Chapter one
The shades, a quiet, respectable neighbourhood of Ankh-Morpork, filled with quaint characters and olde world charm. This would be description any copper would love to give in his area report, but alas there was no such luck.
It had all the charm, quiet and respectability of a semi-derelict council estate, and the quaint characters normally rob, assault or murder you for fun, sometimes all three if they felt generous.
This night though, the denizens of the Shades had some entertainment in the form of pit fights, held beneath an old cold storage warehouse near the docks. Behind the battered rusty doors, two troll bouncers stood silently, collecting entrance fees whilst cut-purses, vagabonds and charlatans rubbed shoulders, and occasionally palms, with the silver-spooners of society with a blood lust. The room itself was hazy with roll-up, pipe and cigar smoke, the air thick with the smell of blood, sweat, cheap cologne, expensive perfume and sawdust, not to mention a make shift sausage inna bun stall mingling it's own unique odour.
In the pit, a swarthy man dressed in worn trousers, a faded white shirt ad a tatty bowler hat shouted the fight odds and collected bets from the punters, while a smaller, similarly dressed man scribbled current totals on a chalkboard on the arena wall.
'Ok...ok...' the bookie shouted over the din. 'M'lords, ladies and gentlemen... and you lot from 'round here!' There was a general laugh at this as the audience quietened down. 'Welcome to my fine establishment, I am Lars 'nutcracker' Thompson. Those of you in the VIP sections will notice, for your convenience, we have provided free refreshments snacks, wet wipes, stab vests and knuckledusters, in gold or silver, his and hers!'
He paused again, before flashing a showman's smile to the entire room, turning as he did.
'Tonight we have a spectacular show of brutality, for your... paying entertainment! From the four corners of the Disc I have some of the most talented and vicious combatants since the days of yore!'
'Your what?' a heckler shouted, to a quiet wave of laughs.
'Very droll, sir... Now, onto the undercard fighters...'
Again he was interupted, this time by a shadowy figure in the VIP section.
'We came to see him fight... five hundred Ankh dollars if you make them fight now!'
The room fell silent, except for a fat toff already drunk and red faced, on the other side of the arena.
'A thousand to shut that man up, hmm?' He slurred loudly, all eyes swung back to the first figure. The was a faint sssswip sound, a fleck of silver caught the lamp light, and the drunkard toppled backwards off his chair with a feathered dart lodged in his windpipe.
'No one need panic...' the dart thrower said. 'He'll be awake by morning. 'Now, about my offer?'
Thompson was not about to lose face in front of his home crowd, so cleared hs throat and sai.
'Look, sir, I wouldn't change me schedule for none of ya, why the Patrician himself could demand it, and I'd tell him to kiss my arse! My 'ouse, my fights, my rules ok?'
'The Patrician himself, you say?' The figure asked, now standing. The air seemed to chill in the tones of his voice. 'The same Assassins Guild trained, dictator tyrant of Ankh-Morpork Patrician... the one with the latest gadgets and noisiest kittens in his dungeon?'
'Y...Yeah!' Lars said, slightly less confident now. 'Right on me sheriff's rusty badge...' he waited for a laugh, but still only silence from the audience.
The man stepped forward into the dim light and pulled back his hood and collar to show the angular features, time worn and serious, of Lord Havelock Vetnari, his salt and pepper beard trimmed and waxed to a fine point.
'Let me remind you, Mister Thompson, that your house, as you put it, is in MY city! Should I decide, I may relocate you to more cosy accomodations beneath the palace, and have this building dropped a mile off shore. Now, for the last time, the fight?'
'Of course your grace... at once!' He shouted to the ushers to inform the fighters.
'Very good, mister Thompon'. Vetinari sat back down, instantly just a shadow again.
'Ok, you lucky bastards. His lordship has...kindly... requested the main fight, so we shall oblige!' Lars shouted, if nothing else he was the consumate showman his grin wider than ever.
Two hatches within the arena wall swung open and two hooded figures emerge, their faces hidden by wooden masks, for suspense.
'Our first fighter is...' Lars opened a small envelope, and aped surprise as he continued. 'Achmed 'the Organ Grinder' Antchovi! Our reigning champion from Klatch'.
The beast of a man towered at least a foot over his opponent, almost a third wider. The common mob when berserk with applause, whilst the rich folk simply prodded their servants to do it.
A few quiet "Jolly good fun, wot?" and '" bet you my manor in Quirm"'s floated around too.
'His opponent is a local lad done good!' Lars continued. 'From the Shades, with us gutter rats, to the Dolly Sisters, as a duke, no less! That's right, for one night only, I present to you... Sam Vimes! He has signed the waiving of his oficial titles and ranks within the City Watch whilst in this pit!'
'Gentlemen... you have three minutes to warm-up, pray, or whatever. Good luck, and don't forget dental goldwork is property of the house if you lose it or die!'