Nothing to it, really!
EDIT: A slight rewrite, to take into account valid reader criticism (thank you yairm210) and to eliminate a slight but naggingly obvious character inconsistency.
Getting better. After hospital, was forced onto a weight-loss scheme by family. Decided to go along with it to shut them up. (I have a sister- in- law who gets loud and insistent in a persistently aggravating sort of way. Estressa Partleigh crossed with Maccalariat-Lite. You wouldn't want to know.) Went to the first class with a sensation of "Oh God. I don't want to be rude to anyone, but….". Thought about it, decided if I was going to do this thing, I may as well do it properly. Paid attention. Appreciated all the guff about "free food", "healthy options" and "syns" made a sort of sense. But appreciated the underlying psychology: keeping a detailed food diary of everything that passed my lips made better sense. The discipline of writing everything down was forcing me to pay attention to the issues involved. Not to be boring about it, but a week of thinking "do I really need this?" or "Can't be arsed writing it down. Better not eat it, then" had results. Fourteen and a half pounds gone in one week? Blimey.
Ground rules:
Drink Rooibus tea with no milk and no sweetener.
No eating at the computer. Rooibos tea is permissible.
No snacking after seven pm. Except for bits of fruit.
No desserts except fruit or fruit yoghurt.
Lean meat only.
No sugary drinks. Rooibus tea is nice.
No fries. Help. The difficult one.
Eat normal amounts.
Move around a bit more.
Drink Rooibuis tea.
And here we are, trying to wrap up this tale in at most three chapters and perhaps an Afterword.
The Leastways suburb of Ankh-Morpork was one of the first overspill residential areas to spring up on the outside of the city walls. It has several hundred years of history and some of its older streets have centuries of character and atmosphere to them, akin with that to be found inside the walls. Today, it is part of the wider City known by the catch-all name of "New Ankh", or "Outer Morpork", a process of expansion which in this modern age of the Rail Ways is proceeding apace. Today houses in Leastways are sold by wily estate agents, who have cottoned on to upwards social mobility, yearnings, and aspirations. Those not nearly affluent enough to buy within the city walls are happy to go along with the estate agent's description of Nap Hill Borders or On the lower slopes of The Tump or Higher Pallant Street. Tump Foothills is a good one. It enables people buying houses there to boast that they live in high-status Ankh (almost) and are affluent enough to be able to buy onto the property ladder in Nap Hill (nearly.) Such light industry as there is is out on the edges, on the fringes of the City, where there's more room and residential houses become smaller, more modern in build, and more tightly packed together.
The Least Gate is therefore a low-priority one for the City Watch to man, as it opens up onto a settled, relatively affluent, suburb with relatively low crime levels. And behind the Least Gate, inside the city, are the Ankh suburbs boasting progressively higher affluence and social respectability, as you pass down Pallant Street through Nap Hill, Hopesprings and Seven Sleepers, towards the really high-rent bits around Scoone Avenue and King's Way. The crimes committed here are generally higher-order and more socially respectable than in Morpork, over the river.
It is a soft easy posting for Watchmen.
Until Commander Vimes and Captain Carrot turn up at the head of a Squad, demanding to see the log-books and the incident reports. It's like getting a sudden unannounced inspection from Head Office. Only worse.
"Oh, Hell!" Vimes cursed, trying to make sense of the scribbled notes, loosely piled incident reports, and all the other policing bureaucracy that the regular Watch here had been meaning to copy over to the files, just as soon as there was time. He glared at the nervous and sweating constables. Vimes was annoyed, but he'd done his share of Gate Watchhouse duties in his time. He knew how boring it was and how you could slip into bad habits.
"A.E.? Gooseberry? See what sense you can make of all this, could you?" he asked. "I want to know about cart movements through this Gate in the last week. Especially on the night Trawler's Alchemickal was done over. Thanks." He went outside, tugging out his cigar packet.
Inpsector Pessimal nodded his understanding. The glowing green sprite, Lance-Constable Gooseberry, twanged to attention and started doing what he was good at. Organising files.
Alice Band, who'd been invited to tag along as Assassins' Guild observer, leant against the wall and smiled slightly. Vimes was aware the Guild had an interest here, and it had been Alice who'd brought him the valuable lead. He could afford to be inclusive.
"Alice." Vimes nodded, lighting a cigar.
"Sir Samuel." she said, politely.
He regarded her curiously.
"I hear the Guild put a contract out on these men." he said. "Ten thousand each with no Guild tax if they get brought in alive. You got the lead, but you brought it to us. Why?"
