A/N: This will make no sense whatsoever unless you've read Going Postal, Making Money, and The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents. You have been warned. Completely non-canon, by the way, and has TAMAHER set about twelve years before Making Money. Oh, and is it ironic or what that the week I predicted as being barren of fanficcyness was the one in which I wrote two?

And now, I am sort of proud to present...

Of Cats and Conmen

Once upon a time, in a prosperous town that had grown up around one of Uberwald's more well known rivers(a), a boy named Moist von Lipwig was planning to run away.

The reasons for this should already be obvious.

Moist was tired of being bullied about his name. Moist was tired of being congratulated on his name. Moist was tired of being experimentally prodded because of his name. Moist was tired, in short, of his name. But the thing about the prosperous town was that it was not a town populated by the sort of people who accepted things like nom de plumes. It was populated by the sort of people who took the news that he was assuming such a name fairly calmly, and then told their friends "That Moist boy wants us to call him Nomdeeploom(c)."

Moist like words, and he had not, as of yet, learned to like being laughed at. There is only so much mispronunciation that sort of person can take.

So he was running away. Because he spent too much time listening to stories, with the sort of skepticism mixed with badly-hidden enthusiasm that can only be achieved by fourteen year old boys, he was doing so with a long stick over his shoulder and a sack tied to one end, filled with the things he planned to take with him.

They included: a pack of marked cards, although he did not yet know how to play any card games that it would be possible to win money with, marked cards or no, false teeth, which were his grandfather's last bequest(d), a pamphlet on dog breeding he had not yet realized was in there left from when his mother had used the sack, formerly a tablecloth, at the family's annual Doggy Luncheon, what money he had saved up(e), a false moustache(f), and a sandwich.

It's amazing he survived his first day. Indeed, when more than a decade later he told a part of the story to his fiancee, she was extremely amazed by it. Insultingly so, really.

The truth was, he almost didn't. In another leg of the Trousers of Time, Moist von Lipwig was mugged (for what good that did the mugger) and had his throat slit by a wandering highway man with pent-up aggression caused by the fact that he had recently been held up in the middle of, er, a hold up by a bunch of rats who attacked certain private areas of a man that should never, ever be attacked. And in the third leg, which was the one the teenaged Moist in all three paths had really expected to end up in, he returned home within a few hours, tired and dusty and hot, and had his hide tanned for him by his father.

The reason he survived and went on down his winding road in this one, however, lies in the part of the story he omitted when discussing the matter with his fiancee.

It was a hot Grune day when he left. He strolled along the river, because it wasn't as if he had to worry about anyone catching up with him, and was just contemplating a break, barely half a mile from his home, when a voice behind him said "Hey, you! Stupid-looking kid! How would you like to be Lord Mayor - nah, kid, I'm down here..."

He turned around. When he looked down, he saw a cat.

Moist liked cats, in an indifferent sort of way. They were pleasant enough to look at, mostly, and they didn't bother him when he was daydreaming or Telling Stories, like dogs, and he always got the impression of lazy intelligence, an impression that was... oddly comforting.

This one was a slightly mangled looking tomcat, and this one positively oozed the aforementioned impression.

It struck him that there was no one there. "Who said that?" he said.

The cat sighed. "Look, stupid-looking kid," it said (or appeared to say), "we aren't getting nowhere like this."

"You talked," said Moist, when he managed to stop gaping.

"Well done! Give the kid a bloody medal," the cat snapped.

"But - but - you're still talking," said Moist stupidly.

"We've gone over this already, haven't we? Yes. I can talk."

"Er," said Moist, and then, "How?"

The cat blinked. It - he, probably - gave him a suspicious look. "Hey, stupid-looking kid, you aren't as stupid as you look, are you?" It seemed to be accusing him of something.

Because he wasn't as stupid as he looked, and because something new and Hope-full was springing up inside of him, he said "Huh?"

The cat looked satisfied, and Moist knew he had said the right thing.

"Nothin', nothin'. So, like I said, want to be Lord Mayor?"

"Maybe," said the boy, cautiously. "I dunno, I've never been one before."

The cat suppressed a theatrically heavy sigh. "I guess that'll have to do. What's your name, kid?"

He opened his mouth to say Moist, and almost got out the first M before he realized what he was doing, panicked, and said the first name that came to mind, which was, unfortunately, his mother's.

