Admiral James Selachii was, to the very core, a navy man. His whites were always immaculately cleaned, his coat pressed to almost oak-like stiffness, and his shoes polished to a point a which innocent bystanders were in danger of being blinded if he happened to pass during noontime. Currently, he was standing at ramrod-straight attention in front of Lord Rust's desk. The Patrician was secretly glad he didn't have to see the man's shoes; he could hardly stand to look at his reflection in the shiny black leather.

"At ease, Admiral," Rust said, clasping his hands and resting them atop a pile of paperwork. Selachii merely stopped saluting. The Patrician sighed inwardly. "Thank you for attending, Admiral."

"Always the utmost of pleasures," the man responded, just as stiffly as he stood.

"I'm sure," muttered Rust, almost totally inaudibly, making sure the other man couldn't even see his mouth by pretending to examine a document. "I'm afraid I don't recall – did the memo I sent you specify as to why I asked you to come by this afternoon?"

"No, sir."

"Ah, well, good, because I'd rather hoped to explain that in person." Rust was still rather upset with his head clerk, who had a bad habit of almost being entirely too forthcoming with information in the Patrician's memos. Rust had had a word with the boy several times already and frankly couldn't imagine why Vetinari had kept him around in the first place. Slowly, the Patrician sat back and looked to the ceiling.

"About how many ships do we have in the harbor at this moment, Admiral?"

"Three, sir."

"Aha. And what sorts of ships are they?"

Without even pausing, the Admiral fired off an impressively succinct reply. "A large destroyer-type ship, a small ship for reconnaissance, and a slightly larger ship for patrolling."

"And which would you say is that fastest of the three?"

"The patrol ship, sir, by far. She's the fastest in the navy, sir."

The Patrician smiled widely, chins wobbling. "Excellent. You see, Admiral, we have somewhat of a piracy problem."

"Yes, sir."

Rust scowled, annoyed at the man's lack of expression. Vetinari had been known to make stronger men than the admiral break down into hysterical tears, on occasion. Rust had never been able to figure out how he did that.

"Two days ago, Admiral, I made somewhat of a rash decision. I received a key to a treasure of, I believe, some value. I did not have any clerks research the item, as I should have. Due to this gross oversight on my part, I hired a man of . . . somewhat ill repute to go and retrieve said treasure. Tell me, Admiral, have you ever heard of or had an encounter with Havelock Vetinari?"

"I heard of his time as Patrician sir, and that he was a brilliant politician but a despicable man." Here, the Admiral won points with Rust, who had a hard time controlling his grin. Rust firmly believed he was a much better politician than Vetinari, despite all evidence to the contrary. "As a pirate sir, he is no less despicable but also, I have heard, masterful at what he does and infinitely clever."

"Good; we're talking about the same person, then," Rust said, feeling somewhat uncomfortable about the Admiral's almost, well, praises of Vetinari's pirating reputation. "Anyway, Admiral, I hired Vetinari to go and retrieve whatever the key granted admittance to. In our agreement he made several terms that I was somewhat suspicious of. I should have thrown him out right then, but I agreed to his terms.

"The next morning, one of my clerks reported back to me with more information on the key that I had been given. It turns out this key grants admittance to avery valuable treasure indeed, and that I would never see the half of it. Naturally, I want the key back and would rather have the key in the possession of someone I trust."

"Understood, sir."

The Patrician smiled. "Very good. I will be willing to give you and your men a percentage of the treasure upon your successful return, of course."

"Yes, sir."

"You will, however, have to first catch Vetinari to find the key, seeing as he has it in his possession." Here, the Patrician smiled thinly and cruelly. "As it so happens, the same Vetinari with our key is very much wanted in the country of Ting Ling. I think it would be marvelous for foreign relations if Ankh-Morpork were to help a fellow nation out and return to them a dangerous criminal, yes?"

The admiral's expression did not flicker. "Sir, yes sir."

"So perhaps once you've apprehended him, it would be nice if you would, I don't know, drop him off in their capital."

"Yes sir."

"Good man!" exclaimed Rust, slapping his desk. "Very good, then. Please make sail at your earliest convenience. "I shall expect you back when?"

"Most probably nine months, sir," the admiral replied stiffly. "At the very outside, barring complete disaster, fourteen months."

