Detritus finally reached the stairs that lead up to the entrance of the Assassin's guild after pushing his way through a sea of Ankh Morpork's great unwashed. He climbed the steps and looked out over the sea of faces. Much ugliness stared back at him. By the time he made it as far as the top step he was coated with splattered fruit and he had been hit with everything from grapes to one pair of woman's bloomers. He took one look at the bloomers and saw the letters making up the word 'Delilah' stencilled on them. Why… why… why… Delilah? he wondered and scratched his head. He would probably need to place his head in a bucket of ice to work that one out. He tossed them aside.
The mood of the crowd was getting uglier by the minute. Detritus might be a troll but that didn't make him indestructible. There were dwarfs in that crowd and dwarfs were miners and miners were hard on rocks. Trolls were rocks that moved. Ergo he was under threat. Detrius was involved in some heavy thinking for a silicon-based intelligence living in a temperate climate. He was thankful for the fact that this time he had chosen to bring the piece-maker with him. Nothing gave a troll more self confidence than the feel of a weapon whose destructive potential was measured in megatons.
The sight of Detritus standing on the steps caught the attention of the entire crowd. Conversations dropped from shouting level to hushed whispers. An air expectancy seemed to hover above the crowd. They waited.
Anticipation became palpable.
They had seen this part before. They had enjoyed it before, but it was always good, and they waited with baited breath, enthralled and agog, especially so for the little quiver of expectation that only came with foreknowledge. It was great theatre.
In one hand Detritus held up a slim volume of words. In the other he waved the piece-maker.
Every one knew about the piece-maker, or at least they knew someone who knew something about the piece-maker.
Detritus surveyed his audience.
The citizens of Ankh Morpork were almost uniformly aware of the destructive power of the device he held in his hand. It was nothing much more than a siege engine that had been modified by the addition of a handle and a winch so that it could be hefted like a conventional cross-bow, albeit on a much larger and more destructive scale. Detritus armed the beast with a bundle of cross-bow bolts, the population of which had more in common with a hay bale than a quiver. Rumour had it that the bundled bolts disintegrated into a fireball of biblical proportions before the tail of the bolts cleared the stressed timber spring. As usual reality was more awful than rumour. The few occasions when the thing had been used in anger, onlookers had seen a mushroom cloud rise above the area where the fireball landed. No witnesses to the immediate effect of the impact were ever found. There might not be any truth to the rumour that the fireball incinerated them. Charcoal piles make poor witnesses.
Detritus waved the piece-maker in the air.
The crowd fell silent, wondering what the next act of the day's street theatre might entail.
"Dis is the riot act," Detritus intoned. "It give me da power to…"
"Dat's not the riot act," suggested one brainless moron standing only a few metres in front of the giant troll.
Detritus blinked. He waited for the next neuron to fire. A glacier moved. We're talking about geological time scales here.
"OK," Detritus said finally. There was time for the villagers looking at the wall of ice approaching them to shift most of the village to a place with a less imposing view. "Dat's right. Dis is the riot act," Detritus said and then he waved the book in the air.
Sure enough, embossed on the cover in gold letters were the words 'Ankh Morpork city statutes, riot act of 1396'. Many members of the audience were impressed with Detritus' ability to recognise the book for what it was. That had a lot to do with the latest in air-cooled helmets that Detritus wore.
"Dis," said Detritus, and waved the piece-maker. 'Is da reg – u – la - shons en – acted to en – force da riot act."
A few members of the audience translated Detritus' laborious pronunciation. Throughout the crowd, lips moved; accelerating the flow of syllables until they could be recognised for the fundamental truths that they were.
There was a concerted move away from the steps.
This was a kind of street theatre they had seen before as well. It came with Parental advisory warnings.
Given the pressure being exerted by the crowd pushing from behind (so they could see what was happening), and the perfectly understandable reluctance of the members of the crowd at the front to become part of what was happening, (because they could all see that the piece-maker was loaded and primed) there was a serious danger that someone might get hurt.
Detritus prepared for his next oratory gem.
The crowd waited.
So did Detritus.
*
Corporal Nobbs, Sergeant Colon and commander Vimes sheltered in the shade behind Detritus. It wasn't as safe as the doorway that Colon and Nobby occupied a few minutes earlier, but it was much better than standing in the crowd.
"I think we have their attention now Sergeant," Vimes told Detritus.
"Yeah but what do I do wid it now Sir?"
"Ah, now that is the question isn't it?"
The crowd was getting ugly again.
A lone tomato arced through the air.
*
O'Neill strolled through the crowd, making his way behind Carrot. Their passage was reasonably easy. Carrot mentioned people by name and they looked embarrassed and seemed to melt out of the way.
For all that, O'Neill was gradually becoming acutely aware of the growing resentment being shown by the people behind him. More and more of the mutterings they made seemed to be solidifying into something coherent and the content of that cohesion sent shivers up his spine.
It went like this. The news article that prompted this gathering had gone on at great length about how the Assassins were wearing jungle camouflage colours. And there he was - O'Neill - pushing arrogantly through them, wearing just the sort of outfit that the news was saying the new assassins wore.