Alice shrugged.
"What could I do?" she asked. "I know my limits. Going in myself, on my own, against people who know what they're doing and know how to fight. With no back-up and nobody knowing where I was…. Stupidly over-confident."
Vimes accepted this. It made sense. Assassins who took regular contracts and lived into their thirties were not over-confident. Experienced Assassins generally were not.
"If I'd gone back to the Guild, and made a quick working plan, and got back-up. That would have taken time. And it would have taken five or six of us. Forty thousand – assuming we didn't kill any of them – split six or seven ways. Had we killed any, the price drops to three thousand."
Alice made a derisory noise. "Not worth the risk. Not worth getting out of bed for, in fact. Except for the fact one of them killed Steffi's brother."
Vimes made a mental adjustment.
"Titch Gibbet, the Thief?"
"Brother by adoption. Guild foundling. Assigned to the Gibbet family. I'm not quite sure how that works. We don't get many babies left on the steps of our Guild with a little note attached, saying "please take me in and give me an education".
Alice considered this.
"Well… in a manner of speaking we do. But after Jonathan Teatime, we take more care, these days."
"He was the orphan who…"
"The Guild took pity on. Without asking how he'd become an orphan. Yes."
Vimes changed the subject slightly.
"Babies." He reflected. He thought of Young Sam.
"Babies." said Alice. "Who, without prejudicing my reputation as a flinty-hearted lethally murderous stone-cold bitch, I'd quite like to see. You know, out of interest. As long as other people have them. Did I tell you I've already had one offer to be a godsmother?"
Vimes started. Alice Band as a godsparent? Well, she'd be one mean Mother, Gods help the child.
"Johanna." Alice clarified. "She thinks I'd be quite good at it."
"Well, it'll be eleven years before the child can start at the Assassins' School." Vimes reflected.
Alice laughed.
"Don't presume, Sir Samuel. What if it's a boy and he takes after his father? We can't educate anyone as an Assassin if they've got magic. Vetinari is flat against that. An Assassin with Wizard skills would be too powerful. The University would take him, if that showed."
Vimes considered this. A Wizard with his father's ability and his mother's temper.
"Ouch." he said. "But what if it's a girl with magic?"
"Tricky." Alice said. "My guess is they'd pack her off to foster-parents in Lancre. You know, the Lancre school for young witches. Think about it. Red hair, green eyes, female, magic. Her mother's short way with idiots. The full package."
"So no problems about a career, then." Vimes concluded.
"No. And while I'm sure you've considered this, Sir Samuel, it occurs to me that the chosen targets of these people are all to do with Johanna. They haven't taken a poke at me yet, for instance. Or Emmanuelle. Or Olga or Irena. Or, apart from Precious, any of your people. But they have gone for the Ambassador. Her uncle. Julian. Her cousin. They murdered that young Wizard with the unfortunate resemblance to Ponder Stibbons. They chose to bomb the Zoo. Which is Johanna's life's work. They send parcel bombs. Not just to Johanna but also to Heidi."
Vimes considered this. He reflected that Assassins have their own channels of communication. He should not be surprised Alice was so well-informed.
"You may be right." He conceded. "But why bomb Vetinari?"
"Why not? It spreads alarm and panic and uncertainty. Ties down the Watch. While you're busy at the Palace, they can attack somewhere else. Besides, the Patrician's holding together the international debate about what to do with them. Nobody agrees. And he wanted them hanged all along. Take him out, and that's really serious disruption."
Vimes reflected that Alice would have at least completed the basic course in Political Expediency with Lady T'Malia. It paid to listen to intelligent well-informed speculation.
"Ok. So where does Precious fit in?"
Alice laughed.
"Sir Samuel. She's black. These people are racists. She's a successful black woman who makes them feel threatened. Do I have to spell it out?"
"OK, so assuming you're right, Alice. Where, in your opinion, do they hit next?"
"It'll be to do with Johanna. If we don't get them now, they'll either hit something else connected to her, or they'll make a direct attack."
Alice let her face go grim.
"And do you know what, sir Samuel?" she asked, in a low purposeful voice. "I really want to be a godsmother to her child. I go back a long way with Johanna. Keeping her alive and seeing the baby safe is worth forty thousand, to this cold-hearted callous old bitch!"
A watchman put his head around the door of the least Gate watch house and called for Vimes. He stubbed his cigar out.
