Reginald Harlow, professional assassin, silently made his way across the rooftops of Ankh-Morpork, practicing his technique as he always did on his nights off. He slipped in and out of shadows with quiet ease, a near-invisible blur in the darkness.
I am a ghost, he thought to himself as he leapt over a tall chimney with cat-like grace, landing on the far side without so much as a scrape of gravel. I am the living unknown, unseen and unseeable . Swiftly rising to his feet, he ran for the edge of the roof he was on, preparing to leap across to the next building. I am . . .
"Boo!" the voice came out of nowhere.
Surprise threw Reginald off-balance, but years of rigorous training and exercise kicked in and he quickly righted himself, narrowly avoiding a tumble to the streets below. Turning to face the figure in the shadows behind him, he said, "That wasn't the least bit funny, Trevor."
"Oh really, Reggie?" replied Trevor as he stepped from the shadows, grinning. "I found it hilarious."
"But not as hilarious as cracking my skull on the cobblestones would have been, eh?" said Reginald.
"Reggie, Reggie, Reggie," said Trevor, shaking his head disappointedly. "I thought you knew me better than that. I have no interest in seeing you come to any harm. Not that you would have fallen, even if I'd got out and pushed you."
"Of course. I graduated top rank in applied acrobatics. I am also, as you well know, the stealthiest living assassin in Ankh-Morpork!"*
"And how typical of you to point that out. It is true, but only because I chose not to work for the Guild after graduation."
"And I still don't understand that! Assassination is a good profession with a long and noble history. A good number of the city's more prominent and powerful citizens are members of the Guild or attended the Assassins School. It's a fast track to success and power in this city, but was that good enough for you? No, not for . . ."
"Do shut up, Reggie. Look, I've made my decision and I'm quite happy with it. I honestly don't know why you make such a fuss."
"Because you were bloody good! Because you are bloody good!"
"Yes, and in the Assassins' Guild bloody good is all I'd ever be. I might be the best and most successful assassin in the city, but I still wouldn't be anything special. To the Assassin's Guild I'm bloody good, but in the Thieves' Guild I'm a bloody god!"
Reggie seemed on the verge of replying, but then sighed. It was the sigh of someone who clearly wishes to continue the argument, but know it is an argument they'll never win. In that situation, better to pretend you don't really care while hoping your words will have some sort of long term cumulative effect. "Well, good luck," he said by way of ending the conversation "And if this thievery business doesn't work out for you, there'll always be a place for you in the Assassin's Guild. Well, maybe. It really isn't up to me. And for the hundredth time, don't call me Reggie!" And with that, he leapt across the gap between buildings and disappeared once more into the shadows.
Trevor shook his head as he mumbled to himself. "I honestly don't know why I bother. He's no friend of mine, not anymore. I burned that bridge a long time ago." Slipping back into the shadows, Trevor picked up his sack of legally stolen goods and headed back to his apartment. He could register his swag with the Guild of Thieves tomorrow, for now a good night's sleep seemed just the ticket.
Moments later, Trevor was on the roof of the boarding house where he lived, conveniently located just minutes away from the Guild of Thieves. As he swung down from the roof and through the window of his top-floor bedroom which he always kept open for exactly this purpose - the respectful old matron who ran the boarding house had no idea what he did for a living and he preferred to keep it that way - he realized something was wrong. Someone was sitting on his bed in the darkness. Someone big. And they had one hand in their pocket. A concealed weapon?
Dropping into a defensive crouch, he pulled a small throwing dagger from a hidden sheathe on his right thigh.
"All right, just stay right there whoever you are. Don't move a muscle or I'll bury this in your neck!"
Pulling a small box of matches from his back pocket, he reached over with his unoccupied hand and lit the oil lamp on his bedside table. As the room filled with light, he got his first good look at the intruder and realized this was someone he knew. It had been years since he'd seen him, he'd been younger and much, much smaller then, but there was no mistaking that face.
"Iggy? Little cousin Iggy?"
"'s me," he replied. "'lo Trevor."
"How'd you get in here?"
"The nice lady let me in. I told her we were cousins."
"Right. Of course." Trevor said. "I told her never to let anyone in my room while I'm away. I'll have to have a talk with her." Trevor's attention shifted to Iggy's right hand, which was still in his pocket. "What's that you've got there in your pocket?" he asked.
"'s Bijou," said Iggy, drawing out his hand and opening it to show Trevor the small, furry, unmoving figure clasped within.
