You Know When I Said I Aten't Dead- For Sir Terry Pratchett

by SaschaSIX

My first real attempt at fanfic at all let alone in the comic fantasy genre (I'm a hard scifi/dark fantasy/cyberpunk/historical fantasy writer and have only ever done one other reworking, and that was of The Angel by Hans Christian Andersen, for Chapeau Rouge, by their request)but done in response to the passing of the late and great writer, Sir Terry Pratchett.

You know when I said 'I aten't dead'?

Granny Weatherwax was making tea just after eight o'clock that morning when the sky fell. It did not fall with a crash or a fanfare of trumpets of which the much-maligned nation of Borogravia would be proud but rather a sigh and an almost cheery farewell. She could tell it was time for it to go, but she wasn't happy about it. Her teacup cracked. She didn't hold with reading tealeaves but even without looking she was pretty sure what was being spelled out. And when the battered sign on the mantelpiece that she wore when out Borrowing slowly keeled over and fell, flat on its face onto the rough-hewn wood, she became certain. He had gone round the other side of the mountain, as the dwarves say. The fact they usually said it about her for now did not give her habitual mix of grim pride and affront.

"Well, that's torn it," she stated as she moved You's curious cat-face from the milk jug.

"Torn what?" enquired Nanny Ogg as she bustled through the door. Her hat had been jammed firmly onto her head to protect her from the wind that had swirled impatiently around her sturdy frame as she threaded her way through the scared trees on the way to Esme's cottage. She had known something was up when she had woken up this morning and her house was still redolent with a miniscule layer of dust and sticky finger marks generously left by Pewsey the previous evening. When she'd poked her head out of doors, the street had been deserted except for the gleeful grasping wind. Even Greebo had refused to go out and looking out there, she didn't blame him. But she had had to go. And Tiffany would be along soon.

Then she took proper note of what had just happened outside. "Oh, bugger. Don't think even the three of us can do much about this one."

Even for those that lived Outside the Stories, this one was the biggy.

Horace the cheese tugged at Tiffany's trouser leg. If he had been a goose, he would have been making and sad and confused honking noises, but as he wasn't, all he could do was loiter cylindrically and tartan-clad, casting meaningful glances in Fromlang* till Tiffany looked up from the sheep she was tending. Sheep did not care what the light looked like, but she did. She cared very much. She sighed and patted the sheep on its rump. It was set in the default mode of Bewildered and Inclined to Bite the Unwary. It bleated reproachfully at her and set off down the hill to cud some blades of grass that looked identical to all other blades of grass, but those were the ones it wanted. Then Tiffany picked up her tattered bag and stomped down the hill to Granny's. Her wellington boots wobbled in a most sinister fashion as she walked and she frowned down at them.

"Well, you could have spoken up!" She grumbled. The wellingtons shrugged rubberily as if to say so what could I have done, exactly?

"I hardly think that is the point…" Tiffany replied, and sped up her pace, causing the wellingtons' wobble to increase to critical mass. But speed was of the essence. Had it really happened? Had the storyteller left for good?

Rob Anybody watched her go from the shade of the trees.

"Waily waily!" Daft Wullie moaned into his ear. "The bigjob ha' gone to dree his weird…"

Rob gave him a sharp look. "Sometimes ye're not just a useless bag o' spavies are ye?"

*Fromlang- the secret language of cheeses everywhere. Cheese scholars believe that it is this language that makes them all able to develop mould at exactly the same time in the fridge, no matter when and where they were bought or how long they had been there.

"No' always, Rob, nah. There's gonna be a dirge fro' the gonnagle 'cos of this, ain't there?"

"'Fraid so." Rob grimaced, and passed Wullie some wool he'd…borrowed from a ship in readiness, as soon as the sky had fallen.

Due to the glutinous and somewhat lethargic nature of the light on the Disc, it took some time for the sky to fall outwards from Lancre.

"Woof woof bark bark!" Gaspode exclaimed. Lately he'd taken to sleeping under Angua and Carrot's window. As usual, it was open. As was not so usual, Angua had not Changed last night even though the moon had been full.

"Oh cut it out!" Angua replied crossly. "I'm having an existential crisis!"