Rust rose and extended his hand to Selachii, who shook with the same frozen formality as he had maintained throughout the meeting. "Most satisfactory," Rust said happily. "An excellent agreement on all sides, I would say. And now, I think, you would like some details on the key you are looking for?"

"Yes, sir."

"Most likely Vetinari will have it on his person," Rust said. "I'm sure you've heard of it, being a nautical man. Does the Black Iron Key ring any bells?"

The admiral's eyes flickered, ever so slightly. "I have heard of it, sir."

"Yes, well, it's supposed to be cursed or something." He laughed. "Perhaps the curse will take care of Vetinari before you can!"

"Nothing more than superstition, my lord. I am sure I will be able to apprehend both the pirate and the key without trouble." The admiral's face had reassumed its same rigid expression.

"I certainly hope so," Rust said, sitting down in his chair and leaning back. "Thank you for this lovely visit, admiral. I'm sure you have many things to get ready; please don't let me keep you."

"Sir, yes sir." And with that the admiral saluted, turned on his heel and marched out of the room with military precision.

--

Havelock Vetinari was at the helm of his ship, thinking. Not particularly deeply or anything, just sort of letting his train of thought go where it may. At the moment, he was wondering if he really should have kept Young Sam on the boat. After all, he was only a kid, really, and Ankh-Morpork wasn't all that far away. Plus, the sound of him being sick over the side was really starting to bother the captain, despite his best efforts to ignore the boy.

As Vetinari was examining his compass, making small adjustments to their bearing, he heard footsteps on the wooden stairs leading up to the helm. It was Drumknott, he knew. Four years of pirating hadn't broken the man of his tentative, efficient little walk. Vetinari was rather impressed by that, actually, considering that he himself had lost his ability to manage a straight line some time ago.

"Something wrong?" the captain asked, snapping the compass shut and looking up. Drumknott sighed and pushed his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose. His appearance had always amused Vetinari – no matter what, the man always looked, well, clerky. Even with the long hair and ratty old clothes, he still looked like he could happily organize files all day.

"It's Young Sam, sir," Drumknott said, rubbing the back of his neck. "He's been vomiting since he woke up."

"Yes, I noticed that."

"The men are getting a bit . . . tired of it, sir." Drumknott looked over his shoulder to the main deck, where the crew was organizing ropes and mending things. The he moved next to the captain, saying in a low voice, "I'm afraid they might do something unkind."

"Unkind?" Vetinari asked, looking askance at his former head clerk. "Them? Hardly, Drumknott."

"Yes, well, all the same. Sir, it can't possibly be good for him to be vomiting continuously like that."

"Not my problem. He's the one that stowed away on my ship." He caught Drumknott's expression out of the corner of his eye and sighed, opening the compass again and squinting at it. "Fine. Take him below deck. Did we ever get that crate of lemons?"

"Yes, sir," Drumknott replied swiftly. Years of working with the former politician had taught him how to switch subjects seamlessly and quickly, without so much as blinking. He also knew the lemon question was going to be at least a little pertinent, because Vetinari hardly bothered with thinking on more than a maximum of three levels these days.

"Good, give him a lemon to suck on or something. Get some nutrients of some variety into him. Once he seems better, let the crew at him."

"Sir?"

"Well he's the ship's doctor now, isn't he? I said so, of course he is. I'm sure someone has a medical complaint of some variety." Vetinari scowled at the horizon, glared at his compass, and spun the wheel a half-turn. "Damn crosswinds."

"Yes, sir. Just this morning, Josiah was complaining to me about how much his corns are troubling him."

Vetinari wrinkled his nose and stuck his tongue out with a slight hacking noise. "That's disgusting, Drumknott."

"Yes, sir."

"Let Sam look at him first, will you? Start him off easy."

"Yes, sir." Drumknott strode off, back down to the deck. Vetinari watched him take Young Sam by the arm and usher the wobbly-legged boy below deck. The rest of the crew watched them go, and then turned to Vetinari. The captain was, conveniently, examining a crumpled map he'd pulled out of his pocket. The crew then looked to one another.

Shortly thereafter, Vetinari heard another set of footsteps on the stairs. He looked up to see Bart Smythling, the former youngest member of the crew. Bart nodded amiably to the captain, shoved his hands into his pockets and started to rock gently back and forth on the balls of his feet.

