Okay, you know the drill. Please review unless you wish to be cast into the eternal flames of a hell of your choice. And by the way, watch the videos I've linked to on my profile, or your stay will be doubled. Mwahaha. They are effectively theme songs. In a few chapters' time I will tell you G's too, but right now it's a spoiler. ;)

The mention of the Undertaking in this chapter is a purely uninformed one, and should you be reading this at a time when the precise nature of his lordship's plans is known, I apologise for any inaccuracy. Plus I have actually worked it out, and if my guesses are right she was about three.

Disclaimer: Tee hee, 'disc-laimer'. Sorry, I'm in a fangirl kinda mood. If you think I'm Terry Pratchett, please boil your head for the good of society. (But don't forget to review first.)

Chapter four: Falling

Which begins, once again, with our villain – Who enters into dealings with assassins – Like we used to – To the letter – The interesting thing about journeys

Greenferry picked up something off his coffee table. It had to be a paperweight, because people don't keep maces on coffee tables. Had he seen it in any other context, he would have been immediately inclined to believe it was a mace. But maces are never, ever found on coffee tables. So it was obviously a paperweight.

After inspecting the definitely-not-a-mace, Greenferry was about to drop it on the table when he realised that doing so would not only do considerable damage to his imported Klatchian coffee table, but to anybody who happened to be standing downstairs, as well.

It was amazing, the sort of thing that turned up on this table. He assumed it was to do with the Igors, who delighted in leaving obscure and often nameless objects around the large house, which Laetissimus had lived in since he had inherited at sixteen. His family had all died in Mysterious Circumstances, and of course everyone knows what that actually means.

The Igor who was really an Igorina appeared at the door. "Letter for you, thur," she announced.

"Come in," Greenferry said, absent-mindedly. Igorina, who had already come in, stood awkwardly in the doorway for a moment before approaching her master, who was now drawing perfect concentric circles on his paperwork. She handed him the letter and backed away hurriedly. Very few things can unnerve an Igor, but she was young and inexperienced and, after all, this man was paying her salary.

To Igorina's immense discomfort, Greenferry picked up a knife, which he used to slit open the envelope. A single sheet of paper fell out. The man read it briefly.

Dear Sir,

There are some difficulties in dispatching the next item on the list. I fear that the assignment will not be completed in the time you specified. Advise please.

C.C.

Without so much as a blink, Greenferry went back to drawing circles.

THIS WILL BE THE LAST TIME, WITH ANY – TO USE A MORE RIDICULOUS HUMAN EXPRESSION – LUCK.

Binky tossed his head at neighed with delight. How could a horse not be delighted in his circumstances? Alright, his rider was somewhat bony, but it was a small price to pay for the chance to gallop freely across the sky and just be. Horses are good at being – a lot better than humans, at any rate, who always seem to have to be doing.

Death had thought it all through and had come to a conclusion. Whether it was a sensible one or not, he couldn't judge, but he would soon find out.

Opening his study door, G sidestepped the crossbow bolt and shook his head, sadly. "We just don't train them like we used to . . ." he murmured to no-one in particular.

G Deral gave the impression of one who was always at ease. He displayed no visible signs of tension or alertness.

But he had taken over the assassin's guild when he was twenty, and had kept it for an almost record-breaking five years. That showed a slightly different aspect of his personality.

In the course of his life, G had rejected a great many young women, most of which had subsequently began vendettas against him and later wished they hadn't. The reason for this was not that he had any sort of pride or fear of settling down – he just didn't really like girls very much. They were an alien species. Some of them were pretty, but that was about the extent of his knowledge or interest in them.

I'm getting married to Ignita Trim. The girl was one of those classed as Good Looking in his mind, but somewhere at the bottom of his list of People I Might Someday Marry If Things Go Really Downhill. Still, it looked like there may be a way out of this, if she did somehow get the job . . .