Her skin felt funny but peculiar, not amusing. It tingled and twitched but no hair grew.

"Have you seen the sky?" Gaspode insisted. "There's never going to be a moon ever again."

She stared up at the greyness then down at her hands that were clenching and unclenching of their own accord. The fur stubbornly stayed dormant. A feeling of deadly calm fought with the need to scream at the top of her lungs.

"I'm not his dog any more!" she whispered, glancing over at the impressive and asleep form of Carrot. But that revelation fell as flat as the dim light that was swishing discontentedly around the room like a debutante without a dance partner; as, fast on the heels of that thought was the realisation that she loved him anyway.

"Come off it!" Gaspode snorted. "We're all someone's dog."

Angua made a sudden lethal movement and Gaspode fled as one of her boots sailed out of the window. Its intent was clear: to knock the sense if not the life out of him! Where it lay it cast no shadow.

As she reached out of the window to retrieve it, Foul Ole Ron wandered aimlessly by and made a grab for the boot. Every beggar knew boots made the best soup. And failing that, you could drink some good strong tea out of it.** She slapped his hand away and he blew a raspberry at her.

"You can blow that out of your teapot and no mistake." He warned her. He screwed up his eyes as he stared up at the sky and declared, "Bugger 'em! Bugger 'em all!"

Angua was inclined to agree. And she went to wake up Carrot because she too was embuggered if she knew what to do about the fallen sky. He sat upright with a jerk.

"Look out of the window," she advised, but he was already staring.

"G'daraka!" He cried.

"Quite." Angua responded. "He is free. What happens to us now is a different matter."

"I Would Say Good Morning Mr. Lipwig But There Does Not Seem To Be One," announced Mr. Pump as he arrived with the breakfast tray. "Thus I Regret To Inform You That There Is No Morning Newspaper. There Have Also Been No Clacks And No Letters. I Have Nothing To Do." He said this as if the world had ended and in a way it had.

"Pardon?" Moist glared at the golem. Not that facial expression had any effect on a golem. "Wait…" He continued. He had not had enough coffee to cope with Mr Pump's pronouncements. Eventually he dug out the fact that seemed to be the cause of all the important facts; the ones that would stop him, well Ankh-Morpork, from making money. "There's no morning?"

** Also made of boots.

"That Is Correct. The Sky Has Fallen. Last Night Was The Last Written Night On The Disc. There Are No More Jobs, No More Duties, No More Stories."

Moist rubbed his eyes. "Why?"

"Such A Small Word To Show That Something Lasts For Ever. Or Has Come To An End. Some Might Answer: Because."

Moist didn't want to ask, "Pardon?" again so he muttered, "I guess it's a question best left to the philosophers."

"I'm No Expert." The golem intoned. "Do You Want Me To Find Out? Perhaps Anghammarad Would Know. If You Ask It, I Will Go And Ask Him."

"I thought he was dead." Moist replied once he'd searched his mind to

recall Anghammarad. Oh yes, he was the Extremely Senior Postman who had exploded. In his later years anyway.

"Anghammarad Is Only…Mostly Dead, Mr. Lipwig. He Waits At The Entrance To The Afterlife. If Anyone Knows What Has Happened To The Storyteller, It Is He."

"How will you get there?"

Mr. Pump would have been quizzical if his clay had permitted it. Instead he stuck to what he knew best: deadpan.

"I Will Walk."

"Well, off you go then," Moist encouraged heartily. He still had very little clue as to what was going on but on front of him was a pot coffee fit for…the Patrician and a gargantuan fried breakfast and a man could only concentrate on one thing at a time at this hour of the none-morning!

Mr. Pump strode from the room with a purpose that only a golem could have. He almost bumped into Adora Belle, although he would never have dreamed of calling her that. Any more than Moist would.

"Spike! Mr. Pump has brought us the breakfast of breakfasts! Even the sausages are future pork…and, um, apparently the sky has fell off, or something. Mr. Pump has nothing to do, so I've sent him on a mission."

"You can't deliver statements like that before I've had coffee." She arched the eyebrow that Mr. Pump could not- enough raising for both of them.

Moist gave up. And for some time, there was only the sound of eating and of brain synapses fusing into life as the caffeine hit.

