There's nothing like a fresh pair of eyes

And we're back. We last saw Catherine and the girls on the Assassins' Guild equivalent of Hell Week. Well, more like Purgatory Six Days. Their Calvary continues.

Chicken-farmer Barnabas Strommerty was perplexed that his dog had gone missing. It wasn't like Maccabee to go running off like that. He was a guard-dog, used to patrolling the beat around the farm and the chicken sheds. Strommerty frowned. He hoped the dog would get over it and come back. He didn't want to have to go through all the rigmarole of getting another attack mastiff puppy, and painstakingly socialising it not to attack chickens. Guarding the blessed bloody birds from predators was the whole point.

And thinking of predators…. Mrs Strommerty, who in some respects was more grounded and clued up than he was, had given him pure Hell over those schoolgirls on the camping trip, and his instinctive attempt to overcharge them. She'd recognised instantly they weren't from the Thieves' Guild school, as he'd assumed. Although that prospect had been bad enough.

The truth, he realised with hot and cold shudders, was that he'd been trying to bilk the bloody Assassins. Their students were bad enough. Most of that gang of missies would grow up into licenced Assassins and now they knew his name. And they might have gone complaining to their teachers. Mrs Strommerty read the papers and the illustrated magazines from the big city. She had pointed to iconographs of people like Miss Band. She had read him the bit from the Ankh-Morpork Inquirer about Miss Smith-Rhodes and her ways with animals.

"how do you know she isn't out there with those girls?" Mrs Strommerty had demanded. "Or her, with her way with lions and leopards! And you tried to cheat them, you bloody idiot!"

And he was in the doghouse. Which was more than he could say for Maccabee. Gloomily, he walked up the hill towards where the missie had said her campsite was. She had promised to leave the milk-churns in clear sight for retrieval. He soon spotted the churns, standing proud on the crest of the next hill. Being empty, they wouldn't take too much carrying back. He strode up and took in the scene. Regular rough rectangles of flatted grass, indicating that's where the tents had been. A long trench, recently refilled. He suspected the grass would grow thicker there within a few months. A few circles of burnt ashes and remnants, probably their cooking areas. But what was that, in the middle of what he suspected had been a tent-line… curiosity and a horrible cold sense of suspicion filled him. He walked over.

The trench was about seven feet long by five wide. It had been dug recently and refilled even more recently, the loose soil mounded slightly over the surrounding surface. Grass turves had been replaced on top. It was long enough for a… it looked like a….

Strommerty gibbered inside. His blood ran hot and cold as he remembered yesterday.

Big enough for two bodies, side by side! Gods, the wife said the bloody Assassins are mean when you cross them! Underneath that, are there two of those girls who failed the class? And I tried to bilk them on eggs and chickens…

Distantly, he heard a dog barking. Absent-mindedly he reached down and patted Maccabee's rough pelt. He heard a voice, and jumped.

"Mr Strommerty?"

He hadn't notice or registered the girl approaching. It was the plump missie from yesterday. The one who'd done the talking.

"I really apologise for this. When we packed up to leave this morning, Maccabee ran up to join us. We couldn't get him to go. Miss Band and Miss Smith-Rhodes insisted we bring him back to you, and then rejoin the group." said Sam Demisage.

Strommerty heard the names of the teachers, and silently thanked his wife for her foresight.

"Thank you kindly, miss." he said, distractedly. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the double grave. The other girl, the one with the weird penetrating eyes and the faint scars on her face… where did she get those? – nodded at him. Both were laden with large backpacks they seemed to be carrying with ease.

Catherine looked down disinterestedly at the filled trench, the one she and Deborah Rust had excavated to make more living space in their tent. It had taken less time to refill than it had to dig. They'd be doing it again tonight at the next campsite.

"Stay!" Sam said to Maccabee. The dog reluctantly sat.