"I'm sure you have something to do, Smythling," Vetinari said, pulling a stub of a pencil out from behind his ear and making a note on the crumpled old map.

"Actually, I have a bit of a question for you from the crew, captain." Bart was always a very relaxed young man, even in Vetinari's presence. Of course, he had no memories of the captain before he turned pirate, so that might have explained some things. But even so, Vetinari was not a particularly friendly person and had a slight habit of making people uncomfortable, even when he wasn't trying to.

"Speak your mind, Bart," Vetinari said, looking up briefly from his map.

"We were just sort of wondering what kind of voyage we're on right now," he said. "I mean, no boarding, no plundering, no stopping at little islands because someone has a good feeling about it? Do we actually have a destination, captain?"

"Indeed, Bart," said Vetinari, turning back to his map. "We happen to be operating on a commission from the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork."

"Really?" The young man looked surprised. "I thought he didn't much like you, sir."

"He still doesn't."

"So why did he hire you?"

Vetinari sighed and looked up at the young man. "Because, Bart, Lord Rust is an idiot."

Bart laughed. "So what kind of mission did he trust you with?"

"Secret government things, Bart. Don't worry: you'll be compensated justly."

"So long as we're getting paid, boss."

"Don't worry about that," said Vetinari distantly. He had the map and compass out now, and was scowling horribly. "Bart, aren't there some ropes that need to be coiled or something? The winds are getting a little . . . complicated."

"Sure, captain." Bart nodded to Vetinari, who was in his own personal world of frustration. He retreated back to the deck, where Josiah joined up with him.

"We're working for the government," Bart whispered proudly. "Very legitimate and all that."

"I thought Captain was on bad terms with Ankh-Morpork?"

"Well, you know Lord Rust," said Bart, waving a hand. "Anyway, Captain says we'll be compensated justly, so I'm thinking this is a pretty sweet job."

"He always compensates us, Bart."

"Right, well, he wouldn't tell me what we're doing, so that's a good sign, I think. Some kind of secret, must be pretty big stuff, eh?"

Josiah sighed and threw a coil of rope over his shoulder. "Bart, you don't remember him when he was Patrician, but trust me, keeping secrets is an indication of nothing. Could you help me with this rope? My corns are troubling me something awful."

--

Young Sam was somewhat relieved when Drumknott took him below deck. His stomach seemed to settle once he couldn't see the ocean rocking anymore. Drumknott had also given him a quarter of a lemon and told him to suck on it for a while. It did seem to help, despite the horrible taste. Drumknott himself had left a few minutes ago, leaving Sam alone in the dark crew's quarters.

He felt, above all things, stupid. What had he been thinking, sneaking off like that? First of all, he should have made sure he wouldn't get seasick before getting on a boat. Secondly, he felt ridiculous for even thinking for a moment that Vetinari would be anything but cold and distant toward him. The man was, after all, completely insane.

Most of all, he felt as though he should have looked more seriously at the amount of time he would be away from home. While he and his parents did have the normal amount of tiffs, all in all they weren't on terrible terms. He also missed the luxuries of the high life. But now he was practically stranded away from home, without his bed, proper lavatories, or his parents. He felt very alone, very uncomfortable, and somewhat afraid.

He was sitting on an overturned bucket, slouching back against the hull of the ship, when he heard footsteps on the stairs. He looked up, expecting Drumknott, and was surprised to see instead one of the grizzled, elderly crewmembers. The man made his way over, sat down in the hammock directly across from Sam, and began removing his boots.

"Er, something the matter?" Sam hazarded after a while, nervously fingering his lemon rind.

"I've got corns on me feet," the man said, without any other sort of introduction. "You're the doctor, right?"

"Um," said Sam. He didn't really know what to say. He certainly didn't want to look at this man's feet. "I guess," he mumbled, after a while.

"Well, what should I do?" the man asked, displaying a foot. Sam gagged a little, but managed to conceal it fairly well. "They're rather painful."

"Er," he said, mind racing and stomach churning. "That is . . . Well." Truth was, he didn't really know. He'd had the basics at the Guild, obviously, but most of that dealt with a person's insides. Corns had not been part of the subject material covered.

