Odd One Out

by intrasonic

A story of someone's quest to NOT find herself. Sometimes, it's harder than it sounds. [On Hold]

3. Chapter 3

Valley of the Wind Productions presents...
Odd One Out
A Discworld fanfiction by Intrasonic

---

Chapter 3

---

"Come an' getcher cures!"
It was almost depressing.
"Great prices!
It was inconceivable, even.
"Whatever the problem, I've got yer cure!"
But the fact remained that Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler hadn't made a single sale all morning. Aside from the two people who approached for a sausage to use in a practical joke, that is. Despite that, the spirit of the enterprising, unsuccessful businessman burned relentlessly within him, and he continued to shout his spiel to the world at the corner of Treacle Mine Road.
"Bargain prices! Get 'em while they're here! Limited supply!"
It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Who wouldn't want to pay money for a cure they thought would actually work? Were people really that cynical?
Glancing a hundred yards away, Dibbler could see that his other idea didn't seem to be panning out either. It had sounded like a good idea to hire someone else to help out as well. And that Miss Tockley had seemed to like a godsend. Rather pretty, a good head on her shoulders, coupled with a fairly evident desire to do well at the job. Between the two of them, they could cover twice as much area. It didn't hurt that she had agreed to work for only a minimal commission.
Unfortunately, she didn't seem to be doing any better, he noted. He couldn't make out any details from his vantage point, but he reckoned that it was easy enough to guess. People would walk up to her, demonstrating the typical Ankh-Morporkian curiosity over anything new. But they would only talk for a brief moment, before leaving again.
Perhaps that Tockley girl, despite her enthusiasm, was simply too inexperienced as a businessperson. She hadn't even appeared to bother with the atlas he'd provided her. Concession-stand-fright, he imagined. Too overwhelmed by the whole experience, no doubt.
Oh well. It looked like he'd be back to selling sausages within a few days.

"And you've had this... case of 'freckles' for how many years?"
"Almost my entire life, missus."
Lucy pursed her lips thoughtfully, looking at the young man carefully, as though analysing each and every one of his freckles.
"You should have come sooner," she finally decided. "It's not easy to get rid of them after such a long time."
The man swallowed. "But I only heard about this place today, missus!"
"Then you should listen better," she retorted. "But you're in luck. I've got something that might be able to help you with your problem."
"Really?!?"
Reaching behind her concession stand, complete with the 'Kyures for EvryThing' sign painted above it, Lucy grabbed a peach and placed it front of the person.
He looked at it carefully. "That looks like a-"
"a Cornucopia Regalia Seed," Lucy interrupted firmly. "Grown only in the far reaches of the Djelibeybi lands."
Stare. "Really? All the way from... umm, there?"
"It wasn't easy," she agreed truthfully. She'd almost decided on a banana. "This is the unprepared form, so you'll have to take it home with you. When you get home, you need to scrape off the outer coating and burn it. As for the seed inside, smash it into little bits with a hammer, then eat them immediately afterwards."
He silently memorized the instructions. "And that'll cure my freckles?"
"It'll help," she agreed. It would help teach the idiot to stop trying to cure his freckles, that was for certain. "But that's what you get for leaving it for so long. And that's one dollar."
He nodded, giving her a one-dollar piece and taking his peach. "Thanks, missus! I'll use it right away!"
"Off you go," Lucy agreed, giving the man the universally practised 'Have a Nice Day (You Idiot)' smile.
It seemed pretty easy so far, she decided. It had been a little slow through Rush Hours this morning, but for the few people who had approached her, she had dredged through her knowledge of geography and foreign languages and sold a few cures for hangovers and an incontinent horse. But business had slowly but surely begun to pick since then. By this time, she could expect at least one customer every five minutes, and the pace seemed to steadily increasing. Obviously the word about this new business was finally getting around the area.
The trick, she was quickly learning, was to display complete and absolute confidence. It didn't matter what the confidence was in, because the customer couldn't tell. And Lucy presently had confidence in spades. And it wasn't in her 'cures', like the customers probably thought.
What she really had confidence in was the fact that she was going to have some serious reckoning to do in the afterlife for this business. She must have defrauded almost a hundred people by now, and it was barely lunchtime. Young, old, male, female, dirty, really dirty, working, unemployed... she would listen to their problems, take their money, give a few ridiculous lines involving funny words and far-away places, then give them some week-old produce. And they'd never suspect a thing.
Throughout it all, she was almost certain she could feel the dying screams of that little part of her that was trying to be a witch. She was doing a horrible thing, it vehemently insisted, and she was doing it repeatedly. She was supposed to be a real witch, who actually sold real cures and didn't toy with people's desperate hopes and con them out of their hard-earned money. By this time, displaying her karma level would probably need a minus sign in front of it.
Fortunately, at this point, she didn't care anymore. For the last year, she'd tried every other approach to avoid being a witch, and they hadn't worked. If not being witch required her to be a sadistic con-artist...
Lucy smiled, and waited for the next vict-er, customer.