"Better get a lead on him, Mr Strommerty." said the girl with the eyes and the faint tracery of scars. He tried not to speculate on how she'd got them. "Just until we're beyond pursuit. Or else he might follow again."

Then they were off, speculating on how long it would take to find the group. Maccabee watched them with longing eyes and whined. Strommerty watched them go, and breathed out. He reflected that he'd better put up a fair price-list for casual callers. The next camping party might not be so reasonable.


The next camp-site was comparative heaven. About fifteen miles away and higher up in the hills, there was even a sheltered rock-pool big enough for swimming in. Miss Band supervised setting up the camp and basic duties, then explained that Doctor Bellamy would be leaving us here, to return to the School. Another teaching member of staff was coming out for a couple of days, to instruct and test in a different set of practical skills. So you may as well go for a swim while we wait, in small groups, not all of you at once, half the class first, while the rest keep watch. You will, however, be working hard later on. We have an Exercise planned.

Catherine heard the capital-E on "Exercise", and sighed. She wondered if it was to do with the derelict tower in the distance. It said "wizard" to her. She therefore hoped whatever they had in mind was to be done by daylight. But the chance to go swimming was something she grasped with both hands. Normally the Guild taught swimming at Mort Lake, held to be far, far, cleaner than the river Ankh. She remembered feeling encumbered there by the ridiculous whole-body swimming costume that girls were forced to wear to preserve modesty. Boys were allowed just shorts, she recalled, and this was a cause of discontent and irritation among girl pupils. Necessary in the city: she recalled the day a voyeur had been discovered trying to peep into the changing room through holes drilled in the wall. Miss Smith-Rhodes had been unaccountably slow to respond to the noise, only choosing to reappear about five long and painful minutes(1) after the voyeur had been discovered by thirty indignant girls. She had called for order, explained that there, regrettably, would be consequences if the man were to be inhumed, and produced her Watch Special Constable badge. She had smiled down at the somewhat battered Peeping Tom and asked him where he would like her to begin with the charges. Two girls were detailed to get properly dressed and go and find a Watch patrol.

They had returned with Commander Vimes himself, who had whistled appreciatively and remarked to Miss Smith-Rhodes that Malicious Lurking, Being Bloody Stupid, and trespass, should be a start. And as for trying to spy on Assassin schoolgirls getting dressed… prima faciae case of Attempted Suicide there. You're nicked, chummy. Oh, and what's this? A smashed iconograph and a complaining imp? The evidence just mounts up, doesn't it? I'll get Igor to look at those cuts and bruises, once you're in a cell.

But out here, there were no costumes. Catherine swam, relaxed and happy. Somewhere to her left she heard the sound of Camilla Hargarth being physically thrown in by Miss Smith-Rhodes, who sounded irritated that Camilla had not yet properly learnt to swim. She had a feeling that Camilla would at least have learnt to tread water and doggy-paddle by the end of the session. Miss Smith-Rhodes got results when she was irritated.

And being able to swim without any sort of costume was so liberating…

Catherine thought, idly, about an idea Miss Band had had, about the necessary compromise between modesty and being able to swim freely. Miss Band had suggested some sort of close-fitting leotard, leaving arms and legs bare, but covering all that society absolutely demanded should not be exposed. The male decision-makers at the Guild had demurred, getting prudish about the notion of legs being exposed to the gaze, all the way up to the thigh. "And something so tight around the body. Showing outlines and, well, everything. Or at least where everything is. That would defeat the object, miss Band!" (2)

Alice Band had been indiscreet, and very, very, funny, in mimicking the shocked responses of most of the Dark Council to her suggestion. Apparently when she'd said circus performers and high-wire artistes wore something similar which freed them up to perform to the best of their ability, and all she was doing was proposing the same but without the un-necessary spangly tights, the Dark Council had firmly said "No. Parents will object to dressing the girls up like circus performers."