"Here now, the Captain said you were a doctor," the man said suspiciously. "You're not much good if you aren't. I would even say you're totally worthless and a stowaway. Yes?"

"No!" Sam said quickly. "I mean, I've had medical training. Just, er, give me a minute to think."

He thought. Nothing approaching this sort of thing had been covered at the Guild but, well . . . His father was a watchman. Watchmen were on their feet almost all day, every day, and it was completely normal for foot problems to develop. Mind racing, he tried desperately to think of any instance at all where someone had had trouble with corns . . .

Ah, yes. Poor Constable Ping, last summer. Now, what had he done? It had been something strange, Sam remembered. It must have been, for him to hear about it. Something to do with soaking in something. He swallowed nervously and licked his lips. Then it came to him.

"Soak your feet in tea," he said suddenly. "Really, really watery warm tea." He smiled, despite the man's incredulous stare.

"Tea?"

"Yeah, tea," confirmed Sam. "And stretch your shoes out."

"Boy, do you have any idea how hard it is to get a hold of tea on a ship?"

"Well . . ." Sam paused. He hadn't thought of the limitations of living on a ship, and felt rather silly for it. Of course tea was something of a commodity – it wasn't as if they could go and buy more. He licked his lips again and thought. The ship rocked.

"I guess warm salt water might work," he said at length. "It wouldn't be the same, obviously, but it would probably work alright."

"Well, no shortage ofthat," the man said gruffly. "And what's wrong with me boots?"

"They're too tight," Sam said, shrugging. "They should be wider. So there's no pressure on your . . . feet."

"Wider, hm?" The man gave Sam a skeptical glance as he pulled his boots on. "We'll see, boy." He stood and walked over to the stairs, pausing at the bottom step. "How do you know the captain?"

"Sorry?" Sam asked, sitting up a little straighter. He had sagged back against the hull in relief when the man had turned to leave. "Oh, um, he's friends with my parents, I think. Something like that. Why?"

The man shrugged. "Just curious as to why you're still here." He made his way up the stairs, pausing again once he was halfway up. "Oh, and Mr. Drumknott says you're to come up on deck as soon as you can." He smiled in a way that was not very nice at all. "Have to get you used to the sea."

--

Night fell. Once the sun set completely, Vetinari sent everyone but Sam down into the hull, where Drumknott would establish a lookout rota. Sam was sent to the crows' nest with a bucket (he still hadn't got the hang of actually looking at the ocean yet). Vetinari himself went to his cabin. He wanted to try to copy out the map on the grubby piece of cloth, just in case.

It was proving difficult. Whenever he tried to look and draw at the same time, the picture seemed to flit right off the surface of the linen, despite the candlelight. He ended up folding the cloth up in frustration and using another map as a guide to drawing the chain of islands the treasure was supposedly on.

Absently, he reached for the bottle of rum on the table. He grabbed the neck of the bottle and quickly withdrew his hand, as if he'd been burned. It was quite the opposite, really. Ice crystals had formed on the outside of the bottle, and little icebergs were bumping around in the liquid inside.

Very deliberately, as though totally unfazed by the abnormal temperature change, he laid his pen aside. He pocketed the map and then, with only a slight sigh, swiveled around to face the previously empty cabin.

HELLO.

"Yes, I thought it might be you," Vetinari replied, pushing his hat back and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Why, pray, are you on my ship?" He looked up, eyes narrowed and an unnervingly inquisitive expression on his face. Havelock Vetinari was back, in full form.

YOU KNOW WHY I AM HERE, HAVELOCK VETINARI.

Vetinari gave Death a quizzical look, eyebrow raised. He pulled a watch from his pocket – a massive thing, made of what appeared to be iron. It only had one hand. Vetinari examined it for a moment, listened to it and made sure it was working, and looked at it again. Then he turned back to the reaper, who was leaning on his scythe.

"I'm afraid I don't know why you're here," Vetinari said at last. He dangled the watch by its chain. "Little early, aren't you?"

I CAME TO REMIND YOU.

"Well, that was very nice of you, though I would like to point out that I am not likely to forget my business with you."

YOU HAVE TWELVE MONTHS LEFT.