"sir Samuel?" Alice called. He paused. "I'm sorry it's been a bit quiet for the last couple of months. But you might be getting a couple more visitors at the Manor soon. I've got at least one promising candidate!"
Vimes grinned.
"I'll leave the lid off the dunnikin for them, Alice!" he promised.
Elsewhere in the City, Mariella Smith-Rhodes and her friend Rivka-bin-Divorah had a free late afternoon. They'd completed their prep early and had permission from their housemistress, Mlle de Badin-Boucher, to go into the city together, provided they returned in time for tea. They elected to spend the rare free time just walking around, browsing shop windows and market stalls. The city was getting back to normal again after the bombs of the morning and its usual street theatre was reasserting itself. They watched a guerrilla mime artiste perform for five minutes, under a hastily painted banner saying "Free the Mime!" Such people appeared randomly and sporadically, as a sort of underground protest against what they saw as the irrational, oppressive and wholly unfair treatment of their art. While the Watch was tied up elsewhere, they could pop up, perform a protest mime, and disappear again.
The girls watched for a minute or two. But there is only so much attempting-to-escape-from-an-invisible-glass-cage that a free-spirited thirteen-year-old girl can stand. Vaguely disappointed nobody was attempting to make a citizen's arrest, they walked on down Embassy Row towards Eight Deadly Sins. Rivka had insisted on this, as it was the opposite direction from Small Gods and her Cenotine Temple.
"Gevalt, they get me on a Saturday." she said. "That's enough."
Mariella gleaned that her friend Rivka was being schooled for a rites-of-passage ceremony that happened to Cenotine girls aged around thirteen. Things were complicated by her parents being back in Cenotia, but Rivka was gloomily sure they'd turn up on one of the Klatchian commercial carpet flights, full of anxious parental questions like "Do they let you attend Temple regularly?" and "Are you keeping a kosher diet?" and "We don't mind you training as an Assassin, it's a profession, but promise me you marry a good Cenotine boy, in a profession, and keep the faith!"
"Bat-mitzvah." she said. "I'm counted as legally adult. It's getting less stone age now, people are being more liberal about it and accepting it stands more of a chance if you get to have a say in the choice of your husband, but in the old days that would have meant facing up to being married off to some old man of thirty, and for me to start having babies. In the really old days, as one of several wives. Oi vey. Imagine me pregnant? Or having to do the before stuff? With some old man of thirty?" (1)
"A good reason to stay et this school till you're eighteen." Mariella said, thoughtfully. "End et least I have two older sisters to give our parents grendchildren. Between Agnetha end Johanna they will hev six. My oldest brother has four. I consider getting into double figures with ten is enough for eny grendparents. Even so, mother keeps demanding to know of my brother Danie why he is twenty-five end still single. Eny young woman visiting the ferm is fair game."
Rivka considered this.
"Older sisters are useful." she said. "I've got three. Thirteen nephews and nieces. Birthdays get hard to remember."
"Ja. Johanna hes them marked on a large year-planner in her study. So es to send cards end gifts."
"And always they want more. Mothers. Meschuggenah."
They compared notes on mothers for a while.
"It drives Johanna nuts." Mariella said. "Now I'm ewey from home I begin to see why. Mother is continually writing to us. It is nice, but her letters are full of edvice, telling me to do well et school, telling me to fulfil everybody's expectations, telling me when I leave school I am to find a nice reliable man in a good profession end settle down with him end hev children, end not to leave it es late es my sister did, telling me to go to Kirk on Octeday, es a good Gods-fearing Boor woman should, end thet I should pay ettention especially in Miss Senderson-Reeves' clesses, end learn to cook, es thet keeps a man. End she complains I do not write beck enough."
Mariella sighed.
"Johanna says it is es if she never left home end Mother is stending behind her ell the time, full of edvice end criticism end complaint, es if the fect she is several thousand miles ewey does not metter. She is there. Right behind you. All the time."
Rivka looked politely blank.
"And your point is?" she asked. Mariella remembered everything that was said about Cenotine mothers. She might have been describing Rivka's.
"I heard Johanna say the difference between a Boor mother, end a Ridgebeck with rabies, is thet the Ridgebeck eventually lets go."
Rivka nodded quiet self-aware comprehension.
"Now that's the point." she said.
Bonded, the two walked on with that special sort of aimless all-the-time-in-the-world that teenage girls have in abundance.
