Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or settings to be found herein.
A/N: This ficlet was written for one of my LJ friends who requested a drabble featuring a meeting between Tiffany Aching, The Abbot, Death and Lord Vetinari.
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Tiffany Aching looked on with interest as the man(1) reputed to be the wisest individual on the Disc, the man generally(2) acknowledged to be the most powerful individual on the Disc and Death gathered around the yellow cylinder.
"At first we thought that something had gone amiss with - don't wanna wear these stupid shoes, don't wanna, don't wanna, don't wanna - temporal splicing in the storeroom," said the Abbot, thoughtfully regarding the object while stamping his sandal clad feet. "Something interfering with the ripening process."
WELL, IT'S CERTAINLY NOTHING TO DO WITH ME Death looked (as far as it was possible for him to 'look' in the conventional sense) from the object to the Abbot and back again. YOU DIDN'T ACQUIRE THE RAW MATERIALS FROM RONNIE SOAK BY ANY CHANCE, DID YOU?
The Abbot shook his head. "We - want some sweeties, want them NOW - only use the local stock."
Lord Vetinari, who had been standing back and observing the interaction between Abbot of Time and antithesis of creation, cleared his throat. "And you're quite certain that sabotage can't be ruled out?"
The Abbot frowned. "That's a little unlikely, don't you think?"
"Unlikely, yes, but clearly not impossible."
"Well, of course not, but one would have to wonder what possible motive anybody - Rinpo smells of poo - could have for doing such a peculiar thing. After all, if one had the power and inclination to infiltrate the Monastery in such a way one surely wouldn't restrict oneself to doing something so petty?"
"Yet the matter was clearly important enough to bring us all here today."
"Ah, but your presences here are obviously a result of the Theory of Narrative Coincidental Convergence in action: I am the Abbot of this Monastery, you are in the process of covertly travelling by a highly unorthodox route to a plausibly deniable meeting in an unspecified location, Miss Aching was directed here by the Nac Mac Feegle and—"
I GET EVERYWHERE
"I understand the theory. However, would it not be possible for persons or forces unknown to engineer such a meeting?"
"Of course, thought again we return to the question of motive."
IT DOES SEEM A RATHER STRANGE THING TO DO.
"A diversionary tactic, perhaps," suggested Lord Vetinari.
As interesting as this insight into the insights of insights of wise, powerful and partially unfathomable might be, Tiffany decided that she really ought to step in.
"I think I know what's wrong with the Oi Dong Extra Crumbly," she said, gesturing to the large and woefully under-ripe block of cheese. "You're using the wrong kind of rancid yak butter."
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(1). Currently inhabiting the body and (alas) mind of a small boy.
(2)... and often resentfully.