Author's Note: Hey, all! This is my new account, designed to be dedicated to Discworld only. I'm not really writing this one for the plot since it's my first fic that swims atop the Great A'tuin, but I'm trying to immerse myself in the Pratchettesque style.
(Dis)claimer: Unfortunately, of everyone mentioned in this chapter so far the only ones who belong to me are Lynda and Elsie Mags and the girl who opens the door to the House of Negotiable Affection (and possibly, the water in the river Ankh since no one else seems to want it, or in any case, be able to pry chunks of it out). The rest belongs to Pratchett himself and Harper Torch publishing. Here goes!
The stars are bright—
—here at the base of the magical fields of the Ramtops, reigning over the night with peaks of wisdom, where monks high in the crests seek peace, freedom and the chords with which the universe started—
—here in Al Khali, small city overlooking the peaceful shores of the Circle Sea, where the last rays of sluggish Discworld light are annoyingly failing to disappear, and merchants are still seizing chances to sell carpets and lamps and meat-inna-
bun—
—here in the Agaten Empire, where peasants scurry about their late night duties under the twinkling lights, obedience radiating from their every pore—
—but not here in the Shades of Ankh-Morpork, the festering wound of civilization, where a dark figure is disposing of a body in the—for lack of a better word(1)—water of the Ankh river.
There is not a splash. There is a thud. The body takes several minutes to sink in the fresh spring sewage of the river.
The spirit of Tartarus Smith, hovering over a bridge, watched the body being thrown with an increasingly sinking feeling.
"Oh dear," he said. "That was me, wasn't it?"
A voice from behind him immersed itself into his senses without the consent of his eardrums.
YES, it said. I AM AFRAID SO.
Tartarus spun around and glared at the seven-foot skeleton armed with a ghostly pure-white horse and a very tall, very sharp weapon. He thought better of it. He placed on his face a delicate expression of pleading obedience.
"Er… Does that mean I'm dead?"
GENERALLY SPEAKING, YES.
"But… but who will take care of the children?"
YOU HAD NO CHILDREN.
"Well, you know what I mean, it's the whole spirit of the thing. So you're Death, are you?"
YES.
Tartarus examined the framework of the hooded figure that floated in the fog before him. "Funny." He swallowed. "I never thought you the type to be wearing a pink scarf."
It seemed to Tartarus that small spots of red flushed across Death's cheekbones, nicely toned to the rose sash tied around his neck. He assumed it was a blush. He hoped it was a blush, considering all other alternatives.
WELL, YOU SEE, ER… I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN INTERESTED IN HUMAN AFFAIRS, AND I WAS TOLD THERE WAS TO BE A BALL AT THE PATRICIAN'S PALACE… Death began, and then realized that one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse was not obliged to explain himself to humans who had just died. He drew himself up.
IT IS TIME. The whole effect was a bit less impressive now.
"Time for what?" Tartarus asked desperately, although he could already feel his ghostly remnants begin to waver like a vase in immediate danger of toppling. He held his hand up. If there had been any moonlight visible at all in the thick smog of the Shades, it would have shown eerily through his smoky fingers.
TIME TO LEAVE. Death's scythe came whirring down in a fury of silver and Tartarus's soul disappeared from the face of the Discworld.
Elsie Mags approached the ornate building by means of the cobbled front walkway, shuffling her feet slightly in the wispy moonlight. This wasn't proper moonlight. Not like back in the Ramtops where giant slices of yellow cheese loomed over peaks like a mother looming over her toddler. Now that was real moonlight. None of this milky white stuff filtered through the haze and pollution of a big city.
She hoisted her sewing basket from one shoulder to the other, wishing she hadn't thought to pack everything she could into a picnic basket. Accumulated yarn could, contrary to common belief, pack quite a weight into one bag. Her mother had always been able to lift it. Then again, there was no limit to how much a single, wiry old lady could lift at any given time.