"What do you mean, Mr. Pump has nothing to do?" she suddenly snapped.

It was only a eighth dog-sense that made Gaspode, who was still fleeing the scene, swerve to the right and avoid the implacable foot of Mr. Pump. He shot down an alleyway and scrabbled around the corner. Then the slunk into an especially dim alcove opposite the Watch House to catch his breath. Some things never changed. There would always be a human, well an almost human, around to chuck something at a poor stray dog.

In every window, lamps were burning. The new, dead grey light did not travel far and it was useless when trying to combat the Stygian corners of the Watch building. So it gave up and hunkered down, also dog-like, at the edge of the glass watching Detritus practising with the Piecemaker in the yard.

Vimes leant over to shove a small but persistently errant pile of paperwork into the lower file, otherwise known as the floor. *** As he did so, his arm brushed the hot lamp and he cursed under his breath. The heat seared the skin that was still sensitive to temperature, where a dark scar that vaguely resembled a question mark still lingered. For the first time, the old wound just felt like dead flesh. With the chain broken, all hell should have fallen, just like the

*** Constable A.E. Pessimal must have sneaked in there again and tidied.

sky. But the anger was quiet. In fact, instead he felt unmoored; at a loss. So he was not at all surprised when there was a knock at the door. Nobody seemed inclined to use the speaking tubes today.

Cheery poked her head into his office. "Vetinari has asked to see you." Her habitually worried face was smooth but her steel high heeled boot tapped on the

wooden floor. "He says it's not urgent."

"This is possibly the one and only time I can take that literally," Vimes nodded, as he jerked a thumb at the holes in the sky. "The Watch is, as the Times often say, 'baffled', but one thing I know. This is not a theft: it's a passing. Gone too soon for us, but for him? Just in time, I reckon.

"Ask Nobby to find me a bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich from somewhere would you? I assume there are still pigs, or sellers of pig products. I'll eat it on the way."

"Dunno, guv. The rats have all gone though, so there are going to be a lot of hungry dwarves out there…" She gazed out of the window at the dank, lifeless air and spied C.M.O.T. Dibbler. He was feeding that small scruffy dog a named meat pie. She shuddered. She wasn't that hungry. Yet.

Vimes raised his head from his now empty desk. "Well, Corporal Littlebottom, they, and you, will just have to eat pork. Harga's House of Ribs will still manage, I imagine. Cut chops into rat shapes or something."

"I'll give it a go if there's still ketchup," Cheery answered stoutly.

"You know, I might go home after I've seen the Patrician." Vimes ventured.

Cheery goggled at him from behind her beard.

"Well there's nothing to do here, is there? Has there been one crime reported since, well, non-sun-up?"

"No, sir." She figured witnessing what Dibbler had just done did not really count. Gaspode was still breathing after all. In fact he was wagging his tail. She shrugged. It stood to reason that things were going to be a little odd now. All the tales were unravelling. Or were they simply stopping? And who knew where it would go next? More of a shame than a crime, she thought to herself.

Vimes nodded again. He would gently drop the salad on the ground, then eat his sandwich and let his booted feet read the cobbles while he proceeded to the Patrician's palace.

"Where is the crossword, Drumknott?" The Patrician enquired levelly.

"In the same place as the Times, I suspect. Still on the press."

"No 'The Sky Has Fallen' special feature?" Vetinari responded. The merest sliver of an expression threatened to cross his face.

"Shall I go and politely enquire?" Drumknott hastily suggested.

"If you would." He inclined his head very slightly to see where Wuffles was. The dog was not wheezing and for one moment he wondered if he too had died. But then the dog slowly rose to his feet and waddled over to his God. Vetinari reached out a hand and patted Wuffles' head. Slowly Wuffles' arthritic tail began to wag.

"Oh and tell Vimes to come in would you?"

"He's not here yet." Drumknott fought, but failed, to keep the surprise and shock out of his voice.

"I see. In that case, I will play Thud! until he arrives. I did tell him not to rush over. And today of all days, we have all the time in the world."

Drumknott did not exactly run from the room, but his pace noticeably quickened.

