Terry Pratchett owns Discworld and all its stuff.

Chapter posted 07/10/12 first existing as a cut scene from 'Additions to Distinctions'.

At seven o'clock Monday morning, Teatime was in the antechamber with the irritating clock, neatly trimmed and freshly shaved, every thread of his black ensemble in its place.

At 7:05, a stiletto darkened with lamp soot protruded at a right angle from the clock's face, the glass cover of which had been courteously removed and placed on a small table against the wall. The blade itself pierced the clock's face halfway between the center and the 3. The minute hand butted up against it.

At 7:06, Rufus Drumknott, the secretary of the tyrant of the city, emerged from the Oblong Office with another clock in hand. Frowning only slightly, he lifted the dead clock from its nail and put the new clock in its place. Its ticking-tocking pattern was different from that of its predecessor – if anything, it was more erratic and thus far more irritating.

Drumknott turned to Teatime and said, "His Lordship will see you in five minutes. He also directs me to instruct you to prepare plans for the hypothetical inhumations of Lord Downey and the heads of all 16 houses of the Assassins' School."

Then he disappeared into the Oblong Office again; Teatime could hear a woman speaking during the brief time the door was open. The voice was low and angry, calling to mind Susan, but there the similarities ended. The voice on the other side of that door would not sink into tones that bypassed the eardrum and merely entered the mind, for instance. In times of stress, it would likely go shrill and break. Susan's just went… big.

At 7:08, Teatime had not one but two inhumation plans for each subject plotted out – three for Lord Downey, because if an Assassin could rise to the position of Master of the Guild and stay alive for several years afterward, then one had to have plenty of backup options.

At 7:09, the replacement clock was on the table with the glass from the first one. It was there in six easy-to-reassemble parts; a seventh piece was somewhere outside, having been chucked out the antechamber's window.

At what Teatime could only presume was 7:11, the door opened again to reveal the owner of the Grand Trunk Clacks Company, Adora Belle Dearheart. She'd barely crossed the threshold, letting the door close behind her, before somehow pulling a cigarette, a holder, and a box of matches from her form-fitting, high-necked dark red dress. Through the entire process of fitting cigarette and holder together and setting fire to the appropriate end, Miss Dearheart examined Teatime with a fierce, judgmental stare.

Teatime knew of her because ages ago, some fellow Lord Downey had described as "a toady to an arrogant upstart" had opened a commission on her father; he'd suddenly withdrawn the commission and its miniscule fee, and that had been the end of it. While a ghost, Teatime had spent much of his evening hours passively gathering information on the five years he'd missed out on while dead. Miss Dearheart, he'd learned, was now the fiancée of Moist von Lipwig; had an addiction to smoking that made other addictions hang their heads in shame; and had an unusual interest in all things restrictive, constrictive, potentially dangerous, and pointy.

Upon seeing her, he reflected that she bore some thematic similarity to Susan, if it were Susan in one of her icier, angry, poker-throwing moods. Miss Dearheart's dark hair was pulled into a severe bun, and the dress covered everything but hands, face, and the toes of a pair of expensive-looking shoes. Her expression was not by any consideration friendly.

She took a long drag on the cigarette, and on the exhale, she said, "Moist said you were a ghost." Her tone was fairly neutral, giving the lie to the sharpness of her frown. She cupped her left elbow with her right hand and puffed again; on the left hand was a small, elegantly plain diamond ring.

"I was," Teatime answered, a little miffed that they hadn't gone through the usual ritual of introducing themselves. Even though they each knew who the other was, it was only polite. "I'm not anymore," he added.

"I've gathered that, yes," she answered. After another pause to take in smoke, she declared, "I think I'd like to make the acquaintance of your Miss Susan."

There, now! They were back to the more polite forms of interactions between strangers. Teatime knew how to deal with that; that was what the Guild spent the first three years hammering into students' heads.

"Oh, I'm sure I can arrange a meeting," he answered, smiling. He didn't waste time noticing that Miss Dearheart drew her head back at his expression; it was the usual response to his smiles. "But, with respect, I'm afraid you are mistaken. Susan is my friend."