---

"Heeelp!"
"Stay back or she gets it!"
Vimes arrived at the scene at a full dash. "Report!"
He ducked behind a barrel as a crossbow bolt didn't skewer him.
"*ahem*," he spat, carefully getting to his feet in a manner that didn't make him a good target. "What's to report, Reg?"
Reg Shoe was a watchman who had the distinction of being the Watch's first zombie, since the goodness of Carrot's heart had been faster than the meanness of Vimes' own heart. Surprisingly enough, Vimes had gradually learned, he was also one of the most level-headed and patient individuals he'd ever met, mortal or not. Probably on account of not having to worry about dying. To be sure, Reg would occasionally go to pieces in a more literal sense in a crisis, but at least he could be stitched together again afterwards. "He's taken a hostage, Mister Vimes. And he's got another loaded crossbow."
"I see," Vimes agreed. "Any other officers nearby?"
"Detritus is in position for a sniping shot, and Angua's ready to make the rush afterwards."
"Good. How is the hostage?"
"Seems okay, sir. Hi-I mean, her voice sounds like it's getting a little sore from screaming out in distress, but that's it."
"No worries, then. How is Carrot?"
Reg cautiously peered around the corner of his own barrel. Zombies couldn't technically be killed by a crossbow shot, unless the arrow head was on fire, but armour repairs costed just as much. Twenty-five yards away, behind the cover of a loam wall, he could see the captain holding up one finger. "One more minute, he says."
"Good enough. We'll wait."

---

"...and my back's been aching something dreadful I tell you..."
Lucy nodded patiently.
"...and I don't hear so good out of my left ear..."
Yes, she could almost see the barbeques now, she mused inwardly. When faced with an elderly old man with more bodily complications than a Twister convention, the normal response was a sympathetic nod and murmer, followed by a (possibly polite) departure.
"Well, I imagine that I can do something for you," she agreed, the smile never leaving her face. She was going to take this frail, helpless, old man to the cleaners!
"What's that?" he inquired.
"I'VE GOT SOMETHING FOR THAT," she repeated, aiming at his right ear.
"You do?" he inquired, his face lighting up in an expression of blessed innocence.
A cluster of grapes found their way to the counter. "There are Angel's Teardrops, from the En al Sams la Laisa region. Take one per day..."