The Patrician gazed out across the dully tinged grounds and over to the catacombs and the yawning maw that was the hoho. Then he rose, being careful not to tread on Wuffles, who seemed to spread out into a puddle of dog of variable dimensions every time he sat down. Over to the Thud! table he glided and studied the octagonal board. And while he used the game-as ever- to assess any sign of his own weaknesses, he waited for the visitors to come, expecting answers that, for once, he did not have. It was a refreshingly unique experience, to not actually know. He was determined however that it would not become a habit.

The Guild of Priests, Sacerdotes and Occult Intermediaries for once were in agreement. They didn't do it, and didn't know who did. For a while, accusing glances were cast at the priests of Offler, but they had an alibi that nobody could question: they'd been out on a mission to burn a broccoli field that had been planted on the road to Sto Lat.

It fell to Hughnon Ridcully, the High Priest of Blind Io, to be their representative and petition; well, request; well, ask the Patrician what made the sky fall and declare their utter and total innocence of the whole event.

He joined quite the trail of fellow Guild leaders: notably the Alchemists', the Thieves' head, Mr. Boggis, the Architects' and the Assassins'. Hughnon tipped a finger at Dr. Downey and fell into step with him. With a total lack of surprise, he saw that Mr Slant had joined the worried throng. Let him find a precedent for this, the High Priest sniggered to himself while keeping his face perfectly and prudently straight. Nobody spoke much and the few words that were exchanged soon fell into the ashen air.

On the wall outside the palace a mourning troll had gouged a short sentence into the stone of the palace wall:

PEACE AND LONG SLEEP TO THE WRITER. HIM DIAMOND.

Next to that, in runes swift and sure but without the sheer force of a trollish finger:

G'hruk, t'uk. T'dr'duzk b'hazg t't! ****

And on the cobbles; under those declarations of passing; delicately placed, was an unggue pot that sparkled even in the dimness. Nobody knew what could possibly have been put in it and everyone knew it would never be stolen.

William de Worde could only peer out of the window numbly. The stories had gone: there was no more news. At least, none he could record for now. Nobody would be interested in the procession of rats that was steadily streaming from the city, as for that to go in the paper some guy with a flute and excessively curled-toe shoes would have to be at the head of the column. So he turned his back on the fallen sky and the ratty exodus and he too contemplated a day of leisure.

There was a tinkle and a thud as in the basement, Otto, the Times photographer, must have attempted to take a picture of the old-new-dead-sky. De Worde smiled sadly. The image on the front page spread for the foreseeable non-future rose before his eyes: grey, grey and greyer. Maybe they could run a 'Fallen Sky' feature, go for the human angle. Which of course would mean asking a few dwarves, trolls, vampire, gnomes and goblins too, while he was at it. The diversity of the city demanded it. Maybe not the gnolls though…would there be any more amusing vegetables? He hoped not.

He adjusted his cravat for the eighth time and went down the stairs to see

**** Evening all (Literally: felicitations to all at the close of the day.) Today was a good day for someone else to die.

if Sacharissa was back yet. If anyone could make copy out of this, it was she.

"Did you do this?" Archchancellor Ridcully bawled at the unfortunate Ponder Stibbons, the Head of Inadvisably Applied Magic.

"How on earth could I break the sky?" Ponder almost squeaked in shock.

"Well, you young whippersnappers over at the High Energy Magic Building, always up to something…"

"Well, not that! We're making some headway on splitting the Thaum…"

"Oh not that old chestnut!" The Archchancellor sighed. "Okay then, did Rincewind do it?"

"I've not seen him for months!" Stibbons shook his head.

"That's what worries me. Bursaaaaaaar! Have you seen Rincewind? Oh yes, the Bursar's retired, isn't he?" Ridcully made an annoying double finger gesture when he said the word 'retired'.

"Yes, he is," Ponder replied grimly. He knew all too well, for he was doing the job now and sure as heck wasn't being paid twice over. Or at all. "So basically we don't have a whelk's chance in a supernova of finding out what's happened without breaking things even more…oops." Too late he recalled that Ridcully didn't do metaphors.

"We shall do the rite of AshkEnte!" The Archchancellor declared, ignoring Stibbons' actual words. "To the skulls and dribbly candle cupboard!"