Miss Dearheart snorted, smoke shooting from her nostrils. She scoffed, "If that's all she is, it's because you haven't done anything about it. No one spends a month bringing someone back to life just because she'd miss his help in games of Cripple Mister Onion."

"You don't know Susan. And it was three weeks."

"I'm trying to, if you'll introduce us," she answered with some asperity. She ignored the correction. From some pocket that was hidden in the severe dress – where, Teatime did not know, unless it was a pocket sewn halfway down the skirt, which was the only loose part of the garment – Miss Dearheart produced a card. "I'll post a letter, as well," she said, "But would you give her this and ask if she'd be at home to visitors just after Hogswatch?" The words were polite, but the tone was impatient.

Teatime decided to take the words at face value and assented, tucking the card into one of the pockets on his waistcoat. Susan would probably like this woman; even if she didn't, they would likely get along. And if that failed, they'd hate each other on sight, and he would have front-row seats to the show. He and Miss Dearheart exchanged polite parting words; she left; he tapped on the office door, which Drumknott opened for him.

The first thing the Patrician did when Teatime entered was to invite Teatime to attack him.

"I'd like to get the inhumation attempts out of the way at once," he explained, rising from his chair with the aid of his cane. "If I survive, that is to be the end of it; there is too much to do to permit distractions." He came around to the front of the desk. "If you prevail, then at least I shall be able to get my head down for a few minutes."

Teatime considered Lord Vetinari – his tall, slim figure making that age-related slide to frail; the way he leaned not-quite-enough on the cane; the sharp, ice-blue eyes that were watching Teatime without judgment but also without faltering. A certain amount of caution was necessary.

Teatime's head listed to the side the way it tended to when he was dissecting a problem. "The Guild has removed you from the roster of allowable commissions, sir," he pointed out, stalling.

Considering that Teatime had had no opportunity to plan this, he discarded the options of poison or convenient architectural accident – those were too impersonal for his taste, anyway – so, he'd have to rely on his speed, then. However, this was Lord Vetinari, who'd survived this long and had been struck from the register; he was a man who also managed, somehow, to know nearly everything. He would be prepared for Teatime's agility. There was the remote chance he'd know of a weakness in Teatime, which would be amazing, because Teatime took great pains to be as much without weaknesses as possible.

Lord Vetinari was watching Teatime think. He replied, "You are not a Guild member any longer."

"As Susan said the other day, I am always going to be an Assassin." He suspected that hadn't quite been her meaning – those certainly hadn't quite been her words – but it was true nonetheless. Surely Lord Vetinari could understand why he would feel himself still of the Guild.

"Your window of opportunity is closing, Mr. Teatime," Lord Vetinari reminded him, speaking the proper syllables as if no other pronunciation could be possible. "You will be allowed this chance only once. Any later attempt will end in your death, and I will ensure that a second resurrection will be beyond even Miss Susan Sto-Helit's abilities."

Those words caused one of those curls of anger to start in his belly and wend upward into his brain, sending out signals to his hands, which, in normal circumstances, would have filled with daggers. It was nothing like the irritation he could ignore or assuage with a bit of intimidation. This was the kind that led to piles of corpses (which, in many cases, he thought was a good thing) or scarlet-faced rages (which were not as good; he was a little embarrassed to remember that Susan had both caused and witnessed the last one). This was something out of place, foreign. It was nearly impossible for him to enter into this stage of anger.

Fine. The Patrician wanted to goad him into action? Fine. He acted.

But even as he moved, he realized he'd abandoned logic, and that his anger sprang from the mention of Susan. If there'd been a threat against her in that mention, it had been extremely oblique (though, again, considering that this was Lord Vetinari, the threat probably had been there); the response had more to do with the subject of the threat than with the threat itself. Between one fraction of a second and another, he folded the revelation into his view of life and moved on to the next thought.

Teatime tried so hard not to have weaknesses. They were distracting and made things difficult. In fact, his first death had been directly traceable to one. Damn. And he'd been right that Lord Vetinari would know and exploit any such weakness.

So, when Teatime landed, cat-footed, behind the Patrician, he was empty-handed and frowning up at the Patrician, who had turned in anticipation. Both men were armed, for there was no chance that that was untrue, but neither went for his weapon.