---

Vimes gave one last look at his officers on the scene, then briefly glanced over at the hostage and the hostage-taker. It was now or never...
"Go."
The ensuing events happened quickly. Much quicker than you're reading them right now.
A heavy *thunk* was heard as Detritus' crossbow accelerated a six-foot bolt to gate-crushing speeds in a blink of an eye.
The hostage-taker's still-loaded (and much smaller) crossbow was torn out of his hands by the blunt-ended bolt(1), and carried into the store behind him.
The hostage, suddenly displaying surprising agility for a Damsel-in-Distress, squirmed out of the man's grip, and scampered away like a mouse who's seen the maid walk into the room with a cricket mallet.
The windows in the store behind the man, plus their frames, were violently blown outwards in a spray of waxed paper and wood, almost as though the crossbow bolt had hit something that you wouldn't normally expect at 'Stone's Spices and Herbs'.
A large blur of ash-grey fur on four legs darted into the aftermath of the explosion, too fast to be seen unless you were looking for it.
The hostage-taker, undoubtedly deciding that his desperate last stand had failed miserably, tried to scramble to his feet to initiate an escape. Whereupon a fist the size of his head grabbed his shirt and lifted him off the ground and held him too far away to bring his feet into use.
"Ah, Mr. Finly, isn't it?" Carrot greeted cheerfully, his free hand holding up a small book.
"*Urk*"
"Charge him, Carrot," Vimes ordered, giving a brief glance to the already convening spectators. "And read him his rights in a loud, clear voice. All of them."
"Yes sir," the captain agreed. "I looked up as many charges as possible, just like you ordered."
"Good."
"Now, Mr. Finly, you stand charged with unlicensed theft, unlicensed pilferage, fleeing the scene of the crime, fleeing the scene of the crime after being asked not to, fleeing the scene of the crime after being ordered not to, assault, attempted assault, almost-successful assault, carrying a loaded weapon, carrying more than one loaded weapon, carrying two loaded weapons, firing a loaded weapon in a public area, discharging a weapon with intent to cause harm..." (2)
Reg Shoe was already dealing with the owner of the shop. Namely, he was leading the coughing man out of the building. "Right this way, don't worry, you'll be okay. Just a nasty little accident, it seems - nobodyelseinsidecommander - just take a minute to get your bearings..."
Vimes nodded approvingly, heading into the building at a brisk pace. As expected, it was a veritable disaster area, not unlike Nobby's room. Shattered furniture, broken lamps, scattered papers... almost as though Detritus' shot had managed to hit something very explosive. The smell of burning chemicals was also quite prominent.
"Interesting," he muttered under his breath.
Further on back, there was a large array of shattered glasswork, the larger pieces bearing resemblance to the type of equipment normally used by alchemists, as opposed to the simpler, cast iron or clay vessels that a herbalist would normally use.
"How dare you just waltz into my property like this!"
Vimes briefly made a face, but erased it as he turned to face the owner of the property. Apparently the owner of the shop had recovered enough to shrug off Reg's talking and rush back into the building.
"Mr. Stone, isn't it?" Vimes inquired politely.
"I demand you leave my property this instant!" the man bellowed.
"There has been a disturbance in the peace, and I'm just making sure the pieces aren't disturbed. And we saw some Watch property go in here. I don't suppose you've seen a six-foot, 300 pound arrow, by any chance?"
"You caused that explosion!"
Vimes put on an apologetic expression. "It was just a normal siege arrow, you know. We just happened to have a hostage situation here, we're very sorry that your shop happened to get in the way."
Apparently his act needed some serious work, because Mr. Stone didn't seem to buy it for a minute. "Why you... this is private property!!!"
Vimes slowly exhaled, casually continuing to inspect the scene in the process. "I don't know... it doesn't seem very private to me, what with this giant hole in the wall and all..."
"I demand compensation!"
Vimes abruptly brightened in a fashion that indicated that Mr. Stone had just said the Wrong Thing. "But of course! The Watch will reimburse you for everything you've lost here. We have the highest regard for the hard-working businessman, and we'll do everything to make sure we're still on good terms after this... unfortunate accident."
Mr. Stone nodded stiffly. "I'll send you the bill, you can be certain. Now why don't you all-"
Vimes cut him off, still radiating cheerfulness. "There's a law about this kind of accidental damage, you know. Both parties must examine the surroundings to assess the damage. So why don't you and I just go back and take a look together?"
It was amazing how fast the storekeeper moved to block Vimes' path. "N-now look here! You can't just go waltzing on my property like this!"
Vimes' facial expression was too innocent that be innocent. "But Mr. Stone, we can't send you any compensation until we've surveyed the damage. And according to our captain Carrot, there's a law dating back to 1467 which states that representatives from both parties must survey the damage. Funny little law, but there you have it. So if you're not going to let me go look everything over with you..."
Several other watchman were approaching now, to say nothing of the slowly encroaching passer-byers, a fact which Mr. Stone registered with no small amount of dismay. "Um... we'll just call it an accident. No hard feelings, no need for you to stick around. In fact, I insist that you leave right now, because I don't want you to work too hard..."
"Oh, it's no trouble," Vimes assured him, making a motion to walk around the man.
Which was also blocked. "Out!"
Behind Mr. Stone, a four-footed blur rushed out of the back of the store, now appearing to be carrying something in its mouth...
"Well, if you insist," Vimes agreed, reluctantly heading out the now-larger doorway. "But I don't want it said that I have no respect for the hard-working businessman in our lovely city... Are you sure that-"
"OUT!!!"

*****
(1) While it's true that siege weapons are inaccurate, that's because they're normally fired at objects over a mile away. Over shorter distances, they don't usually have time to become inaccurate.
(2) The Ankh-Morpork legal system, on account of 99% of the population barely giving a damn about it, tended to have a lot of redundant laws.