Ponder sighed. He did that a lot. He listened as Ridcully's slippered feet shuffled away down the corridor. "Why is it always the rite of AshkEnte?"

The Librarian patted him on the arm and offered him a banana. "Oook," he suggested gently.

"Probably." Stibbons massaged his temples. "How do you deal with…that?"

"Eeek!"

"Yeah, good point. You can never get the bloody chalk marks out of the carpet afterwards either."

Susan stood just outside the ever-open gates of Ankh-Morpork also scrutinising the cortege of rats that flooded from the city.

"What are you up to?" She called out into the drab and empty air.

"SQUEAK."

"Don't even try that one. What are you doing with them?"

"…SQUEAK."

"What do you mean, you're calling them all home?"

The Death of Rats shrugged. It was a very eloquent shrug and he gave the gesture all he had.

"I know you're one of Granddad's little foibles…"

"SQUEAK," was the offended response.

"…But why does he want you back now? What did you do?"

Another shrug; this time of injured innocence. But this time, Susan actually believed him.

"Well…do you…need anything?"

If it was possible for a rodent face of bones to look sad, then that was what the Death of Rats was doing as he stared keenly up into her eyes.

"I'm sorry. I'll…miss you." She gritted.

He ran up to her leg and fiercely hugged it.

"All right, that's quite enough of that." She knelt down and solemnly shook his tiny bony paw. "Goodbye."

"SQUEAK." He grinned- for what else could he do? - and swung his scythe. As he did, the rats that passed under it paled, and faded till all that remained were thousands of sparks of purest blue. Then he too dissipated and winked out.

For possibly the first time in her life, Susan Death was nonplussed, so much so that she felt rather than angry. But what was clear was that the sky was fallen and that it was nobody's fault; it just was.

"How horrible. There will be…loose ends." She declared. Suddenly it made a kind of sense that her Grandfather was tidying up the only way he knew how.

The Abbot of Time at the Oi Dong monastery was now a teenager and struggling quite badly with puberty. So when he discovered that the sky had fallen, the result was an intermittent but quite spectacular fit of pique.

"Well, it was only a matter of time, after all," he began, well aware what a meaningless phrase this was here of all places. "But it will make our lives a little difficult…oh my gods it's so unfair! I wish I was dead! anything interesting happen in the twentieth century that we can rehash from the spinner? Impossible to bring him back, I assume. Nobody ever listens to me! I hate you! As we've not exploded or crumbled to dust it's clear that things are still happening, does anyone know why? Is the sweeper about at all?"

"Which one?" The hapless monk who had delivered the news dared to ask.

"Both of them. While I doubt they'll have the answer either, it will divert me for a while to hear how the Way of Mrs. Cosmopilite could explain this one. Oh gods, I'm so depressed…" he stamped over to the mirror and noted with dismay that he had yet another eruption of zits. Then he glared over at the monk who still had not moved. "Go and get them today, if you don't mind!"

"And when might that be?" The monk stuttered.

"Was that a joke? I'll pretend I never heard that, He Hehe! Now get out! You don't even care anyway!" The Abbot yelled.

The monk slid open the door to do the Abbot's bidding, but Lu-Tze and Lobsang were already outside.

"Argh! Don't do that!" he cried.

"I really don't think my mother was a big hippo, but as I never knew her…" Lu-Tze started, and right in sync, Lobsang also said "Why do you want to eat my foot?"

He Hehe submitted to the inevitable, bowed, and shuffled past them. It was all too much and he decided he needed a lie down.

"Ah, sweepers, come in, come in I can wear what I want, you're not the boss of me! What do you make of all this sky falling malarkey then? Anything we can do?"

"The story has ended, Abbot," Lobsang stated. "But time has not. I should know! And no, we can't do anything, and shouldn't. What could possibly be done? The storyteller is no more. We will start to make our own stories."

"But isn't that terribly disorganised? No way, only losers have to be home by eleven!" The Abbott mused, then blurted out a spat of angst.

Lobsang smiled. "Consider the eternal luck we have that one second follows the next, whether we are there to see it or not…"

"Is it not said that death is so terrifying because it is so ordinary, for it happens all the time?" Lu Tze added.

"Is that from the Way?" The Abbot queried.