"Hey!" Trevor shouted, "That's a dead rat! What are you doing carrying a dead rat around in your pocket?"
"'s not dead." Iggy mumbled. "'s just sleepin'. Look." Iggy gently stroked the rat's tiny head with one thick, sausage-like finger. Without stirring from its resting position, the curled up rodent lifted its head and looked at Iggy with a slightly annoyed expression. "What'd you go and wake me up for?" Bijou asked in a voice that was surprisingly deep coming from so small a source. "I was having that dream again, the one about the library where all the books are made of cheese."
"'re here." Iggy responded demurely.
Rising to his haunches in the center of Iggy's palm, Bijou turned and looked at Trevor, who was staring right back in slack-jawed amazement. "Hey, I thought you said this cousin of yours was supposed to be a smart guy? Looks pretty dumb to me. Must run in the family."
Trevor recovered from his amazement enough to take affront. "I don't have to take that kind of abuse from a rat!" he said. "And why can you talk? Iggy, why can this pet rat of yours talk?"
Iggy averted his eyes, mumbling, "'s not my pet."
"What? What do you mean . . .?"
"He means," replied Bijou, "that the relationship between your cousin and I is one of equals."
"Equals?"
"He's very big and very stupid, I'm very small and very smart. It all evens out quite nicely. Ours is what you might call symbiotic relationship."
"That means we need each other."
"That's right! Very good Iggy, you're learning very quickly!"
"Right . . ." Trevor said finally, "Moving on, why can you talk?"
"'s philosophical," replied Iggy.
"I wasn't asking you, dummy!" Trevor snapped impatiently.
"No need to get nasty," the rat said, indignantly. "Anyway, Iggy is absolutely correct. I used to be a philosopher see . . ."
"What? A philosopher rat?"
"I was human then. I died and was reincarnated as a rat, but with all the memories of my previous life, as well as the ability to speak. Clearly the universe has made a serious clerical error."
"That, or you seriously cheesed off an extremely spiteful god." Trevor replied archly. "Alright look, I don't have the energy to deal with this nonsense tonight. I need some sleep. We'll figure this out in the morning."
* Casper von Bludwort, the first vampire to ever attend the Assassin's School, is Ankh-Morpork's stealthiest unliving assassin. He's also the only assassin in Ankh-Morpork known for the habit of eating on the job.
I am a ghost, he thought to himself as he leapt over a tall chimney with cat-like grace, landing on the far side without so much as a scrape of gravel. I am the living unknown, unseen and unseeable . Swiftly rising to his feet, he ran for the edge of the roof he was on, preparing to leap across to the next building. I am . . .
"Boo!" the voice came out of nowhere.
Surprise threw Reginald off-balance, but years of rigorous training and exercise kicked in and he quickly righted himself, narrowly avoiding a tumble to the streets below. Turning to face the figure in the shadows behind him, he said, "That wasn't the least bit funny, Trevor."
"Oh really, Reggie?" replied Trevor as he stepped from the shadows, grinning. "I found it hilarious."
"But not as hilarious as cracking my skull on the cobblestones would have been, eh?" said Reginald.
"Reggie, Reggie, Reggie," said Trevor, shaking his head disappointedly. "I thought you knew me better than that. I have no interest in seeing you come to any harm. Not that you would have fallen, even if I'd got out and pushed you."
"Of course. I graduated top rank in applied acrobatics. I am also, as you well know, the stealthiest living assassin in Ankh-Morpork!"*
"And how typical of you to point that out. It is true, but only because I chose not to work for the Guild after graduation."
"And I still don't understand that! Assassination is a good profession with a long and noble history. A good number of the city's more prominent and powerful citizens are members of the Guild or attended the Assassins School. It's a fast track to success and power in this city, but was that good enough for you? No, not for . . ."
"Do shut up, Reggie. Look, I've made my decision and I'm quite happy with it. I honestly don't know why you make such a fuss."
"Because you were bloody good! Because you are bloody good!"
"Yes, and in the Assassins' Guild bloody good is all I'd ever be. I might be the best and most successful assassin in the city, but I still wouldn't be anything special. To the Assassin's Guild I'm bloody good, but in the Thieves' Guild I'm a bloody god!"