Alice had then apologised to the girls for the silly swimming costumes they had to put up with, and had explained why in excoriating and sardonic detail. Her pupils had appreciated this. Most also appreciated being able to swim unencumbered, but realising why they couldn't swim naked anywhere in the City.

Eventually, the first swimming class changed back into working clothes and the others had a chance. Catherine dressed, reflecting that nudity in public, or at least in an all-female situation, really wasn't a big deal at all. Another lesson learnt. She noticed as Miss Smith-Rhodes handed over to Miss Band, that Camilla Hargarth was being held back.

"You will learn to swim, Miss Hargarth." Alice Band said, pleasantly. "I have it in mind to send you on a little visit to Sir Samuel Vimes. Any student I sent to him very soon learns to tread water, at least. Or what she hopes is mainly water. When you get back to the Guild, seek out Jocasta Wiggs. She'll explain why."

Catherine winced. What a threat

And then people were nudging each other and watching the distant dots in the sky, more purposeful than a random bird, that were circling above and eventually spiralling down towards them.

It was a magic carpet, escorted by a single broomstick. They counted three people and some bags and bundles.

"Ah, my lift home's arrived, I think!" said Doctor Bellamy, as she finished dressing. The girls who were dressing after swimming hurried, as they realised one of the new arrivals was male: the wizard on the broomstick glanced down at twenty or so partially-dressed girls, did an obvious double-take, and appeared to jump with what was clearly embarrassment. He very quickly banked away from the swimming pool and came into land, seeking to land out of sight of the ad-hoc changing area. The carpet spiralled down in lazy flat circles and came to rest.

"It's Wednesday, isn't it?" Jeannie Venturi said to Catherine. She counted days on her fingers and nodded. They'd left on Monday around eleven in the morning.

"Games day at the School." agreed Maddy Selachii. "Well, we could be out on a cold muddy swamp of a hockey field. But we got to swim."


Back in Ankh-Morpork, Gareth ffitz-Connor picked himself up from the cloying cold mud for the umpteenth time. The pressure from the visiting St Onan's Seminary School senior side was utterly unrelenting and the Guild was currently down by three tries and two conversions. Mr Bradlifrudd was, visibly, not approving of this.

Gareth reflected that they'd possibly been overconfident to think a team from a school for novice priests would be a pushover. They were mainly Hergenians, for one thing, with a sprinkling of Llamedosians and, most frighteningly, a nucleus of big brawny exchange students from places like Fourecks and Rimwards Howondaland. Certainly not the ineffectual Lamister types they'd been expecting, fifteen of the sort of weedy bespectacled bookish soon-to-be-curates that they'd been anticipating. A Llamedosian Rules Fifteen-A-Side team from four countries that took the oval-ball game seriously.

Picking himself up, Gareth reflected that some student priests took a vow of celibacy, at least while training. They were denied cigarettes and strong drink. They couldn't even swear. It followed on that if sport was their only outlet, they'd be good at it. And physically fit. St Onan's practiced a sort of extremely muscular religion.

Distantly he heard the bellowing voice of High Priest Ridcully calling "Come on, you fellows! Smite those bloody Gods-damned Assassins!"

Ridcully was a supportive crowd all of his own, he reflected, gloomily.

Gareth had initially been brought out here as a substitute for the First Fifteen. He had hoped to sit the game out on the bench, but Martin Bletchley had been stretchered off with concussion after a tackle from one of the huge Rimwards Howondalandians. Within the first five minutes. Mr Bradlifrudd had nodded at him and said "On you go, lad. You're playing inside-centre."

He wondered if this was part of the ongoing informal punishment for his recent indiscretion with an officially unknown girl from Black Widow House. At least the number twelve position wasn't as exposed as the wing or full-back, and it wasn't in the scrum.

He gathered himself, and watched the grinning player opposite. Anyone of the same nationality as Miss Smith-Rhodes was to be treated with caution. Especially on the foot-the-ball field, where they were lethal. (3)

He wondered again how Catherine was getting on.