---

Lunchtime was a godsend.
It wasn't that Lucy had difficulty standing in one place all morning, because this wasn't the first job she'd worked with that sort of description.
The customer service wasn't an issue either, because the politeness factor of the customers seemed to have been rising all morning. Apparently cures (or at least, what people thought were cures) were in high demand in Ankh-Morpork. And as Mr. Dibbler had said, no one else had seriously tried to provide it yet.
It mainly the air. It had a hint of corrosiveness normally associated with battery acid and a penetrative stench normally found in a fertilizer factory(1). It treated air fresheners like hors d'oeuvres, and given a few hours, could probably neutralize bleach.
Lucy strongly suspected it was already doing neutralizing something in her sinuses, because she had found herself unable to smell the rotten cucumber she'd given someone as a cure for their rheumatism. She could still smell the oranges and lemons, but there now seemed to be a range of scents that simply failed to register to her sense of smell.
All in all, it was a fairly rough way to not be a witch. But she was certain it was working - after all, the only way she could possibly be any worse would be to become a mass murderer on the side. She'd hold off on that option for the time being.

"Alright, you can break for lunch, Miss Tockley," Dibbler informed her as he approached her stand. He looked a little weary himself. "Business is somethin' nasty today, I say."
"You mean, this was a quiet day?"
"With these kind of sales? Worst I've ever had in some time, let me tell you."
Lucy glanced down at her supply of produce. "You'd better find some more fruits and vegetables, then. Because I don't think I can make it through the afternoon."
That got a strange look from Dibbler, but the evidence was undeniable. Lucy's supply of produce was almost completely gone. "You been eatin' them?"
She turned slightly green. "Ah, no. You'd have to pay me before I would, actually."
"Then... you've been giving them away for free?"
"No, I sold them, just like you told me to."
Dibbler mulled over the statement for a minute. He'd seen a lot of people coming over to her stall, then walking away shortly afterwards, but even still... "You mean, they gave you money for the stuff?"
Lucy grabbed the money-bin and handed it over to him. After a moment's effort, she was forced to use her other hands to keep from dropping it. "You didn't say how much to charge for the fruit, but this what I managed to bring in..."
Dibbler opened the top of the bin and promptly choked. The bin had originally been designed to hold two gallons of whitewash. It was presently holding almost two gallons of coinage. And there were a disturbing number of one and two-dollar coins mixed throughout...
By dint of considerable effort, he pried his eyes off the wealth to look at Lucy. "They... gave you all this money?"
She shrugged. "Well, some of the things they wanted cured sounded quite serious. I should think a cure for a broken arm was worth at least three dollars. And it was a good apple."
There were few moments of intense silence as Dibbler's eyes darted between the pail of money and Lucy, apparently scavenging the depths of the universe for some conceivable connection.
A few more moments passed in the same manner.
"Would you mind if I went and got something to eat?" Lucy finally inquired.
No reply.
"Mr. Dibbler?"
He finally waved at her in an offhand manner that didn't require him to stop looking at the container of money. "Oh, yeah. You can help yourself to some of my sausages onna bun."
Dibbler had brought a tray over with him, with a small pile of sausage-like objects inside bun-like objects, alongside small containers filled with liquids that looked vaguely ketchup-like and mustard-like. "Ah... thanks."
She hesitantly reached down, and was surprised to find Dibbler's reedy fingers suddenly clamped around her wrist, preventing it from getting any closer to the 'food'.
"On second though," he informed her, "you're not allowed to have those. Not that there's anything wrong with them, o' course. One hundred percent pig products in 'em, y'know. Here's two dollars, go buy yourself somethin' to eat. And stay away from Jim's Café, you wouldn't believe the food that crook tries to sell people. I won't have any employees of mine getting poisoned."
"Ooookay." Lucy edged away from her boss, who was actually beginning to drool as he continued to stare at the pot of money. Everyone knew that Ankh-Morporkians worshipped the almighty dollar(2), but she'd always put that down as a figure of speech.
Dibbler wasn't entirely aware of her departure, but his mind was a moderately keen instrument where the topic on money was concerned. And right now, a small corner of it had managed to make the connection between Lucy and the pail of money in front of him. More importantly, it had managed to make that connection before she had eaten one of his famous/notorious sausages inna bun. He didn't pretend to understand how she had just fleeced people out of so much money, but only an idiot would poison a goose that laid golden eggs(3).
A commotion from the other side of the stand managed to get his attention. There was now an 'Owt 2 luNch' sign hung across Lucy's stand, but it didn't seem to be working.
People were lining up.