"Ethel?" said the cat.

"Y-yes," he said, defensively, 'cos it wasn't as if he could go back on his unfortunate choice now. "Ethel. Right. Ethel Snake," he added, making the best of it. At the time, being fourteen, he thought Snake was a cool, dangerous sounding last name.

And Ethel? Well, it was better than Moist. Probably.

The cat made a motion that was presumably a shrug. "If you say so. I'm Maurice. Follow me, kid, and I'll make your dreams come true!"

Moist hesitated. He didn't trust dreams, or at least, he didn't think he trusted dreams, and he definitely didn't trust Maurice.

In the end, he followed the cat anyway.

(a) i.e., the ones that the cartogrophers use to break up the MMBU(b).

(b) Miles and Miles of Bloody Uberwald. Incidentally, MMBU is one of the first acronyms ever to officially include an expletive.

(c) The reader may be interested to note that the kingdom of Lancre, home to That Agnes Who Calls Herself Perditax, is only five miles away from the town of Lipwig.

(d) The first line of said grandfather's will went, "I, Ludwig von Lupwig, being not very sound of body but really quite amazingly sound of mind, all things considered, although you don't get the things these days that you used to, eh, boy? Things are definitely going downhill..."

(e) In Ankh-Morpork dollars, it amounted to $3.89, which was, by coincidence, the exact price of half of one of Dibbler's sausages inna bun.

(f) At the time, he didn't know why. He just liked false moustaches. Later, he would come to see this as prophetic, and probably an omen from the gods. Probably an omen from Anoia, but, hey, none the less omen-y an omen for that.

---

Twelve years later, Moist found himself to be completely and utterly drunk.

To be fair, though, he had a good reason for his inebriation. It was called 'ten bloody tons of bloody gold appearing in his bloody bank's bloody vault out of bloody nowhere.' Besides, he was sobering up quickly. The cold of the Watch's cells and the eerie blue glow that peeked out from under Igor's cell tended to have that effect on people.

There was a heavy, warm weight on his stomach.

This was because, he realized slowly, a very familiar cat was sitting on it.

"Uhm," he murmured, and closed his eyes in the hopes that the apparition would go away.

"Hi, Ethel," said Maurice. "You should have told me your real name! I had a job tracking you down, let me tell ya."

"Oh, no. No no no no no."

"Come on. Moist? Such a nice name! Look, kid, one of my oldest - er, acquaintances - was named Dangerous Beans. Moist ain't got nothing on Dangerous Beans."

"Please, oh merciciciciful god," moaned Moist, eyes snapping open again. "Gods, I mean. I want more beer," he added darkly. "If yet another old akwa-acqqqqqua-aqua-someone I know is going to come and try to blackmail me about my, my sor, shor, serr... wossname. Evil, anyhow. I want more beer. Past, that's it. Is there no justice in this world?"

"Nope," said Maurice, quite happily.

Moist concentrated, and marshalled his thoughts back into a straight line. "...the hells are you doing, here, that is, here... anyway?"

"Found you inna bar, Moisty boy," said the cat. "And I was so kind as to follow you when you got arrested for being Drunk and Disorderly - for shame, kid, couldn't you at least have worked up a proper crime to get locked up for? Honestly, I don't know why I bothered with you - just 'cos I wanted to talk about old times. Eh? Eh? What about that, eh?"

"It won't work," said Moist, more coherently. "I've already, reva, reva-eeeled my secret identity. Revealealeals, that's it, Reveveals Alter Ego Evil Criminal...ness. And they were all so shocked, yes they were, but they shtill trust me, right Maurice? Know all about that, doncha?"

Cats' faces are not designed for worry. Evolution, after all, knows when it is beaten. But Maurice was making the effort. There was genuine concern in those dark, soulful eyes, a certain twitch of the whiskers that suggested hesitant desire to ask after the health of everyone in the vicinity, and a kind of curious half-droop, half-cockedness to the ears that suggested that the owner was always ready to listen to the troubles of man or catkind. It was quite impressive, really.

"You mean you aren't going to give me money?"

Moist tried to glare at him, but his gaze kept getting bored and drifting off towards other things in the cell. What nice graffiti, he thought, lovely graffiti, that graffiti is my bestest friend in the whole wide world...