Reggie seemed on the verge of replying, but then sighed. It was the sigh of someone who clearly wishes to continue the argument, but know it is an argument they'll never win. In that situation, better to pretend you don't really care while hoping your words will have some sort of long term cumulative effect. "Well, good luck," he said by way of ending the conversation "And if this thievery business doesn't work out for you, there'll always be a place for you in the Assassin's Guild. Well, maybe. It really isn't up to me. And for the hundredth time, don't call me Reggie!" And with that, he leapt across the gap between buildings and disappeared once more into the shadows.
Trevor shook his head as he mumbled to himself. "I honestly don't know why I bother. He's no friend of mine, not anymore. I burned that bridge a long time ago." Slipping back into the shadows, Trevor picked up his sack of legally stolen goods and headed back to his apartment. He could register his swag with the Guild of Thieves tomorrow, for now a good night's sleep seemed just the ticket.
Moments later, Trevor was on the roof of the boarding house where he lived, conveniently located just minutes away from the Guild of Thieves. As he swung down from the roof and through the window of his top-floor bedroom which he always kept open for exactly this purpose - the respectful old matron who ran the boarding house had no idea what he did for a living and he preferred to keep it that way - he realized something was wrong. Someone was sitting on his bed in the darkness. Someone big. And they had one hand in their pocket. A concealed weapon?
Dropping into a defensive crouch, he pulled a small throwing dagger from a hidden sheathe on his right thigh.
"All right, just stay right there whoever you are. Don't move a muscle or I'll bury this in your neck!"
Pulling a small box of matches from his back pocket, he reached over with his unoccupied hand and lit the oil lamp on his bedside table. As the room filled with light, he got his first good look at the intruder and realized this was someone he knew. It had been years since he'd seen him, he'd been younger and much, much smaller then, but there was no mistaking that face.
"Iggy? Little cousin Iggy?"
"'s me," he replied. "'lo Trevor."
"How'd you get in here?"
"The nice lady let me in. I told her we were cousins."
"Right. Of course." Trevor said. "I told her never to let anyone in my room while I'm away. I'll have to have a talk with her." Trevor's attention shifted to Iggy's right hand, which was still in his pocket. "What's that you've got there in your pocket?" he asked.
"'s Bijou," said Iggy, drawing out his hand and opening it to show Trevor the small, furry, unmoving figure clasped within.
"Hey!" Trevor shouted, "That's a dead rat! What are you doing carrying a dead rat around in your pocket?"
"'s not dead." Iggy mumbled. "'s just sleepin'. Look." Iggy gently stroked the rat's tiny head with one thick, sausage-like finger. Without stirring from its resting position, the curled up rodent lifted its head and looked at Iggy with a slightly annoyed expression. "What'd you go and wake me up for?" Bijou asked in a voice that was surprisingly deep coming from so small a source. "I was having that dream again, the one about the library where all the books are made of cheese."
"'re here." Iggy responded demurely.
Rising to his haunches in the center of Iggy's palm, Bijou turned and looked at Trevor, who was staring right back in slack-jawed amazement. "Hey, I thought you said this cousin of yours was supposed to be a smart guy? Looks pretty dumb to me. Must run in the family."
Trevor recovered from his amazement enough to take affront. "I don't have to take that kind of abuse from a rat!" he said. "And why can you talk? Iggy, why can this pet rat of yours talk?"
Iggy averted his eyes, mumbling, "'s not my pet."
"What? What do you mean . . .?"
"He means," replied Bijou, "that the relationship between your cousin and I is one of equals."
"Equals?"
"He's very big and very stupid, I'm very small and very smart. It all evens out quite nicely. Ours is what you might call symbiotic relationship."
"That means we need each other."
"That's right! Very good Iggy, you're learning very quickly!"
"Right . . ." Trevor said finally, "Moving on, why can you talk?"
"'s philosophical," replied Iggy.
"I wasn't asking you, dummy!" Trevor snapped impatiently.
"No need to get nasty," the rat said, indignantly. "Anyway, Iggy is absolutely correct. I used to be a philosopher see . . ."
"What? A philosopher rat?"
"I was human then. I died and was reincarnated as a rat, but with all the memories of my previous life, as well as the ability to speak. Clearly the universe has made a serious clerical error."
"That, or you seriously cheesed off an extremely spiteful god." Trevor replied archly. "Alright look, I don't have the energy to deal with this nonsense tonight. I need some sleep. We'll figure this out in the morning."
* Casper von Bludwort, the first vampire to ever attend the Assassin's School, is Ankh-Morpork's stealthiest unliving assassin. He's also the only assassin in Ankh-Morpork known for the habit of eating on the job.