I'll be super-fit at the end of all this. Or dead.


The carpet, piloted by a school student from Klatch, took off with Doctor Bellamy, to fly back to the Guild before evening. The new arrival was Miss Lansbury, the Art Mistress, who took a longing look at the swimming pool. Then she gathered herself and nodded to the students. Catherine reflected that out here, she was something other than the usually slightly vague, liberal-minded, teacher who taught Art, the resident bohemian type in large hoop earrings, big flowing skirt, and sandalled feet. She was still bespectacled, but the hoop earrings and the clashing jewellery had gone along with the coloured headscarves she favoured. Booted and dressed in formal outdoors black and wearing a broad-brimmed black hat, she radiated Assassin On A Mission to the students. Catherine expected that. Nobody passed out from the Mature Students Course and stayed vaguely flower-child beatnik. She suspected Miss Lansbury still clung to the look of her student days at the Royal College of Art, but used it as a smokescreen to draw out unwary and over-confident students. And she's a friend of Daniellerina Pouter, Catherine reflected. You can't see somebody like Ms Pouter hanging out with dizzy, ditzy, flower-child types for very long.

And then there was the Wizard, a younger, clean-shaven, bespectacled type who was not carrying excess weight. He was dressed in a drab grey-green robe and the only things that Catherine could see that identified his profession were the broomstick and the pointy hat.

Definitely a maverick, then, she thought. But seems very self-conscious and uncertain. I bet he "ums" and "errr's" a lot.

Miss Smith-Rhodes introduced Professor Stibbons from the University, and said he was here to provide a level of professional assistance in the Exercise they would be participating in later. Catherine noted there was a certain warmth and familiarity on her part towards the young wizard. She'd heard the rumours that Miss Smith-Rhodes was, er, seeing a Wizard. They'd circulated around the school after the recent business with the animals in Hide Park. Catherine had not been there to witness the two-person thawing of relations between the Guild and the University that had largely begun after she had been injured. But she'd heard the rumours about it when, nearly two months later, she was released from hospital to resume her studies. She had found it hard to believe, as her mental association with the word "wizard" had been a picture of a fat and heavily bearded old man in a garish dress-like robe. It was hard to picture somebody like Miss Smith-Rhodes getting intimate with, say, the Dean or the Senior Wrangler.

But looking at Professor Ponder Stibbons, she had to reflect that there were such things as young wizards. There must be. And tidy him up a little and maybe restyle his hair, give him better glasses, he wasn't all that bad-looking, in a nerdy bookish sort of way. As if he was reading her thoughts, Professor Stibbons caught her eyes for a second and looked away awkwardly.

Poor man. We're all looking at him and thinking "He's Miss Smith-Rhodes' boyfriend". We're all sizing him up, and he knows that.

Miss Band called for attention and said the Exercise involved the old tower down there in the valley. Yes, it is an old wizarding tower from the old days. In a little while, Professor Stibbons and Miss Smith-Rhodes are going to go down there to check it out – is there anything amusing, Miss Greengold? – so the Professor can report on what sort of magical residues and influences there might still be there.

Ah, a nice excuse to be on her own with her boyfriend, Catherine thought. She wondered why the idea amused her and why, after he recent experience, she didn't begrudge her teacher and felt tolerant about it.

"We hope this part of the Exercise will give you a little experience in working in a magical environment." Miss Band went on. "It will sometimes be necessary for the Assassin to venture into magically-charged areas in the course of active assignments. We believe a place where a little old residual magic may linger will give you all a safe – or relatively safe – experience of this. Professor Stibbons is here to consult and advise on this. He will also deal with any little misadventures that may happen. If any of you have any questions or concerns, the Professor will now address you on the situation and I'm sure he will be willing to answer your questions. Professor?"