Teatime rarely evaluated threats, for he was typically the greater threat, and it had been years since someone had laid a hand on him (barring Susan, of course). He usually acted to eliminate both target and tangential consequences without delay or doubt. But now, he evaluated. The threat was still before him, but it was latent. The trick now was to keep it latent. Because, for the first time in a long time, Teatime wasn't confident that he was the greater threat.

After several quiet moments of thought, Teatime asked, "Am I tethered, sir?"

One thin eyebrow went up. "You have the choice to leave, if you like."

"Alive?"

"Anything is possible."

"And Susan? I did notice you made a point of mentioning her, sir."

The Patrician patiently answered, "Your employment and her safety are unrelated as far as I am concerned. If you are to serve, it is to be willingly and with all your abilities and ingenuity brought to bear."

"If I resign later?"

An eyebrow went up. "Mr. Teatime," Lord Vetinari said, his tone weighted with pity or perhaps sympathy, "After the Hogfather contract, after being resurrected – and all that entailed – and being no longer part of the Guild, what else do you propose to do?"

With no other comment or gesture, he turned his back fully on Teatime – not dismissing, somehow but moving on – and walked back to his chair, inviting, "Have a seat, Mr. Teatime, and let me describe to you the requirements of your position."

This shouldn't be too hard. It should be… nice. Cozy. That's what it was. Getting to read as much as she wanted to, a snack and cup of tea close at hand, having the couch pulled close enough to the fire to keep both herself and a large kettle warm… It was the perfect set-up for an invalid recovering from wounds that should have killed her.

Susan had been happy for about seven minutes. And she hadn't quite been able to make herself stay still. For the first three hours since Teatime had stopped by to fix breakfast, Susan had been up and down seven times. She was beginning to regret it.

There were good points. For instance, when she lay down, the long cut up her left side couldn't brush against moving cloth, and the deep puncture on the right side wasn't riding through all the muscle contractions of a moving torso. And once she was on her feet, the unbound nightgown and dressing gown didn't irritate the cut. It was the getting up and down that irritated every concerned nerve cell; she would wind up panting and sweating for a good two minutes each time she changed positions. And each time she was up and walking, the faster she got tired. Igor would probably scold if he knew. Teatime certainly would later in the evening.

And they'd scold even more if they knew what she was about to do.

Teatime took the tall-backed wooden chair in front of the desk, fully seating himself before Lord Vetinari was able to do the same. It was a favored trick of his, though in this instance, it was done more out of habit than out of a desire to discomfit his interlocutor. Either way, Lord Vetinari took no notice and pulled a folder toward himself.

"With those of reasonable intelligence, I habitually neither explain nor direct," he said. Pausing to frown a moment, he corrected himself, "No. I lie. I rarely explain matters nor direct anyone, but with a select group, I take an even more hands-off approach." Long fingers opened the folder, removed the papers within, and tapped them together into a neat sheaf.

As if it were a signal – It probably was, reflected Teatime – the office door opened again to readmit Drumknott. He carried what looked like a hatbox. Teatime frowned. That had better not be a bowler; he looked awful in bowlers. Well, it mightn't look so bad right now, because it was his normally abundant mop of curls that made hats ridiculous. But he wasn't going to keep this inch-long crop for long, so there was no point in even briefly considering the hat. Dark Clerk or no, it was not going on his head.

"However," Lord Vetinari continued, recapturing Teatime's attention, "With you, I will make an exception. Your creativity is such that I must limit your palette, as it were."

Limit was not a word that had ever figured largely in Jonathan Teatime's life. But this was, for all intents and purposes, another life. This time, he now admitted, he had something to lose – and considering that both Lord Vetinari and Miss Dearheart had mentioned Susan in the last five minutes, then others knew what he had to lose, as well.

Lord Vetinari pinned him with a flat look. "In brief, you are only to inhume whom- or whatever you are directed – by my order – to inhume. No downstairs full of cowering servants dead for what they might see. No pets nailed to ceilings, Mr. Teatime, is that clear?"

"It is, sir."

"Nor will you indulge in any interpretation of the preceding two injunctions. Scores of techniques and tools were included in the curriculum at the Assassins' School in order to assure efficiency and elegance; I expect you to utilize them."