They paused at a fabric stall. Mariella stood back while Rivka haggled over necessary personal maintenance items like needles, thread and cloth for patching and repairs. Words like schmatter were spoken a lot. Mariella reflected that some of the more upmarket girls in their dorm had sneered at the Cenotine girl's ability with needle and thread, deeming it unsufferably proletarian. They had thought again after Matron Igorina had deftly removed a few deeply-inserted pins from Pamela Eorle, with Rivka professing innocent bafflement in front of Madame Deux-Epées as to how they had got there. And then, with the term's activities causing rips and wear and tears in working clothes, the same girls had seen the advantage of having somebody like Rivka on side, and had begged her to do the repair work. Rivka charged fair prices for clothing repairs and generously shared the benefits with Mariella, who with the experience of being part of a self-sufficient Veldt family, helped out with the less delicate work.
Mariella frowned, having the uneasy sensation that she was being followed and watched. She felt the reassuring pressure of the throwing knives strapped to her forearms, and reflected that two girls in Assassins' School walking-out uniforms were easily recognisable on the street. She thanked Madame for getting them permission to go armed, even though she suspected any attack could come out of nowhere and leave the advantage of surprise with their attackers. She also reflected that as a potential target for the bad men stalking her sister, there might be other things going on that she had not been informed about. Informal escorts shadowing them, perhaps. In which case it would be discreet and covert and there was little chance she'd spot it. Or else…
She tried to remember the faces of the four wanted men. She'd been shown the iconographs. Suddenly, the day seemed to get a little darker and gloomier.
"So a cart. Single horse. Cargo noted down as barrels and boxes. Escorted by four men. Passed through this gate on the night of the raid at Trawlers. Ten-fifty seven in the evening." Vimes summarised. He glared at the duty Gate constables.
"Well, at least you took a note." he said, with grudging approval. "Not completely sloppy, then."
"Hardly conclusive, sir." Carrot said. "A bit circumstantial, in fact."
"But going back earlier, Carrot. Daytime two days before. Cart. Single horse. Escorted by four men. Cargo appeared to be miscellaneous domestic. Constable Hitchens noted "probably a house move". No contact with the men involved. This ties to the approximate time our suspects left the property in Snort Yard. The old lady neighbour was pretty definite. Said she was glad to see the back of them, bloody Howondalandians."
He looked a little happier. But, as Carrot reflected, it was all relative with Mr Vimes. And hard to tell, in any case.
"Gentlemen." Vimes said. "And miss Band. I think we're getting leads now. We just need a few more to come in."
The next lead came from the Watchmen sent to track down the rental cart, for which the old lady in the Shades had memorised both the discreet owners' name and the cart number. They had tracked the name to Pickford and van Hurtz's Removal and Cart Rental Service, who operated out of a yard out on the fringes of Leastways. Cart Rental was a new trade in Ankh-Morpork. It operated on trust, especially trust that the person renting a horse and cart would be motivated to return it when they were done. As Mr Pickford had pointed out to the Watchmen sent to ask, the trust element was usually taken care of by asking for a large cash deposit or something of equivalent worth, which would be returned, less the actual rental fee, when an undamaged cart, pulled by the same horse that had left the yard, was returned in the given rental period.
As Constable Reg Shoe reported, Mr Pickford had claimed that it was amazing what some people tried to get away with. Like trading a good horse in at Hobson's for a jaded nag plus some cash, then trying to claim the knackered old beast was the one that had been pulling the cart when they left. Or pranging it and claiming the damage had been there beforehand, look. Or nicking the toolkit or spare wheel, claiming it had never been there.
"Well, we get around that now by taking an iconograph of the horse as it leaves, and having them discreetly branded with a serial number and "Property of Pickfords-Van Hurtz"." Reg had related Mr Pickford's words. "He also had a word with Hobson to point out his horses are all marked now. And they take clients round the vehicles and get them to sign a form saying the vehicle is fit for use and, for e.g., has minor damage here, here, and here. Just so, he said, that we're agreed. That sort of thing."
"I see. And what can they tell us?" Vimes asked.
"Three days ago. Four men. Mr van Hurtz, being from Sto Kerrig, recognised them as Howondalandian and tried to get them talking in Kerrigian. Same language, near as. Said one had a battered face like he'd been in a fight. Looking at the leader he got an idea who he'd been in a fight with. Said he couldn't be sure, but the iconographs pretty much match the men he saw. Though their hair's grown out and they've got beards. Definitely Rimwards Howondalandian, he said. Spoke Kerrigian in a way that makes an educated man wince." (2)
Vimes grinned.
"Carry on, Reg." he said, in an excited voice.