"Nope. Just a truth." Lu Tze shrugged.

"Right. Now I'm really confused. I feel like Clodpool…"

"Just see it as he's gone to see a man about a dog. And we'll never know if he'll come back with a dog, as a dog or at all. It could even be a cat for all we know. Or a yeti." Lu Tze tried to explain, kindly.

"Is that from the Way?" The Abbot was too bewildered to even be belligerent.

"The first bit was, yes. I just…pepped it up a bit."

"Well, wherever and whenever he is, I wish him peace."

"We can all agree on that." Lobsang nodded.

"Remind me why we keep you again, why don't you? You can't sing, you can't play an instrument, you know no stories and you're not even amusing." Titania, Queen of the Elves, stated baldly as she harshly yet gracefully prodded a bundle of snoring rags that huddled at the base of her throne.

Rincewind yawned and sat up. This had been his morning greeting for so often he had lost count and he had run out of replies a long time ago. Not that it seemed to make any difference what he said. Titania clearly enjoyed being pettish and peevish. If there was one thing Rincewind had learned since he'd dropped into Fairyland-again, and he'd decided the first time would be the last time- it was that boredom for her was a terrible thing that ate you alive from the inside. But for him, it was wonderful! Nobody was actually trying to kill him, and he didn't have to run anywhere! Now, if only Fairyland had potatoes it would be just perfect…

However, something felt different this morning-if it was morning. Even the scab left by the Octavo spell did not itch inside his skull. He adjusted his hat, which now had 'W. ZZ . . D' hanging forlornly just above the brim, and yet more sequins floated to the floor. Absent-mindedly he picked them up and thrust them into his pocket. One day he'd find a needle and thread that weren't made out of gossamer and copper and sew them back on. Wizard hats, and even his sorry copy, were made of far too stern a stuff for any needle not of steel to even prick the surface. But iron was not allowed here.

"Oh." She griped, but put a hand up to her hair. As ever, it was perfect.

"He's here."

A shadow passed over what passed here for the sun. That was new! Rincewind thought to himself. Oberon rarely came anywhere near Titania if he could help it, and Rincewind could not blame him. He had never seen him up close before and he gazed up at the towering, antlered form and finally pushed to the back of his mind a dream of a steaming pile of mash that had a knob of bright yellow butter sliding down the side.

"Cor!" he blurted. "You don't half look like your picture!"

Oberon gazed down at the whatever it was and closed his eyes for a moment. He had heard the outburst many times and gave it little thought. Besides, what he had to say was far more important than the mouthing of one of his Queen's pointless pets.

"The wordsmith has died and the doors have closed." His voice was deep and rippled cross the clearing.

"What concern is that to me? We do not need words, as others always have them and we can steal a wordsmith whenever we have need of one."

"Not when the doors are closed." Oberon tried to be patient. "When the wordsmith dies all his portals die with him. Nothing can get in…or out. The barriers between the realms are solid. We are alone."

"They'll break down eventually," Titania replied carelessly. "They always do. Besides, I don't believe in wordsmiths. Anyone can put words in order. See! I just did it, right there! Someone else will do it, and as soon as they do, we will be able to cross into another world and we will make something…terrific happen to somebody else once more."

"I don't know why I bother sometimes," Oberon shook his head and strode away. He'd delivered the news, what she did with it was up to her.

"I don't know why you bother ever!" She called after him. "Why did I even marry him? He's never any fun any more!"

This was yet another question Rincewind could not answer, as he'd never been married. But despite her petulant dismissal of Oberon's words, some small inkling of meaning must have tricked through. For, whitely and softly, mostly on Rincewind's face and shoulders at first, but eventually all across the fairy glade, it had begun to snow.

"WHAT IS IT NOW? I AM TRYING TO…WELL, NEVER MIND THAT. SUFFICE TO SAY THIS IS NOT THE TIME."

Ridcully went to speak, but Stibbons risked putting up a hand, and with some consternation, the Archchancellor actually shut up.

"We won't, um, keep you, and, um, sorry." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "It wasn't my idea you know…"

"IT NEVER IS, IS IT?" Death attempted to whisper back.