Teatime pouted a bit. All those techniques and tools he'd acquired took so much time away from the main event, and there was such pleasure to be had in experiencing and enjoying the different ways a life could end.

As though reading his mind, Lord Vetinari finished, " What I seek from your work, Mr. Teatime, is not quantity but quality. You will receive commissions enough." He finally accepted the hatbox from the patiently waiting Drumknott. "To use a different and, perhaps, more apt metaphor, you should consider yourself on a diet. Your appetites tend to lead you to excess, from which nothing can be learned and only one pleasure derived. Learn, instead, to execute and savor a few things of true quality."

The hatbox, a dust-gray thing bound closed with twine, slid forward across the desk, propelled by the tips of Lord Vetinari's fingers. Looking at this thing, made fascinating by anticipation and inaccessibility, Teatime listened to the more mundane expectations of reporting morning, evening, and as necessitated by events the Patrician would wish to know. It was to be assumed that he would learn what the Patrician found interesting over time.

"Your first assignment, however, is to aid the Watch in their investigation of several unusual murders." Lord Vetinari looked up at Teatime with a slight frown. "The victims are all Igors, and while your recent experience may have… wearied you on the subject of Igors, the city requires their talents."

Teatime didn't answer; he didn't really think he was expected to. If most Igors could repair the kind of physical damage Susan had sustained in the fight against one of the anomalous ones – and have her walking halfway across the city the next day! – then he had no problem with them. They couldn't all be mad. Well, not in the way that concerned him. And if the ruler of the city said the city needed them, then, well, he'd know, wouldn't he?

"Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson is in charge of the investigation, I understand," Lord Vetinari continued. "Follow and observe. Point out to him – with quiet discretion, if you please – any useful details that stand out to you. I have full faith in the Captain, but as you see things differently from other people, together, you and he may see the entire picture clearly and quickly."

At last, he removed his hand from the hatbox. "As you will be going to Pseudopolis Yard, perhaps you will be good enough to drop this parcel off with Commander Vimes when you report."

Relief brightened Teatime's mood and expression, and he didn't care if it showed. It wasn't a bowler! Perhaps he would stay on, after all!

"I intended to post Hogswatch gifts to the officers, but, alas, business made that difficult this year," the Patrician lamented. With brisk movements, he flipped over the first two pages of the sheaf of paper before him. As he began to examine the third sheet, he said, "Don't let me detain you."

Because he was amused by the novelty of this new part of his life – Helping the Watch? Plenty of commissions from the city for inhumations? A job in city government? Did that make him a civil servant? – and because it did not seem to involve ridiculous-looking hats, Teatime took the box and the dismissal and was out the door in a flash.

The weekend had passed between Susan's return from the hospital and today; Teatime had been around to distract her from the irritation and boredom that came with being bedridden. They'd talked, and while they'd continued the habit they'd fallen into of bickering with one another, very little of the weekend had actually been spent in arguments. It certainly hadn't been boring.

It was during one of the calmer moments that Teatime had said, "If you didn't let me out from that place I went after dying, who did? I got to Misbegot Bridge by way of a door, and it looked like the ones you make. Blue light and all."

Susan had denied it again, though less angrily than she had once done. She had not released him; up until two days ago, she had had no reason to. The only other person she knew who could make any similar portal was her grandfather, and he would never have reason to loose a sociopathic ghost on the world.

Then, of course, it had dawned on her. She hadn't had a reason to release Teatime. She did now. Three of them.

It took no more than five minutes to construct the appropriate portals – one between her flat and Misbegot Bridge in the here-and-now, one between the now and then, one between the bridge and the Country Between, and then one back to the where and when she was supposed to be in – but when she returned, she was drained and wobbling. After suffering through the action of taking her place on the couch again, Susan realized she wouldn't be getting up again for the rest of the day. She reached for the tea on the table beside her, and a bit of red caught her eye. She looked down at her nightgown. She was bleeding.

"Damn," she muttered, plucking at the fabric.

It wasn't much blood – just a line tracing the cut that went from armpit to hip – but she felt a little foolish for opening the wound again. And she didn't feel up to the scolding Teatime would feel it was his place to give her. He could be officious when he wanted to be, and he'd been attentive to the point of irritation since Susan had woken up at the Lady Sybil Free Hospital. She'd the idea that if he stuck around long enough, he'd become clingy like the Lipwigzer puppy he always reminded her of; the only problem with that was that she didn't think he'd deal with separation anxiety by merely chewing up shoes.