Ponder Stibbons did err and um a bit. There was no getting around that. But he explained to them that he'd looked up the location of this tower in the university library, and could tell them it had been built by a wizard called Doctor Erasmus Pettifogg some eight hundred years before. It had been repeatedly visited by Heroes and adventurers in the eight centuries since, and it was unlikely that anything of active magical potency was still there now. Anything of worth or value would have been stripped out. Any really strong Guardians or defences would have worn out, escaped or evaporated. However, he couldn't be a hundred per cent certain of that. Umm. And it was likely a few little pockets of random magic still lingered in and around the tower. These would have degraded and dissipated, but were still capable of delivering little surprises to the unwary. Apparently local lore spoke of strange things happening here at night. But these were most probably memories and illusions, as if the stones of the tower had absorbed energies and were dreaming of old times. The prescribed thing to do if you saw a supposed ghost would be to close your eyes and carry on as normal, while trusting other senses. Illusions in themselves can't hurt or damage you. Err.

Ponder then invited and answered questions. He conceded that the shock of seeing a ghost if you were edificeering a hundred feet up the side of the tower might cause you to lose your handholds and fall off, yes.

"A typical Emergency Drop situation, then." Alice Band said. "Not the usual one you'd see in the Final Exam, but worth considering. And I've started teaching you all about Emergency Drops and how to survive them!"

Catherine had a horrible feeling that a Consultant Wizard might be prevailed upon to create a few magically-generated Emergency Drop situations, just for them. She wondered if this might figure in their Final Runs, almost three years hence. (4)

"But tonight you will not be required to edificeer." Miss Band said, reassuringly. "While I accompany Miss Smith-Rhodes and the Professor to the tower, Miss Lansbury will occupy you with a practical Art class. We will return in perhaps ninety minutes. They're all yours, Miss Lansbury!"


To his consternation, Gareth found himself twenty yards away from St Onan's goal-line and suddenly in possession of the ball. This was something he'd been diligently seeking to avoid, trying to be seen to be enthusiastic and almost in the right place at the right time. He had enough sense not to fumble it and realised, doing some advanced maths very quickly in his head, that if he ran like Hell, he might be able to avoid the three large forwards bearing down on him from various angles. Who could he pass it to, very quickly…

Gareth ran, exploiting a gap in the St Onan's defensive line. He knew he probably wouldn't get across the line, but at least he could force a scrum within ten yards of it. Then he could get the Hell out and leave it to the forwards. Grimly, he ran, aware of converging feet behind him. As he felt the first hands seeking to tackle, he hit the ground, still clutching the ball, and rolled. Out of the corners of his eyes he saw the white line, tantalisingly near. Then curled up around the ball as booted feet tried to hack it out of his grasp. One body piled up over him, then another. He felt the crushing weight and heard a Rimwards Howondalandian voice demanding he gave up possession now, you moffie.

The sheer weight of people pushed him forwards. Gareth felt himself being edged over the line. He half-glimpsed the officiating Druid trying to peer into the maul to see where the ball was. He felt the ball slipping from his grasp and despairingly put out a hand to grab it as it was squeezed onto the grass. Then he heard a whistle blowing. The pressure eased and people stood up. Then he realised his team-mates were congratulating him and a big Howondalandian was muttering "lucky, you Morporkien moffie."

He realised. He'd got the ball over the line and it had still been in his possession when it was grounded. A try and four points. He felt battered, he felt bruised, but above all he felt relieved. He'd salvaged something from the day, then, more by luck than skill. Staggering to his feet, he was resolved to salvage something from what was otherwise going to be a crushing defeat for the team. Ignoring the twinges of pain as best he could, he stepped up to take the conversion. He judged that he could get the ball over the cross-bar and take another two points. He hoped.

Again, he hoped Catherine was having a better day than he was.


"It's perfectly simple." Miss Lansbury said. "In teams of two, your task is to sketch what you see in the valley. You are to come up with workable and accurate sketches of the valley, the tower, and approach routes to the tower, noting any terrain features you can take advantage of or which might hinder you. I will help, encourage, and assess your work. Yes, Miss Rust?"

