain Carrot had just explained the purpose of the armor to Vimes. Carrot was enthusiastic about it, but he was enthusiastic about everything. A man who considers a visit to the Dwarfbread Museum a special date enthuses easily. "I think you get the idea by now, sir. It would be best if I let Detritus and Toebiter demonstrate. Now then, you see that door over there?"

 

They were in an empty room of the Armory. At the far end of the room, someone had erected a stand-alone stone wall, with a very stout oaken door set into it; it looked quite strong. "I take it you mean that door over there, Captain?"

 

"The very one, Sir! Detritus will now use this armor to open that door! Detritus, would you be so kind?"

 

"Yes, Cap'n." Corporal Detritus stepped forward. He wasn't large by troll standards, tending toward ranginess instead, but he still made for an impressive Constable. The cooling fan in his helmet whirred as he rapped out, "Assume de position, Constable Toebiter!"

 

"Yessir!" The dwarf sat down, brought his knees up and his head down, and folded his arms close to his side. It became apparent that the armor had been made from a hollow sphere. The edge of one piece fit snugly with the edge of another piece, which fit the edge of another piece, and the end result was a small iron ball. With a large handle attached to the back.

 

Detritus picked up the ball with the handle, sighted on the wooden door, brought the ball back and above his head, took a step forward and let fly. It was a follow-through that wouldn't have been out of place in a bowling alley.

 

The troll's aim was a bit off. Instead of hitting the door squarely, the sphere hit a glancing blow to the wall as well. The result was a big chunk taken out of the brickwork; the solid oak door was in splinters.

 

Carrot said, "You see what we can do with this, sir. Not only can we break down the door in a siege situation, but we'll also be able to get an officer on the premises. With a search warrant, of course."

 

Vimes said nothing. At this point, Corporal Angua slipped in the room with Ray and Fraser. They watched silently.

 

Detritus said, "Still a couple of bugs to work out, though. I don't like dat handle; too small and it's awkward. I'd like to put tree holes in der armor."

 

Constable Toebiter staggered out of what was left of the door, a big grin on his face and his eyes focussed on nothing in this world. He said, "Birdies – listen to the birdies…" and then fell forward.

 

"Dat's de other bug."

 

Angua spoke up. "Excuse me, Captain, Commander. We've got a couple of possible recruits for the Watch. I brought them over so you could meet them."

 

Commander Vimes began to turn around. "Good to hear. We're always looking for new –” He took one look at Fraser, and the cigar dropped out of his mouth and landed on the floor.

 

Ray Vecchio, either through upbringing or heredity, was blessed with an incredibly expressive face. When his eyes popped or his jaw dropped, they looked like they would go the whole distance. When he saw Carrot for the first time, his reaction almost looked painful.

 

If it weren't for the color of the hair…

 

Captain Carrot's hair was bright red; Fraser's hair was dark brown, almost black. Beyond that, they could have been identical twins.

 

Carrot and Fraser looked at one another…

 

…and smiled, and shook hands.

 

"Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson of the City Watch, at your service."

 

"Pleased to meet you, Captain. Benton Fraser, late of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police."

 

"Canadia? I haven't heard of it. A country on the other side of the Disc, perhaps?"

 

"Well… it's very far away. I can't really explain right now."

 

Vimes whispered, "I don't believe it."

 

"What's wrong, Commander? What don't you believe?"

 

"'What don't you believe,' the man says! Look at yourselves! You and Fraser are perfect doubles! The hair's the only thing different!"

 

Fraser and Carrot frowned and turned to study each other more closely.

 

Every culture has a bit of folklore involving what is known as the Doppelganger – a person's double, usually supernatural in nature. Some tales focus on an individual's horror on discovering his own double. The fundamental flaw in these particular stories is that a person has his own opinion of what he looks like, and this view is more idealized than realistic. He has come to accept that the face in the mirror is his, but that's from years of habit. It will take him a few seconds to recognise himself in a photograph, and he'll wonder if that's what he really looks like. If someone were to meet their exact double, they wouldn't recognise it. By the time they're convinced – if they ever are – the terror has lost its chance.

 

Fraser and Carrot turned and said, together, "Do I really look like –”

 

"Yes, Fraser, you do! Yes, Captain, you do! You two are like peas in a pod! More than peas in a pod – Corporal, tell 'em they look like twins!"

