Memory Lane
Read this story and tell me I'm Terry Pratchett. Go on, I dare you. Of course I'm not. He owns Discworld and Teatime. This is some little Fanfic I wrote a short while ago because I was bored. It's my first Fanfic I've submitted to the website. It takes place a few months prior to the Hogswatch fiasco. If I have upset anyone about copyright and such in any way at all, I apologise. It is entirely accidental .You know when you read a lot of Fan fiction and it blurs together and you forget what belongs to whom? Well, that's happened to me. So sorry if I stole something without realising. Oh, and please R&R!!
The cloaked figure of Teatime stepped lightly onto the polished parquet floor; with an ease so weightless it was eerie. The floor neither creaked nor squeaked, despite the foot landing directly over a loose board. Teatime was tall, cloaked and walked with a slow, measured gait that suggested a fairly heavy, straight, not-too-flexible object was suspended on side of his belt. Curled, tufted blonde hair poked out from under the hood, which hid most of the face, leaving just the eyes glinting beneath the shrouding shadow. Or, I should say, eye.
The figure preceded towards the end of the long, tapered space, more a corridor than a room. The end of the room held a vast, glorious bay window, the centrepiece to the otherwise ordinary students' dormitory. The iron bedsteads lined each wall, holding snoring pupils and their various stuffed, furry accomplices, coated in linen bedspreads. A large tin tallboy unit stood next to each bed, presumably containing clothes, schoolbooks and contraband of varying levels of severity. It was all so very familiar.
The figure paced in front of the window for a moment, and brushed away the overbearing feeling of doom the room gave him. He was being foolish. The terror was merely memories. Nothing more.
Like most things Teatime did, there was no actual rule against what he was about to do. It gave him no qualms, no moral dilemma, but he still wondered how the rest of the Guild would react. The last thing he needed now was to be thrown from the Guild.
"No." he thought to himself silently. "This is my contract. I must inhume the individual. That is the contract." He took a moment to look around the space, locating possible interruptions and risks. The room was, of course, the Dormitory of Orphans at the Guild of Assassins in Ankh-Morpork. The very room where Jonathan Teatime had spent his troubled, unhappy childhood years.
He moved swiftly and noiselessly, so swift he seemed to leave behind an image of his silhouette in the dust that was floating around in the air. It hung for a few seconds, and then settled back into its usual position around the figure.
Teatime was now at the foot of the last bedstead. He inspected the face of the small, curled up child that snored before him, unaware of its imminent fate. It was male, brown-haired, and had delicate features. Then he noticed the ropes.
He saw the raw, red flesh beneath the bonds; he saw the crimson streams of thick blood that mingled with the brown, undyed fibres set in their swirling, spiralling pattern. He recognised the exhausted and foreboding expression that twitched and murmured in the twilight; he knew the way those salty tears felt as they dried and crusted over on the soft, dimpled cheeks that one possesses during innocent youth. He saw the slightly, ever-so-slightly frayed edges of rope just starting to break down, the fraying coming from hours of struggling and pulling and wriggling, all the time the stress increased by jeers and jibes and punches and scratches coming from the crowd that had so inevitably surrounded the terror-stricken, panicking child, so vulnerable and almost entirely defenceless, unable to reach the merciless tormentors, held fast by those uncreasing, tireless bonds. It was exact and precise, accurate to the tiniest fraction of a detail, recollected from those awful memories pasted for eternity onto his very mind, experienced so many years ago, so horribly fresh in his memory. He gently rubbed his wrists subconsciously, wincing at the memory of the grating rope on tender, thin skin.
Of course, it was not often Teatime was hurt by one mere memory. The one event seemed to bring on a stream of emotional recollections. Flashes of the past; schoolrooms, jibes, flaming cats and hours spent memorising names of children and students. Getting into trouble, being beaten for crimes he didn't commit, watching his hands claw the flesh of other boys in a fight, locked in broom-cupboards by classmates, tricked by teachers and, of course, that horrific incident in which he lost his eye.
He lifted one hand from his wrist and dabbed at his clear crystal eye, setting it back straight (It had rolled somewhat during his turbulent reminiscence). He noted that his breathing was hard, and almost noisy. He slowed, relaxed and put his mind back to the task in hand. Back to the contract.
He walked to the window, glancing briefly at the tarmac playground below and the wooden bench he used to balance on the back of, admired the view of the Unseen University, and calmed down. The bench was a happy memory. He sighed softly.
He returned his thoughts to the contract. He had spent a considerable amount of time memorising the exact wording of the troublesome document. It had gone through a horrendous amount of moral debate from the Guild's most senior members.
CONTRACT ENTRUSTED TO THE ANKH-MORPORK CITY GUILD OF ASSASSINS
INHUME GREGORY STAT, ORPHAN STUDENT AT THE ANKH-MORPORK CITY GUILD OF ASSASSINS DORMITORY. TO BE INHUMED QUIETLY AND CLEANLY, WITH ELEGANCE. PAYMENT WILL BE DISCUSSED AT A LATER DATE, AND WILL BE BASED ON PROVEN DIFFICULTIES ENCOUNTERED.
SMALL PRINT:
Good grief, Reader, why are you bothering to do the necessary squinting to actually read this? Good God, Reader, why are you even attempting to do the necessary squinting to read this? This is ridiculous! Good grief, Reader, why you bothering to do the necessary squinting to actually read this? Good Lord, Reader, why are you bothering to do the squinting to actually read this? Why are you still bothering? Honestly, you lot(!)