She sank into sleep, her muddled mind considering how to housetrain one's pet Assassin.

What brought Susan back to consciousness was the strangeness of four sounds in quick succession.

Someone unlocked and opened her door.

Footsteps approached.

There was a sharp intake of breath

And her door slammed shut.

It was the last noise that flung her from the foggy fields of semi-somnolence inhabited by past ghosts and furry creatures in chain mail and back into her front room.

Bleary eyes took in the angle of foggy winter sunlight slanting through the window. It was about four in the afternoon. Susan hadn't meant to sleep that long. Sure, it passed the time, but she doubted she'd be able to sleep through the night. On reflection, she thought that might not be a bad thing; the last three nights she'd jolted awake with the beginnings of a scream trying to fight past her clenched teeth. Besides, what she had done had needed doing; a nap was justified.

With a grunt, she reached out her left hand, swiping around until she struck the kettle on the hearth, cursing quietly when it jolted her healing bones. She sighed when she felt how cold it was. The fire had all but died. She'd have to put some more wood on it and jab at it with the poker, but the mere thought of sitting up triggered a flare of pain in her midsection.

"Come on, Susan, shift your bones. It's not going to get any warmer with the sun setting," she told herself.

And she'd just elbowed herself up against the arm of the couch and laid her right arm against the back when her door burst open, letting in a swirl of cold air, as well as Teatime and the Watch Igor riding in a fireman's carry across his shoulders.

Igor was clutching a not-quite-closed toolkit and protesting, "If you'd just tell me what the problem ith, I wouldn't need the general kit – oh." Igor blinked around, realizing they'd arrived; when his gaze landed on Susan, he jabbed a finger at her and snapped, "Lie back down! Now!"

Unaccustomed to being on the receiving end of such a tone, Susan glowered and used her grip on the back of the couch to pull herself fully upright. "I've been lying down all day –"

"You've done nothing of the kind!" he interrupted her, struggling off Teatime's shoulders with nearly no help from the Assassin. "Lie! Down!"

Having made enough of a point for now, she flopped backward, grunting softly at the pain. Igor scuttled over, opening his kit as he moved. "What you've been doing ith disobeying doctor's orderth!" His lisp faded in and out in response to his agitation. With efficient movements, he cleared the table by the couch and started piling gauze on it. He sniffed the spout of the kettle and then dumped the contents onto a towel. To the grimly hovering Teatime he handed the kettle and said, "Boil some water. Uthe the stove in the kitchen. Stay there and don't come back until it'th boiling. You can thcold her later."

The Assassin disappeared, and Igor turned to frown at Susan. Briskly, professionally, Igor covered her lower half with her blanket and pulled her nightgown up to her ribs. He grabbed her right wrist and placed her hand on her left breast; in this way, he was able to expose the entire cut. Quick movements and the appropriate application of a pair of blunt-nosed scissors had cut free the soiled bandages. The soaked towel he lay down the length of the cut; it was cold, but Susan could feel the dried blood loosen almost immediately.

The whole time, he muttered at her. He asked, "How do you exthpect to heal if you keep injuring yourthelf?" He plucked a brown bottle of liquid from his kit and worried the cork from its neck with his teeth; Susan caught a whiff of the sharp, medicinal scent of its contents before Igor poured some into a square of flannel. "The best patientth are the comatothe," he groused.

Susan kept herself from answering something in the line of The best doctors are the ones with their mouths shut, partly because it was unproductively rude, and partly because Igor started to pull the soiled bandage from the wound.

In response to her first hiss of pain, Teatime poked his head through the kitchen door with, if not murder in his eyes, then at least mayhem. He blinked owlishly at the sight that greeted him, but before he could muster his wits for any sort of reaction, Susan reared up, pointed with her broken hand, and shouted, "Kitchen! Now!" He duly disappeared; she called after him, "And stay there! Or – ow – I'll stop time and douse you with something horrible!"

"Horrible how?" his disembodied voice asked.