"I'll take that as a no, then," said the cat, sounding disappointed. "Well, I think I'll hang around a little. Just in case..."

"It's no good," said Moist, brightly, "the Watch knows about it already, and they can't do anything about it, 'cos, Lord Vetinarinari said so, 'n he's a tyrant, 'member?"

"...right," said Maurice. "When you put it that way..."

He was interrupted, however, by the door opening.

Commander Vimes didn't look angry. Moist could tell by the way there was no steam coming out of his ears. Of course, he didn't look terribly happy, but then when did Vimes look happy?

He snickered at his own joke. The Commander shot him a lookbefore focusing in on the cat. He looked blank for a moment, and then his eyes widened in surprised recognition.

"You're that cat, aren't you," he said in a way that made it clear he was not asking a question. "The one Quirke wanted to boil. Bastard was right there for once."

Maurice looked suddenly shifty. "Miaow?" he tried.

"Don't bother," said Vimes wearily. "I'm the one who found you splitting the deal with the rats, remember?"

"Bugger," said Maurice, giving up all pretenses.

"Maurice knows everyone," said Moist, grinning. "And everyone knows Maurice. Right Maurice? The Amaaaazing Maurice."

The cat glared at him. Moist started snickering again.

Vimes sighed. "How did you get in here, anyway? Not you," he snapped, when Moist opened his mouth.

"I just followed your officer. He didn't seem to notice me," said Maurice, forgetting himself for a moment and looking immensely self-satisfied.

"How - oh. Detritus. Well, I guess it doesn't matter, since I'm supposed to let you out anyway, Mr. Lipwig. Miss Dearheart is waiting for you outside."

"Miss Dearheart is tired of waiting, actually," said Spike, stepping inside. "Is there something wrong, Commander?"

Vimes opened his mouth, caught the look in her eye, and ignored it, because he was Vimes. "Well, yes," he said, "I can write you a list if you'd like -"

"Would it be relevant to the situation at hand?"

"Some of it would. I just found your Mr. Lipwig associating with a wanted man, for one -"

"Sorry?"

"Er, wanted cat," said Vimes, and then seemed to realize how that sounded. He winced. Spike raised an eyebrow. She was really good at that, thought Moist. She ought to give wossname, Cosmo, that was it, lessons, he could do with it, haha.

"He looks like a darling wittle putty tat to me," said Spike, solemnly. "I believe I will escort my fiance home now. If," she added, "that is permissable?"

"Perfectly," said Vimes, with heavy sarcasm. He saluted them both, with mock formality, and stomped out.

She prodded him in the ribcage. "Up you get."

He groaned and rolled over. "Do I hafta?"

"Yes. Come on."

"I'm - I'm getting up, there, yes," he mumbled, and tried to stand, eventually ending up in an approximately vertical position. With added swaying. Spike snorted and took him firmly by the shoulders, by which grip she managed to successfully steer him out of the Watch House and into the street.

Maurice padded after them on velvet paws.

"Right," said Spike, as soon as the doors had closed behind them, "What was that about? Vimes wasn't drunk, surely?"

"No, he weren't. Wasn't? Weren't," said Moist. "Completely sober. Knurd, like. Liiike. Heh. Poooooooooooooooor barstard..."

"It's sad, really. Arrested twice in as many days, once for national theft and once for being drunk and disorderly? And you didn't answer my question," she said briskly. The fact that he was drunk and disorderly was apparently beside the point.

"Mister Vimes just doesn't like me, 'sall, 'cos I'm so good. Not my fault. But he's right. Cat. Big ol' mastermindy criminal."

"I can't think why he wouldn't, at the moment - how much did you drink?"

"Little bit. Little teensy bit. Maybe one cup, or, like, six."

She shook her head and dragged him back to what probably, these days, counted as home.

And the cat, curiosity satisfied, left the city, which isn't much of a resurrection, but oh well. Resurrection or no, Maurice considered fast departure to be a good thing, because it meant that Ethel-Moist never found out (or remembered) that man and cat had actually gotten drunk and maudlin together about years and heists past. There was no need to cause the poor fellow that much trauma. He retained a soft spot for his old apprentice.

And it saved himself quite a lot of mental scarring, too. As always, with Maurice, altruism was the secondary consideration.