And here Vetinari re-checked the watch, somewhat more urgently. He shook it slightly. He frowned. "Three years," he muttered. "I ought to have three more years."

I THINK THAT THIS IS NOT THE CASE. Death's blue eyes glowed slightly, and he appeared to frown. YOU DO REMEMBER THE INITIAL TERMS OF OUR BARGAIN?

"Yes," Vetinari snapped irritably, turning back around to the table and pushing maps aside in search of something. "Again, not something I'm likely to forget. Forty years from that moment."

Death nodded. BUT YOU REMEMBER THE CONDITION ON NEAR-DEATH EXPERIENCES, YES?

Vetinari froze. Then, slowly, he turned. "There was no condition on near-death experiences."

YES, I RATHER THINK THERE WERE. SIX MONTHS DEDUCTED FROM THE TOTAL FOR EVERY NEAR-DEATH EXPERIENCE, the Reaper recited, as though reading from a piece of paper plastered inside his skull. Which he may have been. Vetinari tried not to think about it.

"I don't remember that!" the captain protested. Nervously, he got up and started digging through a trunk on the floor. He pulled out Anecdotes of the Great Accountants, Vol. 3 and hastily started flipping through it.

YOU HAD JUST, FOR ALL POINTS AND PURPOSES, DIED. A SLIGHT LAPSE IN MEMORY IS CERTAINLY UNDERSTANDABLE.

Vetinari pulled a sheet of paper from between two pages, one of which had an orange tiger painted on it. He hastily read the neat gothic print on the page. Then he scowled up at the reaper, getting to his feet. "I don't think I've had four near-death experiences," he said, waving the piece of paper at the skeleton.

IF YOU THINK ABOUT IT, YOU WILL FIND THAT YOU HAVE.

Vetinari rolled his eyes. "The arsenic and the gonne. That was it. And that is only two, if you'll note."

THERE WAS ALSO, Death said slowly, THE INCIDENT WITH MISTERS PIN AND TULIP –

"I didn't die there! I was unconscious!"

I THINK NOT. CLINICALLY, YOU DIED. IGOR WAS QUITE SURPRISED WHEN YOU WOKE UP.

Vetinari scowled. "Fine. But that's still only three."

AND THERE WAS THE WINTER IN UBERWALD.

The room temperature seemed to drop, and this time it wasn't due to Death's presence.

"I forgot about that," Vetinari said quietly, after a while. He shifted uncomfortably, looking at the floor. Then it was gone, and he looked back at Death, expression closed, cold. "I want more time."

AS WOULD MANY OTHERS, I'D IMAGINE.

"I can play for it again, yes?"

I'M AFRAID NOT.

Vetinari glared. "I'msure that wasn't in our deal."

Death shrugged. IT WASN'T. IT'S JUST ONE OF THE RULES.

"I should have asked for more time," Vetinari said, rubbing the back of his neck absent-mindedly.

THAT WOULD HAVE BEEN QUITE IMPOSSIBLE.

"What? Why?"

YOUR HAND WAS NOT GOOD ENOUGH TO BARGAIN MORE THAN FORTY YEARS.

"But I beat Death!"

AT A CARD GAME, YES. NO ONE DEFEATS ME FOREVER. I AM SORRY. He didn't sound like it. He didn't sound like he felt anything.

Vetinari made his way back across the cabin and almost collapsed into his chair. He slumped back and stared into space. Then, slowly, he pulled the watch out of his pocket. When he did so, the chain caught the edge of the Key, and it fell to the floor with a dull thud. Vetinari ignored it. Operating purely mechanically, with little to no thought at all, he wound the hand ahead, slowly. "Twelve months," he said softly. "Well."

INDEED. Death looked to the Key, lying unnoticed on the floor. The blue light in his eye sockets flickered. THE BLACK IRON KEY?

"Hm?" Vetinari asked distantly. Then, looking to the key and scooping it up, he nodded. "Yes. I'm supposed to find the treasure or something."

THEY SAY THE TREASURE IS CURSED.

Vetinari looked at the Key in the dim candlelight, and smiled sadly. "Happily, I don't think that presents a problem anymore."

--

End, Chapter 3

A/n: Lewl, indeed and verily. Cause you all have to wait and I know how it ends hahahahahaha.

Reviews make me happy, please take that into consideration.