Madness. Still, he sat down and took out a pen, which weighed just slightly more than it should do. Tossing it out of the window, he pulled one out of his jacket and wrote:

10.30: Someone tried to kill me.

Then, after sucking the end of the pen a moment, he added:

Twice.

Then he tucked away the pen and paper and stepped out onto the street, tripping up the man who was standing by the door with a blackjack.

"You don't like him?"

"How could I?"

Ignita, bored, began to fill in the Times crossword.

"Well, economically speaking, it's a wonderful opportunity."

"Are you seriously telling me I should marry that creep?"

" . . . No. Not as such, no. And, by the way, three down is 'protectorate'."

"I knew that." The girl sighed. "Anyway, times have changed! I don't need a husband to get things done! Isn't this Ankh-Morpork? Isn't this the century of the . . . fruitbat?"

Vetinari corrected her, "It's actually the century of the utopian banana at the moment. The century of the fruit bat ended some years ago."

"Right, well, that just goes to show." Ignita sniffed. "And you know all about change. You fixed this city. I was three," she added helpfully.

"It's remarkable that you managed to remain three for my entire period in office."

"I mean the Undertaking!"

"Ah, that."

The two of them fell silent. The only sounds were the movements of Ignita's pencil, and the general, bustling, you-do-your-thing-and-I'll-do-mine noises of the city. Eventually, the girl stood up and went to look out of the window.

"Wow."

Vetinari politely came up behind her. "Do you like the view?"

"I love the view. No wonder you always knew what was going on . . ."

"No, you can thank Drumknott and his excellent colleagues for that. But this is why I always had such a good sense of proportion."

"Oh. Er, excuse me . . ."

"Yes?"

Ignita coughed. "Is it just me, or . . . is a skeleton with a scythe coming right at us out of the sky?"

In general, golems do not wear clothes because a) they are made of clay and b) they are made of clay. However, it is often not what is true that matters, but what people believe. And anyway, insanity is catching.

"Excuse Me, My Lord, But I Have Instructions To Escort You Everywhere."

Trim gritted his teeth. Sweat was pouring off his forehead. "Yes, yes, very good!"

After a pause, Gladys replied, "I Would Find It A Lot Easier To Carry Out My Duty Were My Head Not Lodged In The Door, My Lord." She could have broken out in a matter of seconds, but the little human was leaning against the door, and she had been given express instructions not to harm him.

"Right, right, fine." Trim fell away from the door and collapsed in a chair. Gladys and her colleague, Mr Drill, came into his office and took up positions on either side of the desk.

Clenching and unclenching his fists, the patrician gasped, "So can you tell me who you were hired by?"

"No, My Lord."

"Why not?"

"We Cannot Tell You That, Either."

Trim glared. "Golems! I hate them."

Slowly, Langley emerged from a corner, making his employer jump. "Er, your lordship," the psychiatrist said hesitantly, "may I make a suggestion?" After being nodded at by Trim, he went on explain. "Many people do not understand the precise . . . workings of golems. They will take instructions to heart, and obey them to the letter."

"And . . ?"

"I suspect that these two were instructed not to tell you anything about the nature of the employment. However," Langley cried, before Trim had a chance to interrupt him, "They may not have any orders concerning me."

Realisation dawned on the Patrician's face. "So… they can tell you who hired them?"

"I all probability, my lord." Turning his gaze on Gladys and Mr Drill, the psychiatrist demanded, "Who paid you to follow the Patrician?"

Eyes glowing, Gladys replied, "It Was His Daughter."

"I knew it!" Trim cried triumphantly.

"But then why did-"

"She's out to get me!"

"But sir, she-"

Langley stared at his gibbering wreck of an employer. With a sigh, he left, locking the door from the outside.

"Oh dear." Vetinari sat down in the chair. "Miss Trim, are you aware of the fact that death is personified in the form of a large human skeleton which carries aforementioned farming implement and rides a rather intelligent white horse who I believe goes by the name of Binky?"

Ignita didn't look at him. "I am now." She continued to stare out of the window.