*****
(1) A/N: If you haven't been in one, mere words can't begin to describe it.
(2) Although they would also worship the moderately-mighty squid, rhinu, and occasionally, the rather wimpy half-dong.
(3) And a really smart person begins to wonder about the prospects of starting a breeding program. But in this case, we won't carry the analogy too far.

---

"Look, I shouldn't have to give you a reason."
"That's speciesism, that is!"
Sergeant Colon sighed. There were occasionally times when he yearned for the simpler days of the Watch, even if it would mean a pay cut. "Look, constable, I'm as reasonable as the next bloke around here. But we don't allow those kind of books around here. Besides, you're under-age to be having it."
Constable Axegrinder, your through-and-through Dwarf, made an even more disgruntled face. "But I'm seventy years old!"
"Right. And you Dwarves aren't supposed to have that stuff 'til you're at least one hundred. So quit whining and take your punishment like a Dwarf."
Commander Vimes entered the front room of the Watch at a brisk pace, several other watchmen trailing behind him at a similar speed. "What's going on?"
Colon held out a magazine to the commander. "Found this in the constable's locker during inspections this morning, Mister Vimes. A copy of one of them wossnames, e-rot-tick mag'zines."
"An art book," the constable protested.
Vimes took the publication and glanced it over. True enough, it was a copy of Playdwarf, a new publication that had taken to appearing on the top shelves of grocery stores everywhere. He gave the front cover a look and glared at the constable. "I don't think I have to remind you what the Watch's policy is on this kind of stuff, Axegrinder."
Excuses had a funny habit of evaporating in the face of the Commander's stare. The constable looked away and muttered something.
"I didn't quite hear you."
"...don't get caught."
Vimes nodded curtly. "Exactly. This morning's inspection was posted three days in advance. That's plenty of time for anyone. Even Detritus can hide his hammer in that length of time. So why, constable, is there is a magazine - with many pictures of shaven and topless dwarves in it - in your locker?"
"...forgot."
"Well, maybe being docked today's pay will help you remember not to forget next time. And if you're really smart, you'll keep this sort of trash at home, and make sure any 'artwork' you keep around here features only dwarves with their helmets and beards on."
"Yessir."
That business concluded, Vimes returned his attention to more important matters. "Alright, our little mission was successful, now we've got to take advantage of it. Carrot, finish up with reading Mr. Finly his rights, then get out on patrol. Cheery, take that package that Angua didn't recover from Mr. Stone, especially not while Reg and I were distracting him, I want to know
what it is. Nobby, get back on traffic duty until supper hour, and take that stupid Damsel in Distress costume off. For anybody I didn't mention, business as usual. Keep your eyes and ears open regarding this Slab business. That's all, look busy."
"And what will you be doing, sir?" Carrot inquired. It would have been a rather snide remark by anyone else, but Carrot was Carrot was another matter entirely.
Vimes scowled. "The same thing I always do after these kind of operations."
"Er... paperwork?" Carrot hazarded, the slightest hint of disbelief in his voice.
"Commander Vimes?"
Both watchmen promptly turned to face the individual who had quietly entered the Watch house without knocking.
"Ah, Drumknott," Vimes greeted, an expression of false cheerfulness written across his face. "I was expecting you five minutes ago."
The facial expression on the Patrician's clerk didn't change. "Incidently, his Lordship wishes me to inform you that you are five minutes late for your meeting with him."
"Imagine that. Decided to have a meeting with me four minutes ago, did he?"
"As you say."

---

Half an hour later, Lucy returned from a relatively tolerable lunch consisting of a fish sandwich(1) and some tea with herbs in it. It had been a little pricy, but that seemed to be the price you paid for edibility in this city. There had been a mugging across the street from where she had sat, but no one else seemed to think much of it, so she did her best to ignore it too. She
certainly didn't want to stand out in this city or anything.
She would have enjoyed the break more, were it not for the annoying little voice in the back of her head that had been nagging at her the entire time. It kept insisting that she pay attention to various things, such as Dibbler's stupefied expression, coupled with the influx of people coming to buy 'cures', coupled with their almost ridiculous willingness to believe whatever she told them, coupled with the slowly increasing traffic...
...Lucy vehemently ignored it all. It was witches who noticed things and understood how they all related to each other, she knew. Thus, she didn't want to notice them, and certainly didn't want to understand them. Maybe spending the afternoon hawking snake oil to suckers would teach the voice to shut up. If not, there was always tomorrow...