 

Angua looked at the two men closely, then finally said, "Yes, they do look alike, now that you mention it. I hadn't noticed it – I go by smells, really."

 

Detritus shrugged and rumbled, "All humans look alike to me."

 

Vimes was patting himself down, looking for his cigar; in the process, he stepped on it. "Ah – right, we need to get back to the Watch House and proceed with interviews. If you two are – ah – suited for the job, we could use you. Ah… Constable Toebiter, are you alright?"

 

The dwarf raised his head up and tried to focus his eyes. The first people he saw were Carrot and Fraser, side by side.

 

Toebiter groaned. "Oh, no, I'm seeing double!" and he collapsed.

 

Vimes sighed. "Right – Detritus, carry him to the Infirmary. Carrot, Angua, take these gentlemen back to the Watch House." He made a face. "I have a High Tea to attend."

 

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

 

Lord Dorking had the plans for the renovation laid out on his desk, but his mind was elsewhere.

 

He'd hit on what he thought a good scheme; it would rid Ankh-Morpork of Vetinari and sully the good name of Vimes' blasted Watch. He still had his doubts about it, though. Having someone impersonate a member of the Watch was risky. Witnesses had to see a Watchman do the deed, but they mustn't see enough of him to identify him.

 

It would work out much better if the culprit were a genuine Watchman. But there weren't any on the force susceptible to bribery, at least not for a task like this. He couldn't use a Watchman.

 

Unless…

 

He remembered that Lord Tuesday had spent some time in Genua. And Old Fatty loved to talk about the peculiar brand of witchcraft that they practiced there. Hadn't he said something once about a special magical spell – something you could use to make another man do your will?

 

Dorking rang the bell, and his manservant soon entered. He wasn't the type of gentleman's gentleman that Wodehouse wrote about, but Dorking considered Cuttlefish one of the few members of the staff that could be trusted. Above anything else, Cuttlefish was loyal to Dorking, even though he wasn't being paid what he thought he was worth. True, Cuttlefish was of the lower classes, but at least he wasn't Johnny Foreigner. Cuttlefish snorted and in a less-than-respectful tone said, "Sir?"

 

Dorking had taken a pencil and paper and was in the process of writing. "I have a note here that I wish to be sent around to Lord Tuesday. See to it, will you?"

 

"Right away, sir." And Dorking knew that Cuttlefish meant it.

 

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

 

On the way back to the Watch House, the cry of "STOP, THIEF!" was heard, and Fraser took off running. He was quickly followed by Carrot and Angua.

 

"Fraser! We're still civilians here! You can't go running off like this yet!" Ray sighed, and took off after them.

 

It was easy to figure out who the thief was; a young man running down the street clutching a woman's purse may have an innocent explanation, but it wasn't likely. Fraser tackled him and the thief went down.

 

Instead of fighting, the young man turned around and said with righteous indignation, "Here! You can't go around interferin' with my business! I'm a member of the Thieves' Guild, I am!"

 

Fraser was stunned. "Thieves' Guild?"

 

"You better believe it! I'll have the Law on you for this! Now you just –” And he stopped. The Law was there.

 

Angua said, "A member of the Guild, you say? Would that be a card-carrying member, my good man?"

 

The purse-snatcher snapped back, "What – my word isn't good enough?"

 

Carrot said, "Members of the Thieves' Guild are required to carry their identification card with them at all times. It helps to avoid confusing situations like this. You do have your card with you, don't you?"

 

Ray helped Fraser up. "You okay, Benny?"

 

"Thieves' Guild. He said he's a member of the Thieves' Guild…"

 

At this point the victim, of the universal Matronly archetype, came up. "Officers, arrest that thief! He took my purse and ran off without giving me a receipt! I always get a receipt when I'm robbed!"

 

"Ah." Carrot turned to the young man. "That's against Guild rules as well. A member always leaves a receipt."

 

"There's always a coupon printed on the back! Right now it's for a buy-one-get-one-free deal at Harga's House of Ribs! I could use one of those!"

 

The young thief did what everyone else does when they won't admit to themselves that they're in the wrong; he got defensive. "What is this about rules? Why can't a bloke make a decent living without everyone else weighing him down with so many rules? What've I ever done to you, anyway?"

