Terry Pratchett owns all the Discworld stuff.

And y'all, please feel free to critique. The radio silence from readers is fine and absolutely your prerogative, but if there're big mistakes or continuity problems, let me know.

Mild edits, 07/10/12.


She'd refused. Of course she had! There was nothing else to do but refuse. Killing Teatime had been nearly the greatest act she had ever done for humanity; saving Imp y Celyn was just a merit badge compared to her ending Teatime. What he 'did best' was kill, but what he 'did best' he did messily, indiscriminately, and with no regard for the subjects of his attentions and those nearby. Of course she had refused to bring him back to corporeal life.

She refused every day. For two weeks. Because Teatime asked daily, usually when Susan had gotten exhausted enough from interrupted sleep or when she lost her temper with him, which was happening much more frequently. His persistence was remarkable, she thought, considering the magnitude of his attention deficit. She was inventing new and creative ways to use the toilet, and her baths were all taken at about 3 A.M. Needless to say, school had gone on winter break rather early.

Susan also was looking forward to giving her grandfather what-for. Not only was Binky not responding to her summons but Death also had canceled their weekly teas by note. All of this – Teatime's presence and the sudden distance of Death – seemed more than just a bit coincidental. When she and her grandfather did end up within the same neighborhood, they were going to Have Words. She was entertaining thoughts of setting rat traps and waiting for the Death of Rats to arrive; since she actually liked rats, she couldn't quite bring herself to do it.

She had gone to visit the wizards three times already; the Librarian had led her to one of the stranger aisles in the Library, but Teatime had kept her from learning anything remotely useful, because getting icy fingers in the neck rather distracted her from a good study session. When she asked Mustrum Ridcully about the rite he had performed to force her to appear when she had briefly been Death, he'd shrugged and offered to give it a try next Octeday, apologizing for the delay. "Important banquet," he'd excused himself. "Can't interfere with the guts of city politics, you know."

It was almost a relief to receive notice on Thursday at 6 A.M. that she had an appointment with Lord Vetinari.


SQUEAK.

WHAT DO YOU MEAN 'THIS WASN'T PART OF THE JOB DESCRIPTION'? Death looked down at the Death of Rats, where it stood ankle-deep in the layer of diatomaceous earth that circled the greatest concentration of Jonathan Teatime's footprints in the mists between worlds. The circle was quite large. Teatime had roved like a Bassett hound with an interesting scent up its snout.

The Death of Rats managed to look sulky. IK. SQUEAK!

AN APPOINTMENT? THAT'S NOT LIKELY. I'VE BEEN PAYING RATHER A LOT OF ATTENTION TO THAT LIFETIMER, AND IT HAS PLENTY OF SAND LEFT.

SQUEAK EEK EEK SK. This time, the Grim Squeaker sounded smug. Its whiskers wiggled in a little ratty chuckle.

Death heaved a breathless sigh. OH, NO. DON'T LET'S DETAIN HIM, BY ANY MEANS. There was the sense of rolled eyes. He began to tuck his tools into a fine black leather sack that had lots of flaps that didn't open. IS THERE ANY CHANCE THAT THIS DOESN'T INVOLVE SUSAN OR MR. TEATIME?

A shrug. SQUEAK.

AND SINCE WHEN DO YOU CARRY MESSAGES FOR HIM?


Susan and Teatime only had to wait five minutes. She initially supposed this was just to maintain appearances – it had just gone half six, so they must be the first appointment of the day – but the Postmaster General and Master of the Royal Mint came out of the Oblong Office looking rather like he needed a nap. He lifted the golden winged hat when he saw Susan and informed her, "His Lordship says for you both to go in. Good luck. He's in a cheerful mood today." This last sentence was dry enough reduce the relative humidity in the room, and Mr. Lipwig headed for the door with a weary smile.

When they entered, Lord Vetinari was just handing a thick bundle of papers back to his secretary. "Mr. Teatime," he said, accepting a thinner stack of papers from Drumknott, "Do us the courtesy of controlling your impulses for the next ten minutes, thank you. A little patience may prove rewarding." All Teatime did was tilt his head, puppylike, to the right – Susan had begun to recognize this as the time he took to decide whether he was offended or not. On the one hand, his name had been said correctly; on the other, he wasn't the kind of person to respond well to others' attempts at controlling him.

"Miss Susan, please do be seated," Vetinari continued, gesturing at the one, straight-backed chair facing his desk. Then he looked up and past Susan and added with dignity, "My lord, please do not think me impolite in failing to offer you the same. My aunt taught me the importance of attending to ladies' needs."

I CONFESS MYSELF MORE INTERESTED IN FINDING MYSELF HERE AT ALL, LORD VETINARI.

Susan's hair frizzed in surprise and annoyance, and she made a show of turning slowly to look at her grandfather. His seven-foot frame managed to loom in an office designed to make visitors small and nervous. Teatime, still with a look of curiosity on his face, had nonetheless made a point of shifting out of the range of Death's scythe.