"Well, mr van Hurtz asked what brought them to the city. The leader, the big ugly one, had a think. And then he said "Well, this undertaking business of the Patrician's. Lots of old buildings need to be pulled down. We're experienced demolition technicians. Need a good cart to carry the kit."
Vimes scowled.
"They said that, did they?" he demanded.
"Yes, sir. And here's the twist. When they brought the horse and cart back, or one of them did, he paid off the rental fee in cash. Apparently they'd left the deposit in gold and jewellery. Mr van Hurtz didn't quibble about that, as it was ten times the worth of the horse and cart. They apologised for having no cash, you see, would that do? Well, Mr van Hurtz got one of his Dwarfs to check it out, the dwarf said it was legit and not a fake. But just to cover himself, he took an iconograph".
Reg provided it.
"He was surprised when the cart came back, to tell you the truth, as he'd have been happy to let this one go."
"I bet he was." Vimes said. He passed the iconograph to Carrot.
"Check this against descriptions of stolen items from the Great Train Robbery, would you, Carrot? Thanks."
"He apologises for having handed the stuff back. But the horse and cart came back in good nick and he had no reason to keep it. And he said, here's the funny thing. The man who brought the cart back and paid off the rental had bright yellow arms. Not hands or forearms, as if he'd been wearing gloves. But up past the elbow. Like terminally bad jaundice. When he saw Mr van Hurtz was looking, he put it down to industrial chemicals. "The sort you use in the demolition business", he said."
"Sir. Doctor Smith-Rhodes told me that people who handle certain explosives find it turns their skin bright yellow!" Carrot said, excited.
Vimes punched the air.
"We've nearly got them!" he shouted. Alice Band grinned.
"And the sheer bloody arrogance of them… "in the demolition trade". Why do they think they'll never get caught?" Vimes demanded.
And then Gooseberry and Pessimal were trying to attract his attention.
They handed him a standard Incident Report form. A Mrs Bellatrix Grundy of Tiptree Lane, Leastways, had called at the watch house that morning to complain about some uncouth neighbours, foreigners by the sound of them, who'd she suspected were running an unregistered business in a residential area. Apparently she'd been really indignated by that. It was a nice area, she said, in Nap Hill Borders. Foul chemical odours in the night, people and carts coming and going at all hours, it was really lowering the tone of the neighbourhood. Apparently she'd been round to complain, but the ruffian, the criminal type, didn't like the look of him one little bit, who'd opened the door, had been off-hand and rude with her. When she threatened to call the Watch to him, he'd said "yaah, do that, lady." And added a foreign word that no doubt was utterly obscene, which sounded like foot-sack.
The Watch, on a morning when bombs were going off everywhere, had graded this "low-priority" and promised to send somebody round when there was time. Everyone was on stand-by as really big things were happening in the City…
Vimes shook his head at the two hapless Watchmen.
"You weren't to know. An old lady with an old-lady grievance about the neighbours. Almost always low-priority. And if either of you had gone round knocking on that door, you'd most likely be dead by now."
Vimes then said
"What are we waiting for, people? Arm up. Clacks the Yard. I want troll officers here. And at least one golem."
He nodded to Alice.
"Miss Band, you might want to come along? As long as we get them in the end, I don't mind you earning the Guild's money. A donation to Widows and Orphans would be appreciated, though."
"Johanna Smith-Rhodes mentioned it was ten per cent." Alice remarked. "I can live with that."
"I remember it as twenty." Vimes said. "Although we can discuss the fine details later." (3)
Rivka bin-Divorah concluded the transaction. She stowed her goods in a brown paper bag, then noted Mariella scanning the sparse crowd at the street-market.
"Problems?" she said.
"Ja. Almost certain we're being followed."
Rivka flexed her forearms thoughtfully. The steel of the blades against her arm was a reassurance. She scanned the street.
"Can't see anybody too obvious yet." She said. "Then again, if they're Guild, you wouldn't expect to."
In a louder voice she said "Should we start off back now? Mademoiselle Antoinette is expecting us back for tea. And you know how she shouts if anyone annoys her."
"Vachement! Vachement tabernak!" Mariella called. Rivka laughed.
"Osti d'épais de marde! Je'men calice!" Rivka replied. (4) They moved down the street together, swapping Quirmian-Acerian profanities they knew, heading back towards Filigree Street and the Guild.