The crowd might be composed of Ankh Morpork's finest street audience, but it was capable of making that connection without too much help.
O'Neill felt the hair at the nape of neck standing.
Just when he thought he might have to look for a place to hide, the crowd's attention was stolen by a scream of terror that issued from inside the Assassin's guild building.
It sounded nothing like either a cat or a pigeon, but it had much the same effect as mixing the two together.
A lone tomato passed overhead.
*
Otto awoke and found that he was sprawled on a hard stone floor. His preferred place to sleep was a coffin filled with dirt, so he drew the obvious conclusion that his sleep had been un-scheduled, and probably unfortunate. His head hurt and his mouth tasted as though he had partaken a meal of fur balls trimmed with dust bunnies. He wanted to cough them up but he couldn't put any momentum behind the expectoration. He just lay there and suffered for a bit.
He felt absolutely dreadful.
But as bad as that part of awakening might have been, there was one significantly worse aspect to this particular instance, one that he only became aware of when he opened his eyes. He was suddenly and unfairly confronted with the most alarming moral dilemma. Lying wantonly across his chest was the supine form of the delightful Sacharissa. Her skin was pale and fine. Her eye lashes were long and luxurious. Her lips were full and pouted. Her pulse beat steadily beneath the skin of her throat.
The smell of fresh blood filled his nostrils with a bouquet that was both rich and pure.
The world may never know the effort that Otto expended while restraining himself at that moment. He trembled with the effort involved in stoically suppressing the impulse to sink his fangs into that alabaster neck, just above the place where her pulse beat so strongly under her skin, where…
That's enough of that, he chided himself, weakly. He groaned.
Despite the legendary vampire's strength Otto struggled with those trembling traitorous arms to push the young woman away.
Her eyes fluttered, her lashes batted. She drew a deep breath and the mound of her ample bosom rose and fell, rose and fell…
"Argh," Otto screamed and shoved her aside roughly. He scampered across the floor and over to the wall where he leant against the brickwork, and began singing a tea-totalling song.
Slowly but surely the temperance mantra had the effect it was intended to have upon him. The desire to rip Sacharissa's throat out and partake of her life's blood gradually faded. Gradually faded, gradually faded…
Sacharissa's eyes flew open. She rolled half upright to find Otto cowering with his back pressed firmly against the wall and his eyes shut tight. Her heart went out to him, knowing what he endured, but she didn't dare console him yet.
*
William De Worde watched the developing riot from a relatively safe vantage-point outside the crush of the crowd. His wheel like perch was perfectly placed and his pen was particularly poised. He just needed something to write.
An expectant hush had fallen over what had previously been a mildly angry mob in the aftermath of that blood-curdling scream. The intimidation that the crowd had experienced upon first sight of Detritus and the piece-maker had passed, evaporated by the heat of that scream.
They were waiting for the next act.
This really was one of the better examples of Ankh Morpork street theatre and they were all fired up to enjoy it. Everyone was wondering what might happen next. Because this was entirely new territory.
"Get your sausages while they're hot," screamed a voice into the hush. "Just one dollar each, hot sausages in a bun, for one dollar."
All eyes turned toward C.M.O.T Dibbler and the various sausage carts. Trade picked up.
*
The only sound was the rat-a-tat of the Energiser Bunny beating his drum.
Wherever goes man, there went rats. Wherever goes technological man there went the Energiser Bunny. It wove between the feet of Ankh Morpork's citizens with the sort of manic zeal that only and anthropomorphic toy powered by the world's longest lasting batteries could manage.
Somewhere overhead, the tomato reached the top of it's arc and began to lose altitude.
*
The scream had echoed into the night while Samantha Carter waited in the alleyway for the next disaster to befall the SG-1 team. This whole expedition had degenerated into the sort of farce that only the best of military campaigns could manage.
She had no idea where Jack, Daniel or Teal'c might be now. Knowing them they could be anywhere, doing anything. They might even be at the centre of the riot waiting to happen out there in the street for all she knew.
And here she was, stuck in an alley, guarding a pile of gear that looked like it came off the set of Xena Warrior Princess while outside in the street there was a riot in the making.
Time was passing.
The SGC was probably already assembling a taskforce to come through the gate and address whatever was here with military force and Carter had no idea what she was supposed to do about anything.
So she sat beside Angua's clothes and cradled the guns that she and Angua had collected from the watch house half an hour earlier. The safeties were all off. She eyed the entrance to the alleyway warily.
The hush of the crowd could only mean one thing, they were scared, and a scared crowd became a mob with so little effort.
Carter frantically checked and rechecked the level of ammunition in each gun and debated how many of the crowd she could take with her if things got out of hand. She wasn't going down without a fight. That was a given.
She slung her ammo belts across each shoulder and strapped the additional holsters around her waist.
All that was needed to complete the picture was a ragged old bandanna.
Nothing in Angua's clothes fit the bill.
She eyed the entrance to the alley warily and waited.