 

"You took my purse!"

 

"Pardon me, but we couldn't help overhearing."

 

By this time, the fracas had attracted a crowd, and two individuals had stepped forward. Their appearance was striking. One was round, even more round than the man in the cart had been. The other was tall and thin, with a head that almost tapered to a point. And they were both dressed in white. Had their shapes been any more stylized, they could have been used as symbols for a World's Fair.

 

The round one continued. "Allow us to introduce ourselves. My name is Mr. Parris, and this gentleman is Mr. Trylo. We are representatives of the Thieves' Guild. Are we to understand that this fellow is a –” Their nostrils flared, ever so slightly. “– freelancer?"

 

Carrot replied, "It would appear so, sirs. There is certainly enough doubt, I believe, for us to take him in for questioning."

 

The young man gleefully said, "Oh, no you don't, copper! These blokes won't allow it! The Guild takes care of its own!"

 

Mr. Trylo replied, "Oh, yes, that's quite true. The Guild does take care of its own. Tell me, young fellow, are you one of the Guild's own?"

 

The purse-snatcher didn't answer for a moment. Then he grudgingly said, "Well… I haven't applied yet. Was gonna save up for the dues. But I want to join! Doesn't that count for something?"

 

My. Parris smiled and said, "Oh, yes. That counts for a lot. You wouldn't believe how much that counts for in the Guild! Captain, this obviously falls under Guild jurisdiction. We have our own ways of dealing with… freelancers."

 

From the tone in the round man's voice, Ray could figure out how the Guild felt about… freelancers. Just like the Teamsters' Union. The thief would be better off being arrested.

 

Captain Carrot said, "Well, we did catch him first. I'm not clear on what the Law prescribes in a case like that. It may well be that we should leave it up to the young man."

 

Any fool could figure out what the Guild would do to a freelance thief. However, the purse-snatcher was young, which meant he wasn't just any fool. He was a particular fool who firmly believed that no harm could ever come to him. He said, "I think I might go with them, copper! Here – can I join the Guild?"

 

Mr. Parris nodded. "Oh, yes. You'd be guaranteed a membership – eventually."

 

Mr. Trylo said, "Of course, this little incident broke a few Guild rules. There would be a probationary period."

 

"Yes, indeed. There would be a fine. It would be deducted from your earnings, along with Guild dues, until paid off."

 

The young man frowned. "I dunno. Taking part of my haul? Don't like the sound of that."

 

Mr. Trylo stiffly replied, "I'm sorry, young man, but those are the rules; one has to pay dues for membership in the Guild! Now do you want to come with us or don't you?"

 

"Well… All right. It better not be too much, or I will squawk!"

 

Mr. Parris said, "Is that satisfactory, Captain?"

 

Carrot sighed. Clearly it wasn't. But he said, "Well, Guild rules are Guild rules. I release this man into your custody."

 

"Excellent! Just one more thing – Madame, on behalf of the Guild, let me extend my deepest apologies. Here is your purse back – none the worse for misuse, I believe – and may I present you with a complimentary book of coupons for Harga's House of Ribs?"

 

The Matron received the purse and coupon book and smiled. "Why, thank you very much, good sir! I've always said how gracious you folks in the Guild are! Now you teach this young turk some manners!"

 

"That we will, Madame. And at this point, I suggest we take our leave, Mr. Trylo. Thank you all your patience. Come along, young friend." And the two men walked off with the young man between them. Securely between them.

 

Mr. Trylo said, "You will find, my good fellow, that the Guild has an excellent benefits package. Including, for instance, free medical care."

 

The young man cheerfully said, "Sounds fine, but I'm in pretty good shape. I won't be needing medical care right now."

 

"But you will need it in the future, I'm sure…" The three disappeared in the crowded street.

 

Ray shook his head. "Well, I'm glad I'm not in that kid's shoes. Hey, Benny, we better get on our way…

 

"Benny?"

 

Fraser said softly, "A Thieves' Guild…"

 

END OF PART I

Go to Part II

 

DISCLAIMER

 

This story is for entertainment purposes only and is not intended to infringe on copyrights held by Alliance Communications Corp., CBS and CTV or any other copyright holders of "due South", nor is it intended to infringe on copyrights held by Terry and Lyn Pratchett of "Discworld".