"Ah, um, yes, I mean no. Anyway, may we ask: why has the sky fallen?"

Death would have rolled his eyes is he had any. Instead, his blue eye sockets flashed and all the wizards took a step backwards.

"ALL THE MAGIC YOU HAVE HERE AND YOU CANNOT TELL WHEN THE STORYTELLER DIES. ALL THESE BOOKS…"

"Eek!"

"YES, I KNOW, STICKY FINGERS ARE VERY ANNOYING BUT STILL…WHERE WAS I? OH YES. YOU HAVE ALL THIS LEARNING BUT YOU'RE NOT USING IT. THE PRIESTS ARE JUST AS BAD ALTHOUGH THIS IS THE FIRST TIME THEY HAVE EVER AGREED ON ANYTHING, SO EVERY CLOUD HAS A SILVER LINING. THE WITCHES KNOW. AND THEY WAIT FOR THE WHEEL TO TURN.

"I HAVE A JOB TO DO. A VERY SPECIAL JOB; WHICH YOU HAVE INTERRUPTED. OUR SPINNER OF TALES HAS LEFT US. HE IS WAITING WITH ANGHAMMARAD AT THE GATES AND I MUST RETURN TO HELP HIM ON. AFTER ALL HE HAS DONE FOR US, THAT IS THE LEAST I CAN DO."

"Who? A writer? Can't the Guild of Engravers and Printers deal with this?" Ridcully interrupted.

The other wizards' silence spoke volumes. And Death fired a look at him that speared him to the chair.

"NOT 'A'. THE. WITHOUT HIM, WE ARE RUNNING BLIND. OR FREE. RIGHT NOW I CANNOT WORK OUT WHICH. EVEN HE DOES NOT KNOW. AND HE IS SORRY HE HAD TO LEAVE. BUT THE WORDS BECAME JUMBLED AND HIS MIND GREW DIM. THAT BRILLIANT MIND; THAT MIND THAT GAVE ME A FAMILY; A GRANDDAUGHTER. THAT GAVE ME MISS FLITWICK, THE CHANCE TO BE BILL DOOR, TO SAVE HOGSWATCH AND THE LITTLE MATCH GIRL; AND RID THE DISC OF THE AUDITORS FOR A TIME.

"WHEN HE PASSED, THE SKY FELL. WHAT HAPPENS NEXT IS UP TO YOU.

"THIS STORY IS REACHING ITS END BECAUSE THE EPIC SIDE OF TRUTH, THE WRITER, AND HIS WISDOM, HAS DIED. NOW WE'RE ON OUR OWN.

"SO IF IT ISN'T TOO MUCH TROUBLE, RELEASE ME SO I CAN COMPLETE THE TASK AND BRING HIS STORY TO A CLOSE. GOOD LUCK."

Stibbons nodded and rubbed out one corner of the chalked star.

"Sorry…" he murmured.

"YOU CAN'T HELP THE WAY YOU ARE MADE. NONE OF US CAN." He grazed his bony arm across the wizard's shoulder, in an uncomfortable motion of sympathy. Then he left as quickly as he had been forced to arrive.

"So what do we do? Should we have a funeral or something?" asked Hector Tugelbend, who had been roped in yet again to help perform the rite; despite the fact he was himself dead.

"I think it's the very least we can do," Stibbons managed to echo. And for reasons he could not quite work out, tears sprung into his eyes for the first time since Ezrolith 'Stubby' Churn had magically fire-sewed him into his bedclothes on his first night at UU. He still had the burns on his leg and he'd never said where they were from. And he hadn't felt the slightest bit guilty when he'd sent good ol' Stubby to check out the odd message that Hex had spat out not so long ago

+++ Error at Address: 14, Treacle Mine Road, Ankh-Morpork +++

When Stubby never returned, still he shed no tears. And when they'd fought the trolleys at the place where the shops had grown, where the Bursar went completely Librarian poo, and they never found any trace of Stubby, he still did not feel bad. But now, a part of him felt a little guilty, despite the fact he now knew he had been but a mummer in a play. "Farewell and fare well, the writer. May your next journey be as enduring and enthralling as this story has been."

And for once, the Archchancellor did not have the last word.

10

A Homage to Sir Terry Pratchett