*
Binky wandered through the crowd virtually unimpeded by the sea of bodies. It wasn't as though they weren't in the same plane of existence, it was just that people seemed to melt out of the way of death and his horse. It was as though their eyes refused to see and their bodies refused to touch. Their faces assumed a curiously blank expression and their feet pedalled backward without referring back to the brain for instructions.
Death sat atop his horse and inspected the gathering. His empty eye-sockets landed on Jack O'Neill and lingered.
A few members of the mob had put two and two together and come up with four. For their next trick they put Jack O'Neill and his camouflage gear together with the blood-curdling scream and come up with another number entirely.
Death settled in to watch the fun. He had the best vantage point of anyone out there - high on his horse. Moonlight glinted n the blade of a scythe so sharp, the wind passing over it was cut in two.
*
"What was that?" Sacharissa asked suddenly. She looked up from her inspection of the letter opener on Leonard De Quirm's desk. She listened carefully. "Someone's coming," she hissed to Otto.
Otto looked up from his carefully set up iconograph and waited for her to reach a conclusion.
"Quick hide," she added.
They looked around quickly and her eyes lighted on the curtains again. "Behind here," she instructed.
Otto looked longingly at his carefully arranged iconograph and debated. In the end he left it where it was, facing that giant stone ring, with the vertical pool surface inside it.
Sacharissa and Otto scurried behind the heavy curtains framing the office window and watched the entrance to De Quirm's study with calculated interest.
"Get the iconograph Otto," Sacharissa whispered. "I think we might need it."
*
Ridcully led his rag tag team of wizards through the Patrician's oblong office, heading for the once-it-was secret passageway.
His team comprising the Lecturer in Recent Runes and the Bursar had been augmented by the inclusion of Pondor Stibbons, who had been waiting for them in the street outside the Patrician's Palace.
They made their ponderous way through the room, like a blimp procession with flowing ermine and velvet robes of brilliant colours and towering conical hats adorned with occult symbology.
At the rear of the procession there was a shaggy threadbare sack of bones with far too much development in the arm department.
"Oook," it said. The unseen University Librarian was on the case. Under his arms there was arranged a pile of books, and with arms like that he could pile a lot of books.
"Yeah me too," commented the Lecturer in Recent Runes.
"Hee Hee," said the Bursar.
Mustrum Ridcully glanced at the Bursar and sighed. He wasn't carrying any dried frog pills and the Bursar was gone again.
"I always wanted to know what this place was like," The Lecturer in Recent Runes said affably. He turned one full circle in the middle of the room, not so much a pirouette as a ponder-ette. "Not half as ornate as I thought it would be. Quite austere as a matter of fact."
"This is not the time to sight see man," Ridcully advised. "Come on we have work to do."
Runes took a careful look at the chair that Lord Vetenary used when he sat at his desk. "Ha the seat of power," Runes said.
"Hee, hee," sniggered the Bursar.
Ridcully shook his head. Maybe things would have been better if he had recruited the Dean instead. At least he would make fewer bad puns. Although his usual chant of 'Yo!' could be just as infuriating when they were stalking the creatures from the dungeon dimensions.
"Oook," agreed the librarian. He knuckled along behind Ridcully. He seemed to be the only one of them who was taking the whole situation seriously. Ridcully was momentaily pleased to know that at least one other wizard regarded this assignment as important. He just wished it was a human wizard. It didn't do to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Ridcully stepped through the stone portal that Cheri Littlebottom had left open behind the Patrician's desk and led the rest of the wizards along the hallway to Leonard de Quirm's study.
They side stepped all of the weaponry on their way through.
The Librarian broke a morning-star free of it mechanism and dragged it long behind him. Books of spells were good, but when it came down to it, sometimes a piece of heavy metal with spikes on it was better.
Behind Leonard's curtains Otto and Sacharissa exchanged a questioning glance.
Ridcully and The Lecturer in recent Runes stepped into Leonard De Quirm's study. The Librarian and the Bursar followed a little way behind.
Ponder Stibbons trailed through the door last of all, anxious to get on with things now that his back up had arrived.
Ridcully's entry was typical of the man's style. The door thundered out if its niche in the doorframe and he stepped through. The others slipped through the doorway in his wake. The door flew back after hitting the wall thunderously and cannoned into Ponder with a force of similar magnitude to what would be measured if Detritus had unleashed his massive fist. The sudden blow caught Ponder in the shoulder and he fell into the table beneath which he had played tag with the frog. He tumbled backward over the table, scattering paper in every direction. He wasn't finished. He did an inelegant backward summersault and landed with a thump on the floor. To add the necessary insult to injury, a bookcase full of diaries and bound notes fell onto the table and buried Ponder in paper.
"That's it," Ridcully said. He pointed needlessly across the room at the giant stone portal that filled the far corner.
"Wow," said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, always one to capture the moment in poetry. 'Cool."
"Oook," said the Librarian.
The combined might of the three wizards was marshalled when they raised their staves at the stargate. Thaumalogical pressure built behind them.
*
The lone tomato was nearing the end of it's flight.