TaKING CHANCES
A Novel Of discworld
Dedicated with love to the memory of Sir Terry Pratchett,
A global and discal treasure
Author's Note:
I began writing this work, which is set in between Raising Steam and The Shepherd's Crown, in November of 2014 when Sir Terry Pratchett was still alive. In that spirit, I leave the original disclaimer which I wrote for it here.
DISCLAIMER:
I do not own the rights to the Discworld setting or any of its characters.
They are the wonderful creations and intellectual property of Sir Terry Pratchett,
who has given so much joy to so many for so long through his writing.
I can only hope that his sense of humor extends to fanfiction as it does to everything
else! Thank you, Sir Terry, for the pleasure you and your books have given me!
Reality is never tidy.
It tries sometimes, it really does. Here and there bits of an infinite multiverse will line up for a moment in seemingly perfect harmony. The stars dance around one another in precision and rhythm, light is light and dark is, well, very, VERY dark. Everything looks as though it has its place, and for that moment beings who like this sort of affair will be content. But it never lasts. Sooner or later, Reality reveals itself for the disorderly jumble that it is. Constellations, so neat and exact when looked at from one perspective, turn out to be a mess of heavenly bodies barely on speaking terms with each other when seen from another angle. Untidiness, unpredictability creep in, like the scum and grit that forms on the underside of the soap dish. Worst of all, from certain points of view, Life happens. And Life is the least tidy, least orderly, least understandable thing of all . . . . It can even take the form of a giant turtle with four elephants and an entire world mounted on its back, traveling through space.
Something ought to be done about that. That's what certain entities tell themselves.
But where there is Life, there is also Death . . . .
YOU DO NOT SEEM SURPRISED.
"No." Havelock Vetinari, or what was left of him, did not even raise an eyebrow as he turned from the sight of his fallen body where it lay on the floor of the Oblong Office to face the tall, skeletal cloaked figure that had materialized beside him. "Disappointed that someone has succeeded, perhaps. But I've been expecting it, sooner or later."
AH. ANTICIPATION. Death said. THAT MUST BE IT. MOST PEOPLE IN THIS SITUATION DO NOT EXPECT TO BE MURDERED.
"Most people aren't politicians, fortunately," Vetinari sighed. He glanced back again at himself, at the mug on his desk, and at the pencil still clutched in his hand. "I don't suppose I could finish the crossword puzzle at least?"
NO.
There were no signs of violence anywhere in the room. Vetinari stared again at his body, not seeing any rise or fall of the chest that would indicate breathing. Time itself appeared to be standing still. Vetinari's loyal secretary Rufus Drumknott posed like a statue, not moving either but frozen in the moment, eyes caught in the act of studying some doubtlessly important piece of paperwork that he had in his hand, oblivious to the fact that his employer was no longer with him in every sense of the word.
"Poison, I presume?"
Death nodded and gestured with his scythe for Vetinari to follow him across the room into a dark, star-filled space as the Oblong Office, Drumknott and his body began to fade from his view.
"Could you at least tell me the name of the person who inhumed me?"
I COULD. BUT IT IS NOT MY PLACE TO DO SO.
"Nor your intention?"
NO.
At first the dark, starry plain they were now standing in appeared to stretch on forever without features or landmarks. But as Vetinari's eyes adjusted – and he had to assume he still had eyes to adjust, or at least something like them – he could make out the shape of an enormous black and grey mansion. It was done up in the Deranged Lord Harmoni-era architectural style with more gables, crenellations, towers and gingerbread woodwork than any sane person would have devised. They walked toward it, and Vetinari saw a sundial with no sun or shadow showing, a horse stable, small shacks nearby, and an unliving, undying lawn and trees surrounding the great house. Death himself might not have surprised Vetinari, but this was not the vision of the afterlife he had been expecting. And the silence in this place was so . . . silent. Quieter than the merest whisper. The fabled quietness of the grave? For anyone accustomed to the usual bustle, cart traffic, shouts, animal noises and the occasional gurgle and scream of the city of Ankh-Morpork, the lack of din was the hardest thing of all to accept.
"You aren't much for words, are you?" Vetinari asked Death, if only to hear the sound of his own voice.
The Grim Reaper looked down at him and even though Death's face was (as usual) a skeletal mask of horror, it somehow managed to convey to him a hurt expression.
I LIKE TO THINK I AM QUITE A GOOD CONVERSATIONALIST. I SPEAK EVERY LANGUAGE KNOWN TO MAN, AND MANY THAT ARE KNOWN TO OTHER CREATURES. SOONER OR LATER I GET TO MEET EVERYBODY.
"Ah, well you wouldn't happen to know an 11-letter word for 'aiming toward a definite point of view,' would you?"
TENDENTIOUS. 7 DOWN, WASN'T IT?
SQUEAK.
OH BUGGER.
Death came to a halt as a miniature version of himself with a miniature scythe and a rodent-like snout of a skull tugged at his black robe.
EXCUSE ME. Death shrugged to Vetinari before stepping away a short distance to have a word with this much smaller Death. In the stillness of the dark plain, Vetinari could hear every word of their conversation, even if some of it sounded only like somber mouse chirps to him.
SQUEAK!
WELL SHOW HER WHAT'S IN THE BOX I HAD YOU FETCH FROM THAT NEW STORE IN QUIRM AND TELL HER I WILL BE IN TO SPEAK WITH HER SHORTLY.
SQUEAK.
Again, Vetinari had the impression of something other than a poker face coming across Death's skull – this time it was a trace of suspicion as Death brought the handle end of the scythe down to pin the hem of the look-alike's robe to the ground.