Deborah Rust had her hand up.

"Why do we need to bother with this?" she asked. "These days, surely we can take iconographs? It's so much quicker and faster!"

Miss Lansbury glared back. Something in Deborah's voice had implied that mere pencil and paper and everything associated with them, like art teachers, were obsolete and somewhat redundant in the modern age. Her reply was both detailed and tinged with mordant sarcasm.

"Shall I list the reasons?" Miss Lansbury said. "You're out in the wilderness. You rely on what you can carry on your back. An iconograph is at least two pounds of extra weight. It is a delicate instrument. It can get broken. The imp could escape. It could run out of paint and its special paper to draw on. The flash can be seen from some distance away. A point to bear in mind if you are in concealment. A pencil is not a delicate technical instrument needing to be treated with care. If you have a knife to sharpen it with, it does not break down. It weighs light. And taking the time to really look at the terrain in front of you is advantageous. You do not get the time to see the fine details, in the fraction of a second it takes to press a button and open the shutter. Therefore you will, in your allocated pairs, find a good place to look at the tower and make sketches. I will be moving among you to offer guidance. Starting now!"

Catherine sighed with resignation, aware she was going to have to make the best of a bad deal and work with Deborah Rust. She did not know how exactly she was going to do this. But she suspected if Miss Band and Miss Smith-Rhodes were watching, some elementary precautions would be vitally necessary. She checked she had ample paper and pencils. And a knife to re-sharpen her pencils. Then she approached Deborah to suggest a few ground rules.


The oval ball wobbled in the air. Gareth watched it, aware his kick had not been the best. He readied himself for mocking shouts of "You people can't score when it's handed to you on a plate!" or "you couldn't score with a Seamstress!"

The ball clipped one of the uprights of the goalpost. It appeared to slow as if deciding which way to bounce. Then it flew off between the uprights and away somewhere beyond. Gareth grinned, and tried to look as if he'd planned it that way all along. Two more points.


Catherine had problems trying to explain to a surly and reluctant Deborah Rust that they were going to do this properly if they were going to do this at all. And that they'd better pay attention to some things that had been barely hinted at, which their teachers were very carefully not emphasising but which in Catherine's opinion were important. Have you got that, Deborah?

Ignoring Deborah's grumbling that this was completely un-necessary and it all smacked of sneaking around, and they'd have a far better view of the dratted tower if they were out in the open, Catherine led her reluctant team-mate down a dip in the valley that was sheltered from direct view of the top of the tower. Cautiously, she shepherded Deborah up into the shelter of a clump of bushes. From in among them, the tower and the wider valley were visible.

"We do our drawings from here." Catherine said firmly.

Deborah snorted.

"But we'd have a far better view from out in the open. Like those two over there."

Catherine didn't bother replying. She glimpsed a slight movement at the top of the tower. Then a trailing bright yellow streak appeared in the air, like a neon-yellow lightning bolt. She watched as the two girls in the open leapt and ran for cover as the long yellow streak earthed nearby to them.

"That's why we're working from cover." she said, flatly.


Ponder Stibbons looked up with alarm, his thaumometer forgotten for the moment. He'd heard Assassin training could be brutal and the teachers were in the habit of delivering short, sharp, unforgettable, shocks to their students. But Johanna had lifted her crossbow, loaded, aimed at a pair of students, and fired at them?

She grinned and reloaded, with another arrow that appeared to have a bright orange body, this time.

"Tracer round." Alice Band said, laconically. She too had a crossbow loaded with one of the strangely different bolts.

"I'm not aiming to hit anybody, Ponder." Johanna said. "Just to put it close enough to make them jump, end realise they've been spotted."