"Miss Susan's school has gone on early holiday, my lord," Vetinari replied. "And she has been using some of this time to request aid of the wizards of the Unseen University, who are currently occupied with an important sport-related matter, in exorcising this spirit." He pointed at Teatime. "It is to the benefit of all, but most of all to the city, that I attempt to assist where I can."

Susan only just managed not to gape at him. He was implying that she was the problem, here? "I beg your pardon!" she began in the most instinctive of Duchess tones.

I SEE, Death replied before she could elaborate. BUT YOU MUST REMEMBER THAT THE ONLY INTEREST I CAN POSSIBLY HAVE IN THE AFFAIR IS SUSAN. WHAT HAPPENS IN YOUR CITY IS YOUR CONCERN.

Vetinari acknowledged the point with a nod. "I do not wish to be contradictory, but I must bring up Mr. Teatime's presence," he said, all syllables correct and accounted for. All eyes went to the ghost, who was looking particularly pleased about Vetinari's pronunciation. "It seems that in the course of an illegitimate contract through the Assassin's Guild, he met his end. The perpetrators of the fraudulent contract are, alas, outside my jurisdiction, but as their Discly agent has reemerged, I may now take appropriate action." This time, it was Teatime's turn to look affronted.

Death reminded the Patrician, MR. TEATIME IS BEYOND THE REACH OF HUMAN PUNISHMENTS. EVEN YOURS. HE HAS ALREADY SUFFERED THE ULTIMATE PENALTY.

"Perhaps that penalty was a bit harsh –" Vetinari said.

Susan gasped, "Now see here –"

Vetinari spoke over her without raising his voice a single decibel, "– as the entire episode was predicated on a fraud, and the Assassin in question was only in the position he found himself due to orders."

THERE ARE RULES.

"Many rules were broken." Vetinari steepled his fine-boned hands in the heavy silence that followed. "And Ankh-Morpork merely wants to see justice served. The city requests Mr. Teatime be resurrected to be tried and, if found guilty, sentenced commensurate to the crime."

The clattering of a toppled wooden chair punctuated this announcement and prevented any reply. Susan, on her feet and with her hair writhing loose from its bun, sidled just far enough sideways to pin all the other occupants of the room with a fearsome glare. Drumknott would later pout to himself that he'd done nothing to deserve it.

"That is enough," she ground out. The little nerves in the back of her brain that connected the thinking bits to the parts that controlled things like bowels and hormones were driving metaphorical elbows into her ribs and kicking her in the shin. Mouthing off to the Patrician was usually either an oral suicide note or an application for a government job; Susan's instincts wanted nothing to do with either option. Her rising anger overrode those instincts.

"I killed that man because he was in the act of trying to kill my grandfather," she hissed, jabbing an accusing finger in Teatime's direction. "That was not part of the contract, so that is not a loophole you can use to bring him back! And it is transparent that you are trying to manipulate Grandfather into this insane scheme, whatever it is, with your politician's talk of rules and justice! And since Teatime won't leave me alone because he wants me to resurrect him, and because you already know this – of course you do! – you knew he would come along, which means you want him to hear your plans to bring him back."

Vetinari just sat watching her, waiting for her to finish. She wasn't even earning a quelling eyebrow. This, she later reflected, was the moment she could probably have avoided the whole mess. But she kept going.

"So either I am not needed here any longer, having gotten him in front of you, or you do need me for this. And if that's the case, then I must insist that you tell me what you want from me plainly and very soon."

"Very well," Vetinari said, sounding for all the world like a man properly chastened and yielding to the force of an angry woman. "Find Mr. Teatime's body or a suitable substitute, put him into it, and bring them back reasonably alive. He is to face trial by Spring Prime."

Questions crowded forward behind Susan's teeth – Why Spring Prime? You're already planning to fake the trial, so what are you actually going to do with him? Why me? And you didn't bring up his body just to fluff out the sentence; you know where it is, don't you? And you're not going to tell me, are you? – and while she was trying to figure out which would be the most useful to ask, Death spoke.

ONLY IF MR. TEATIME ALSO FACES CHARGES FOR DAMAGING PART OF MY REALM IN HIS ESCAPE.

GRANDFATHER!

Again, Vetinari spoke over Susan's outrage. "The jurisdiction is questionable, but adding a charge of property damage should pose no problem. The sentence and its execution, of course, would be up to you, my lord."

THIS IS ACCEPTABLE.

"It most certainly is not!" Susan protested, feeling furious and getting worse when it was clear that Death and the Patrician were both ignoring her.

From beside her, where he most certainly had not just been, Teatime murmured, "Just let it happen, Susan." When she turned to glare at him, he twinkled back at her. "And when I have a body again, you can try to hit me – really hit me – and we can settle that point, too!" Her glare intensified, if for no other reason than she was too angry to speak. Teatime brightened just that little bit more, adding, "It'll be an adventure! Think of the fun we'll have!"