THERE IS SOMETHING IN THE BOX, ISN'T THERE? YOU DIDN'T EAT THEM ALL AND LEAVE THE WRAPPERS, DID YOU? OR JUST THE NOUGAT? YOU KNOW HOW SHE FEELS ABOUT NOUGAT.
SQUEAK!
The smaller Death crossed its arms, scythe and all, and tapped its skeletal paw-like foot. Vetinari noticed that it had a skeletal tail sticking out of its robe, which it was tapping as well. As soon as the larger Death lifted his scythe handle, the smaller one stomped off toward the dark mansion.
MY ASSISTANT. Death explained as he returned to where Vetinari had been left standing. ONE OF THEM, ANYWAY.
"I didn't know Death had any assistants."
OH, YES. YOU'LL LIKE ALBERT. YOU TWO WILL BE MEETING SHORTLY.
"And Albert is a female who doesn't like nougat?" Vetinari ventured. He didn't see the point in not putting at least a few cards on the table now that the worst had happened.
NO. ALBERT MALICH IS A HE, AND HE WILL EAT ALMOST ANYTHING. Death gestured and they began walking toward the House again. THE DEATH OF RATS IS ATTENDING TO MY GRANDDAUGHTER. YOU WILL BE MEETING HER ALSO. BUT FIRST, YOU AND I HAVE SOMETHING TO TALK ABOUT.
Vetinari prided himself on being the master of the bland, blank expression, but some circumstances made this office more difficult than others.
"Albert Malich – the wizard?"
YES. THE FOUNDER OF UNSEEN UNIVERSITY. HE WORKS FOR ME AS A BUTLER OF SORTS.
Alberto Malich the Wise had also been dead for a very, very long time, at least according to the official histories found in the Unseen University Library. Supposedly in the final days of Master Malich's life, Vetinari recalled from school history lessons, the elderly wizard had performed the dread Rite of Ashkente backwards in a quest to achieve immortality. Since nothing had been found of him afterward but a smoking pile of ashes and his wizard's hat, it was assumed that the effort had not succeeded and that performing the Rite of Ashkente for summoning Death backwards, forwards, or indeed any way at all, came under the heading of Not A Good Idea.1 Yet here Albert Malich apparently was, wherever here might be. As for Death having a granddaughter, Vetinari could not remember reading or hearing any mention of her at all. While he tried to rack his memory for details, he became aware of the disquieting sensation of his memory trying to rack him back. There were fuzzy bits in it which shouldn't be there. Vetinari didn't like fuzzy bits, and some of these were recent.
YOUR MIND HAS BEEN TAMPERED WITH. Death commented. BUT NOW THAT YOU ARE HERE, YOU ARE FREE OF THEIR INFLUENCE. FOR THE PRESENT AT LEAST.
"Whose influence am I free of? Is that why I've been brought here?" Vetinari had no trouble recalling the last sight of his mortal body. His present condition had seemed like such a certain thing. And yet . . . . "Am I dead or not?"
YES.
"Well, which?"
YOU ARE DEAD. OR NOT. AT THE MOMENT YOU ARE MOSTLY DEAD.
"But mostly dead is not the same thing as completely dead." Vetinari raised an eyebrow, or felt like he had. "This discussion you wanted to have with me, it wouldn't happen to be about angels, would it?"
ANGELS? NO. Death shook his head. They had arrived at the entrance to the house, which Vetinari now could see was more of a HOUSE. As Death opened the front door, its interior appeared to stretch on to forever, just as the starry plain outside did. All in all, there was a lot of forever to be had in the afterlife. Vetinari had no choice but to follow his host if he didn't want to get lost in it. IT WILL BE EASIER FOR YOU TO UNDERSTAND ONCE I HAVE SHOWED YOU THE TIMER.
They traversed a long hallway before arriving at an arch that led to an even longer hall, a vast chamber lined with ladders and shelves bearing an infinity of hourglasses, each with its own stream of sand – or streams. Here and there along the shelves was a timer that stood out from the rest. Some were bigger than others, some shinier, and one or two that Vetinari spotted were twisty, contorted knots of glasswork in which the sand seemed to be flowing every which way at once. Each had a name on it, but the names were too blurry for him to read, as if the writing on the label shimmered and shimmied of its own accord. Death moved to one particular shelf and one particular timer, lifted it in his skeletal hand and held it out to his guest.
"Havelock Vetinari," Vetinari read off the label on the timer. The words on this one did not move. Neither did the sand within, which was of two different colors. A stream of bright blue sand intertwined with a stream of ebony black sand in equal amounts, but the streams were as frozen as Drumknott and his body had been to him. "Time does not pass here?"
IT DOES AND IT DOESN'T. Death waved the scythe and Vetinari noticed that the sand in the other hourglasses on the shelves flowed at varying speeds and directions, but all had some form of motion going on inside. Only his timer did not.
"My Aunt always said I was special."
YES. AND NOW I WOULD LIKE TO DISCUSS SOMETHING WITH YOU. IT INVOLVES THE MATTER OF PROBABILITY. AND CATS . . . .
[* * * *]
1 Of course, this could be said of a great many things accomplished by the wizards of Unseen University, particularly the invention of indestructible toilet paper which led to the Battle of the Water Loo, the first (and last) Iron Kite Festival, construction of the Leaning Tower of Jelly, and anything at all designed by Bergholt Stuttley Johnson, better known as 'Bloody Stupid Johnson for a reason. But where would progress be without those daring thinkers who looked practicality in the face and then tried to win a staring contest with it?