Thinking fast, for she hadn't quite thought the threat through before issuing it, Susan snapped, "Snowmelt from the street!" That was pretty good, because it was only 26 percent snow; gods only knew what the other 74 percent comprised. "Something that stings the eyes – ow. I know a fellow who will get sick at the mere mention of alcohol – ow! Just stay in the bloody kitchen!"

When Teatime let the silence answer her, Susan nodded and returned her attention to Igor, who was watching her over his folded hands with irritated patience. She glowered back and took the time to examine his expression for signs of shock, scandal, or the utterly intolerable knowingly lifted eyebrow. Seeing none of the above, she finally relaxed back against the arm of the couch. She grimaced at the pain that had grown into a much harder to ignore throbbing overlaid with the sting of recently applied disinfectant.

Igor drawled, "If you're done?" Going only slightly red, Susan, with Igor's help, sat up to get fresh bandages wound around her torso. She appreciated his gentleness, considering how aggravated she knew him to be with her behavior. He even waited until she was settled and properly covered again to give her the earful she'd earned.

The only defense she offered was, "It was important." She didn't say what was important. Just that it was.

"It is important that I never see fresh thtitcheth in this condition again," Igor retorted. "Do not overestimate my thkillth. You're healing well – were healing well – but if you get an infection or bleed out there's little I can do for you!"

At any other time, Susan would have done that trick she had of making people forget she was there, but using her abilities as much as she had today had quite drained her. She wasn't sure if she could muster a decent Voice command. The only comfort she could derive from that was that if she were actually close to death, then she would be close to Death, as it were. If she couldn't call on those abilities, then she'd be fine; she was just exhausted. But since she was exhausted, she could barely scare up enough energy to argue, and she'd have to save that up for Teatime. So all she could do was sit sullenly under the rebuke and nod at the appropriate I Am Your Doctor Or Something Like It, So Do As I Say, Right? moments.

The moment Igor closed the front door behind him, Teatime was standing by the couch, frowning down at her; his knees were near hers, which position perfectly backlit him while leaving Susan fully illuminated by the fire. The light glanced off his more normal eye in the normal way; the scrying stone captured the firelight and let it bounce back and forth on its inner surface, producing a cloudy red, catlike glow. Susan's heart gave one great thump – she chose to label it surprise – but she concentrated on frowning right back at him.

She found, somewhat to her surprise, that she had to walk a fine line between the irritation at his disobedience (which she had to get accustomed to, as commands were not things typically given in healthy friendships, no matter the constituent members) and irritation at his belief that he had the right to reprimand her (which was a privilege Susan allowed perhaps three people).

She would ignore the first. The second, she determined, she would correct. So before he could commence lecturing, Susan shot over her crossed arms, "I was letting you out of the Gray Country, you know."

The frown on Teatime's face gave way briefly to surprise; eventually he settled on his oddly humanizing conflicted expression. He understood the words and was able to piece them together with his knowledge of Susan's abilities; she wasn't worried that he wouldn't understand how she'd ended up in her current condition. He would, however, be baffled about the why. And for now, she was content to let him remain so.

Finally, his frown made a brief return when he said, "Good. But since you manipulate time, maybe you should wait until you've healed completely to do anything else. Seen logically, it could have waited."

Susan slumped down against the arm of the couch and dropped her good hand over her face. Damn him twice. She couldn't believe she'd let Lobsang sway her, to use his way of knowing too much to convince her to make the decisions she had. She was tempted to laugh – at herself, at Teatime, at the situation Fate had decided to build around her. Instead she sighed.

"Will you stop being right and just fix the tea?"

Stubbornly, he stayed where he was and asked, "You won't do it again? Will you? At least not yet."

His serious tone, not quite concerned but again not quite not, drew Susan's gaze to him. His head had slid into the tilt that had become familiar, and his lips were slightly pursed, as if prepared to fall into a full pout should she disappoint him. Susan's urge to laugh grew; she couldn't keep her lips from quirking up barely at the edges.

"Am I going to have to?" she asked.

"No!"

"Then, no, I won't."

"Good."

He was suddenly gone. In the kitchen, the teakettle screamed for a fraction of a second. On the couch, Susan let herself drift back into sleep to the sounds of cabinets opening and closing and cups chiming against one another.