As Death drew nearer, the girl began to sweat. It wasn't the idea of meeting him, as such. It was more that she had a pretty good idea of why he was here, and a less good idea of whether her commanding air would work on him. Then, of course, there was the . . .

GOOD MORNING. I'M SORRY TO BREAK UP THE PARTY AND EVERYTHING, BUT THERE ARE RULES.

Doing a rather fine job of making herself impressive-looking, Ignita replied, "You have no permission to be in this palace. Please -"

Death cut her off, without actually saying anything. He just stared at her through the tiny blue supernovas of his eyes and the girl felt that the voice had been stolen from her throat. She contented herself with glaring at the skeleton, and left the talking to Vetinari.

"I believe that there has been something of a misunderstanding," the man began, but Death seemed to think differently.

I BELIEVE THAT THERE HAS IN FACT BEEN A MISTAKE. HOWEVER, THINGS ARE STILL VERY UNCERTAIN AND, ON THIS OCCASION, I AM WILLING TO . . . COMPROMISE.

Slowly, Vetinari raised a cautious eyebrow. "In what way?"

YOU – AND, SHOULD YOU DESIRE IT, THE GIRL – WILL COME WITH ME TO DO A LITTLE INVESTIGATING.

"Hey!"

They both turned to see Ignita breathing deeply and looking the picture of indignation. "If he desires it? What about me?"

After a pause, Death replied, I AM SORRY. DO YOU WANT TO COME?

"Well . . . yes. But it's a matter of principle."

OF COURSE.

"I mean, I'm only coming so he doesn't get into any trouble."

NATURALLY.

"And if you tried to make me, I'd dig my heels in."

IT'S ONLY TO BE EXPECTED. NOW, IF YOU TWO WOULD BE SO KIND AS TO GET ON BINKY.

All at once, Ignita's determination seemed to vanish. She looked about six years younger. "Wh-what?"

Already climbing peacefully onto the big horse, Vetinari looked around at the sound of her uncertainty. "Really, Miss Trim, what else were you expecting? A broomstick, perhaps?"

"Umm, umm . . ." She looked genuinely horrified.

"There's no time for this. Get on the horse, Miss Trim."

"But I-"

"Get on the horse, now."

"I can't-"

"Now."

He didn't raise his voice, but Ignita still flinched. She'd met some nasty people – many of them her own extended family – but hadn't often encountered that fearsome creature known as Havelock Vetinari In A Hurry.

Cursing herself, she got on the horse.

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

"I was trying to!"

They had to scream to be heard above the rush of the wind. Ignita, who had her arms wrapped tightly around Death's middle, was trying to simultaneously get as far away from Binky and keep herself firmly on his back.

She couldn't help it. Ever since she could remember, horses in any shape or form had terrified her. As a child, she had been given a wooden rocking horse that had white, painted eyes. Each night, those eyes had stared at her out of the darkness. The memory still made her shudder.

Eventually, she'd thrown the thing out of a third-story window.

"So you're hippophobic." He repeated the word blankly. "How convenient."

"Shut up." Ignita elbowed Vetinari and suddenly realised how solid he was becoming. It must have been to do with the whole walking-through-walls thing. Maybe he was more real than the walls gave him credit for.

"Ouch." They journeyed on in silence for a while until a gasp was heard from the man.

"What?" Ignita demanded, her voice slightly muffled by Death's robe.

He sighed. "The view, Miss Trim. It's rather more spectacular than the one from my study window."

"My study, I think you'll find. And anyway, I've got a perfectly good view of my eyelids, thank you so very much."

Vetinari kicked her. "You realise this is more than most people will ever dream of?"

"Have nightmares of, more li-"

She didn't finish that sentence, because at that moment the girl lost her grip, was wrenched into the air by the force of the wind, and tumbled, screaming, towards the Disc.

The interesting, and ironically normally highly frustrating thing about journeys is that so often one does not reach one's destination.