She selected a new target and fired again. Ponder realised. A long thin coloured ribbon had been wound around the bolt. As it spun in the air, a weight on the end caused the ribbon to unwind and stretch out behind it for fifteen feet, giving the impression of a coloured lightning flash.

Alice too fired one of the tracer bolts, bright red this time. Crossbow bolts fired from a height went a long way further. This was something else the students appeared to be realising through practical demonstration. Already, the pairs of students approaching the tower were running for cover or retreating out of effective range.

"It's fair." she said, as the distant students scattered in confusion. "If this was a real assignment, any guards up here would be shooting to kill, and they wouldn't be using tracers. And if you're doing a recce on a client and making sketches, you don't sit out in the open as if you were a weekend artist doing a landscape!"

Ponder boggled. But he went back to making his own tests and observations.

"There might be two in the bushes over there. On the crest of that low hill." Alice said. Johanna watched carefully.

"Ja. But they got the idea, end went to cover." Johanna agreed. "If we cen identify them, we cen eward a credit. Telk to Gillian, later."

Both teachers refrained from shooting at Catherine and Deborah. They knew when to acknowledge students who'd got the idea.


Catherine diligently sketched what she saw, taking care to get things into proportion and adding notes estimating heights, distances and potential cover further on. She also noted Deborah's drawing was far sketchier and a lot more basic. She shrugged. No help there, then. After perhaps half an hour, when the shooting from the tower had largely ceased, miss Lansbury, who'd taken her time, strolled up to their position to check.

"Well done." she said. "You weren't quite the only ones who realised from the start it wouldn't be as easy as it seemed. We wanted to test how many of you could work out that you just don't stroll up to the target, sit down in the open, and start drawing. Which does tend to alert the client somewhat. But not many of you got the idea, I have to say."

Catherine nodded. This was Art for Assassins. There was always a twist. Miss Lansbury studied her sketches, nodded approval, and said "well done." She wasn't as happy with Deborah's, and said so, telling her to do it again properly. Deborah glowered, but had enough sense not to protest.


And back in Ankh-Morpork, Gareth got grudging praise from Mr Bradlifrudd, who wasn't happy the Guild side had lost, but at least one of you managed a try and a conversion. "But don't let it go to your head, lad. You're still booked in for an hour's circuit training this evening. And since your physical fitness is coming on in leaps and bounds, we can perhaps try you out in a half-marathon5(5) on Saturday afternoon, something to burn off some more of your spare energy, and make you tired enough to actually want to sleep at night."

The PE Master grinned genially. Gareth, reminded of why all his teachers were conspiring to put him on a high-energy punishment roster, sighed and decided to put up with it. At least it was only for a month…


(1) for him, that is

(2) Alice had discovered she had a Roundworld doppleganger also called Alice Band. HEX had shown her selected scenes in her alternate's life, including the style and practicality of Roundworld swimming costumes. Discworld Alice had fallen in love with the idea of one-piece swimming costumes. See my long-stalled tale Slipping Between Worlds. And yes. It stalled at a difficult-to-write chapter about a military funeral. I have tried to write this several times but it hasn't worked, I think because the subject matter brings back difficult memories and needs great care.

(3) For those not into rugby, South Africa's national side, the Springboeks, have a reputation for being, er, robust players of the game. South African rugby appears to have an informal rule that says if all thirty players who started the game are still standing upright at the end, nobody was really trying.

(4) she was right. Some students would be vectored to the University on their Runs. Just to be tested in Edificeering In Magical Environments.

(5) Actually referred to as a demi-Heliodeliphilodephoschromenos, after a long ago incident where a messenger had to run a message from Ephebe to the city of Heliodeliphilodephoschromenos, some twenty-six miles away. Apparently the messenger had been so terrified at the thought of his Post Office shift supervisor yelling at him if he didn't deliver the message, that running twenty-six miles was, by contrast, an attractive idea. Mr Bradlifrudd would have called it a "half-Heliodel" for convenience. "Marathon" has been used here for even more convenience.