Her thoughts strayed. Ankh-Morpork, described by many as a city with one thousand hearts and at least three times as many people. They had some funny habits here. Like the way their gazes tended to bypass your face, and you found yourself holding a conversation with someone talking to your chest. Especially when she came to mention that she was a seamstress.
"Oh, a seamstress, ahem hem hem, are you, young lassie?" The man she had spoken to in the streets for directions to the Seamstress's Guild had given a sort of knowing chuckle, a wink that he apparently thought was quite seductive but actually made him look like a walrus in pain, and an approving glance at the area in between her neck and her stomach. "Well, that'd be jus' a few blocks thatta way then turn right. Huge building. Can't miss it. Hope to see you working sometime, eh?" He offered her a suggestive eyebrow-waggling that made her want to ask him why he twitched so much.
Her mother, a simple country woman who'd spent her entire life at the base of the Ramtops and loved to appear more intelligent than she really was, adored rambling on about the wonderful seamstresses of Ankh-Morpork. Elsie, young back then, would listen in rapture as her mother raved about gorgeous evening gowns and rich fabrics tailored by the young ladies of the double city. Lynda Mags, a few years after giving birth to Elsie, had overheard two traveling merchants talking about the excellent seamstresses of Ankh-Morpork and immediately taken to the idea, ignoring the evocative comments that followed. Elsie, who had shown a lavish talent for all things sewn, stitched and embroidered at quite an early age, had grown listening to captivating tales of extravagant dresses and elegant skirts that all the fashionable nobles wore.
Now, at the ripe young age of sixteen, she was here, having trudged through several miles of cabbages in Sto Plains to arrive, and discovering that all is not what it seems to be.
She paused at the huge oak doors, took a deep breath and heaved up the giant wooden knocker in the shape of—whipped cream?—letting it fall with an echoing thud.
The door opened slightly, and a heavily made-up young woman peered out through the door. "House of Negotiable Affection," she said smartly, looking Elsie up and down. "How may we assist your pleasures?"
Angua sniffed. Black dye, commonly extracted from a certain type of sweetgrass found on the islands nearer to the Rim. Black minx fur from the colder regions that neared the Hub. Assorted gold jewelry, painted black. Assassin's wear. Young assassin's wear, the kind of outfit that naïve children chose to wear before they realized style didn't matter when you killed—er, inhumed somebody.
Something else lingered in the air, besides the ordinary Shades perfume of sweat and blood and filth. The sergeant werewolf sniffed again. Ah, yes. Guilt.
Whoever beat the late Tartarus Smith over the head with a heavy stick, stabbed him through the heart and threw his body on(2) the river had a reason beyond an assassin's standard motivation.(3)
She heard silent footsteps behind her in her heightened state of senses and turned to greet Carrot as he jogged up the alleyway, hand on his sword.
"Went by the Assassin's Guild," the six-foot dwarf gasped, leaning over to catch his breath. "They've got no one under the name of Tartarus Smith. They didn't even know he existed, let alone have a price above his head. Have you found anything?"
Angua growled a canine affirmation and turned, sleek muscles rippling under brown fur. She trotted off into a couple of alleyways, Carrot close behind.
She stopped, and nudged something on the ground. Carrot paled as he knelt to pick it up.
"We'd better go see Commander Vimes," he said, trying to remain calm as possible. Angua yelped in positive.
"I'm sure he'll want to know about this."
(1)Actually, there are a lot of better words that come to mind for the muck that passes for a river in the banks of the Ankh. Just none of them are fit to write on this page.
(2)You will find that most bodies are thrown on the Ankh, not in the Ankh. It is quite impossible to throw a body into the Ankh unless you wait several minutes for it to sink, a feat equally impossible in the Shades unless you are a snarling werewolf or Captain Carrot, whom criminals greet amiably as he is arresting them.
(3)Namely, money.
Author's Note: Ah, the suspense is killing me! Next chapter may be delayed a bit while I work out the actual plot, and while I wait for a decent number of reviews (five or six) so I know my beautiful talents are not being wasted on deaf ears (or blind eyes, in any case). Thanks!
KC