Of course, the Guild had encountered some difficulty in deciding whether or not they were actually going to undertake the contract in the first place. Was it morally acceptable to inhume a ten-year-old? He was one of their own as well. Could they inhume a student? Teatime thought back to the debate where they had decided upon the contract's suitably.
FLASHBACK"I don't think it's right," said one Lord. "We simply can't inhume a child. It's wrong."
"No, it isn't. It is just like any other contract, but more youthful. There is nothing different about this," said another.
"But he's a child! We always inquire about the nature of the dispute between the client and the one to be inhumed. Not only were we unable to confirm the reasons for the inhumination, we haven't even agreed a set payment yet!" shouted the first Lord. He took a moment to breathe. Teatime took the opportunity to note the grand room in which they sat around the large, square table. He noticed that the three seats either side of him were empty. The two other Assassins sat in the fourth seat away looked rather nervous and uneasy.
"You forget, Phinneas, business is slow. The black market offers a far cheaper service. Not of the same quality, of course, but much cheaper. We need any payment we can get. The building where we teach stealth entrance is falling apart," replied the other Lord.
"We need to advertise, Maurice! I've told you, we won't get business if people don't know we're here!"
"And I've told you, people know we're here! People are simply finding more peaceful ways to settle their differences!" Maurice shouted back. A long argument ensued. It carried on for a few minutes. Then Teatime got bored.
"Excuse me, Gentlemen," said Teatime, so softly it was barely a whisper. Despite the din and both mens' seniority, the shouting immediately ceased, the two men turning to Teatime with their mouths still open.
"Could we perhaps return to the matter in hand, sirs, if it's not too much trouble, of course?" asked Teatime gently. There was no need to be rude. People almost always did what he wanted anyway.
"Yes, certainly," answered Maurice and Phinneas, neither protesting in any way.
"I still don't see what's so wrong with this contract. It is identical to every other inhumation we have carried out in Guild business, with the age being the only unique feature," said Maurice.
"Is that you think, hm? Well, let's ask the men who will be carrying out the contract," said Phinneas, a smug smile decorating his face, pleased with his 'amazing' idea. Two of men at the end of the table straighten up, waiting to answer their superiors. The third one, seated between empty seats and the other two, was already bolt upright.
"So, what do you think? Will any of you undertake this particular contract?" The two other men looked at one another uncertainly, chewing their lips in contemplation.
"Umm…" said one.
"Errr…" said the other.
"Why certainly, my Lord. I would be perfectly okay with that. No quibbles at all. I would be honoured, in fact," said Teatime in his trademark chirpy tones.
"Well then," said Maurice triumphantly," If Teatime is willing to perform the deed, we're all done here. Thank you gentlemen, you are excused," he addressed the two other Assassins. They left the room. Teatime's gaze followed the one he vaguely recognised for his 3rd year 'Poisons and antidotes (in case of emergency)' class. The man felt Teatime's eyes scorch the back of his skull. His pace quickened and he slammed the oak door behind him.
"Mr. Teatime--"
"Teh-ah-tim-eh," injected a chirpy voice.
"Teh-ah-tim-eh," the Lord corrected himself, "Here is your copy of the contract."
"Oh, thank you most kindly, sir."
"Yes, well, why don't you go and start planning the actions required, Mr. Teh-ah-tim-eh?"
"You know, I might just do that. Thank you very much, sirs. A pleasant evening to you all, sirs."
Teatime got up and left the room. The Lords waited for the footsteps to fade before leaning into a circle at the head of the table.
"'Well then, if Teatime's willing to do the deed….'" said Maurice in a high-pitched squeaking mimic of Phinneas. "Honestly, Teatime's so screwed up he'd murder his own son just to prove he could."
"I don't have a son. And I find that quite hurtful and cold." Said a quiet, sorrowful voice, seemingly from all directions, though Teatime was, at present, in the Great Hall. The lords looked unnerved. They felt it, too.
"Oh, and it's Teh-ah-tim-eh." The men scuttled off hurriedly.
Teatime looked down at the sleeping child before him. This was the orphan, Gregory Stat. This was definitely him. Teatime took his stance at the side of the bed. He glanced at the ropes, and quickly glanced away again. He slid his hand under his cloak and drew out his favourite weapon: his penknife. The handle was glorious waxed ebony, with silver settings and an ornate golden pattern embossed down the side. But these mattered little to Teatime. It was the blade he liked. The pure silver edge was razor sharp and easily maintained. It could slice through a hair and was so thin the incision often didn't even show. Sparks of faint enchantment from the spell placed on the three-hundred-year-old blade a century or two ago still danced along the knife's edge, leaving purple shimmers in their wake. Teatime watched them entwine across and through one another for a moment, his trademark manic smile stretched like a canvas over his pale face. Then he turned his attention to the still-slumbering bundle of soft, young flesh and linen. He drew his arm upwards, wielding his blade like a knight about to slay the dragon. He took a deep breath and then…stopped. Stopped dead. He slowly turned on his heel and made for the door. Then he halted again. He paused briefly, and, cursing himself, turned back towards the bedstead.
When Greg Stat awoke that next morning he was surprised to find that someone had cut through his rope bonds and rubbed healing salve onto the raw wounds left by their coarse fibres. He also found that Mr. T.Eddy Bear's head had been cut off and he appeared to have been eviscerated. After all, all Assassins need to keep a little pride.