Unheeded in the crowd higher up the market-street, Preet du Plessis scowled to himself. His fingers relaxed on the one-shot crossbow in his pocket. He'd acquired this from somebody in the Troll's Head who'd annoyed him. It was a useful device. He was sure he could have hit the younger Smith-Rhodes girl from where he was standing. While her best missie was buying at the haberdashery stall. There would have been no art to it.
But the press of people. And the suspicion the Assassins' Guild had unseen people out, watching over the girl. The fact he hadn't seen any didn't mean they were not there. It would have been too dangerous. Not with the big one planned for a few nights from now.
Besides. It didn't do for a man of his age to be observed taking a keen interest in thirteen-year-old schoolgirls. That could be misinterpreted, and somebody might notice. And he'd seen what happened to fellows like that in prison. He'd done some of the "happening to" part himself, to break the monotony of prison stays and to assert his own place in the hierarchy.
He smiled. Mirthlessly. Killing the younger sister would be a serious message to the older that she was next. Learning that a younger Smith-Rhodes sister was in this town had been a pleasure.
He turned, and started to make a circuitous route back to the latest safe house. After the old lady had complained he had decided to abandon Leastways. She might really have followed through on her threat to go to the Watch. Although he'd guessed she wouldn't do it after midnight and save it for morning. Which had given them time to cook up the explosives, build the devices, then get out there and distribute them. Then to grab what they needed and move on. He'd left Benckel to take the cart back and reclaim the deposit, then follow on later to where the rest were grabbing some sleep. Which, he realised, he needed too. In this state, living a watchful fugitive life, you could slip up so easily. Do, or say, something that people remembered. Got you identified.
He stifled a yawn, and quickened his pace.
Vimes growled in frustration. Again they'd found the place they wanted. Cheery Littlebottom had confirmed the premises had been used to manufacture exothermic alchemy reagants. Clear traces everywhere. Even some dumped Agatean clay. Acid marks etched into a table. Chemical spills on the floor. They hadn't made the slightest effort to clear up after them and make it difficult for the Watch.
But the rest was clean.
"Stand down, people." Vimes directed. "We'll keep a presence here. In case they come back."
Alice Band shook her head.
"Not blaming you, Alice. Your information was good. I'll tell Downey that, if it helps. Thank you."
"They're still one step ahead, though." she sighed. "And I tell you what. One of them dared to look that terrifying old lady from down the street right in the eye and tell her to… well, you know."
"Voetsaak." Vimes said, filling in the blank. "You must have heard Johanna say it?"
Alice smiled.
"But not even Johanna would have said it to the face of Mrs Bellatrix Grundy. That's why I know we're dealing with nutcases here."
Sam Vimes had to concede that to be true. Mrs Grundy had been mollified to discover Commander Vimes himself responding to her complaint. He had allowed her the courtesy of berating him and meekly took it, reflecting she didn't know how lucky she had been, not to have been killed outright on the doorstep. He allowed her to unwittingly celebrate her good luck by shouting at him for a few minutes. Better than dealing with her corpse.
And word went out, among the desperate, the thuggish, and those with little to lose, that an out-of-town gang was recruiting for a job. Some of the more thuggish and desperate responded.
(1) The bit yairm210 drew attention to. And a reader based, as I gather, in Israel, should know. Apologies, but my research pointed me to interesting snippets in the Wikipedia article on Judaism and marriage that said arranged marriages between older men and relatively young girls, of an age we would today consider to be still children, were commonplace in German and Polish Jewish communities until well into the nineteenth century. (And to compare, Britain had no such thing as a minimum age of consent as we know it today, until the late 1800's). I reasoned it would be "appropriate" for the context - the Discworld appears to convey a lot of the moral and social values of Western Europe around 1900 - for this to be reflected in a parellel community. And I'm still hazy as to how and when the polygamy of the Old Testament Biblical Patriarchs died out and was replaced with monogamy. Still researching!
(2) This is pretty much how educated Dutch people think of Afrikaans. They can understand it but it sounds a bit brutal and primitive to Dutch ears. A Dutch friend said "In your country you have Birmingham, ja? You also have Glasgow, which sounds menacing? Now imagine what Afrikaans sounds like to us." Sorry, South African friends.
(3) See my story "Why and Were". In which an Assassin, on Watch duty, discusses with Vimes about the protocol concerned in a Watch member accepting a reward. Apparently Watch policy is that if there's a reward put up by concerned citizens and a Watchman earns it legitimately in the course of duty, that's fine, but you pay a tithe to the W&O fund.
(4) You may not want to know. French-Canadian readers, I apologise.