There was a large crowd occupying the street up ahead, she noted. It hadn't taken long for her to realize that most Ankh-Morporkian's possessed an innate ability to converge upon the scene of anything especially unusual or strange. Apparently something fitting that description was up ahead...
...wait a minute.
Once again, the annoying little voice in the back of her head spoke up, telling her to observe the location of the crowd, coupled with the fact that they were in some semblance of a line, coupled with the fact that Dibbler was rushing towards her right now...
"Miss Tockley!" he was yelling. Merchants usually didn't make very good sprinters, but he was making a commendable effort at the moment.
Lucy couldn't help it. Her jaw dropped. And it wasn't due to the sight of Dibbler sprinting.
"You've got to get back to work!" he insisted. "They're all wanting to buy stuff from you!"
She continued to stare at the crowd.
"They won't listen to me! So I told 'em you were gonna be back soon..."
This was impossible.
A note of fear had crept into Dibbler's voice. A fairly experienced judge where crowds were concerned, he could see that this bunch was the type that was prone to lynching anyone who failed to deliver on what they'd said. "Miss Tockley? I know it's a big crowd..."
This many people were coming to buy the false cures?
"Look, if it's about the commission, we can nego-shi-ate a little..."
Once again, the stupid voice was speaking up, repeating its earlier demands. The explanation for this madness was obvious, it insisted.
"Tell you what, I'll bump your commission to twenty percent!"
Just take a metaphorical step back, the voice suggested seductively, and look at all the facts that the rest of the idiots here are ignoring. Then put them all together to get the answer. That's what a witch did, and she was a witch, so that's what she was supposed to do.
"Miss Tockley? How 'bout thirty percent? That's awful good, y'know..."
Like hell she would. Even as her fists clenched outwardly, she inwardly made an obscene gesture towards the voice.
Dibbler mistook the outward body language. "Look, forty percent commission! And that's cuttin' me own throat!"
Lucy's eyes snapped open. She'd defraud every person in this entire city before she'd become a witch! "Mr. Dibbler?"
He swallowed, liking the look on her face even less than the one she'd given him earlier on this morning. The earlier one had been suggestive of strength and a spirit of determination and such. This was the kind of expression possessed by a person who ended a hostage situation by deliberately shooting the hostages. "Y-yes?"
"Get the medicine."

*****
(1) Fish was generally one of the safer meats in Ankh-Morpork, because after a certain number of years, all the fish capable of surviving in the river were thoroughly inedible. So any eating fish had arrive from well outside the city.

---

"Ah, Drumknott, Vimes," Vetinari greeted, upon hearing the door to his office open.

It wasn't that the Patrician scared him, Vimes would have insisted. At least, not in the same way that a rabid, charging tiger did. It was more akin to the nervousness that a ninth-grade, prepubescent boy feels when the gym teacher is looking for a volunteer to demonstrate wrestling techniques(1). Except that with Vetinari, the man controlled your fate, but rather then holding it in the palm of his hands, he just set it to the side and ignored it, until he had some use for it.

Vimes, much preferring to have his fate ignored, straightened to attention. "You wanted to see me, sir?"

But deep down, when one's train of thought had nothing better to do, it was hard not to honestly wonder how the hell someone like Havelock Vetinari came into existence. Vetinari Senior hadn't been particularly renowned in any respect while he was alive, aside from the typical noble attributes of having lots of money and no regard for poor people.

"Indeed. Incidentally, what is the word on the vicious barbarian invaders who attacked our city yesterday?"

Vimes, particularly since the changing fortunes of the Watch, had been in contact with the Patrician more than most people, and he still wondered what had made the Patrician the way he was. He'd talked with Lady Margolotta, a noblewoman in Uberwald who was rich(2), powerful, and centuries old. She was also a vampire, which meant that it was genetically ingrained within her to trust only herself, look down on most people, and manouevre into a position to look down on everyone else in due time(3). And she'd actually sounded somewhat deferential in regards to the man. That was, in Vimes' book, more than a little disturbing.

"They were seen on Fifth Street this morning, sir, selling their weapons for food. Someone nicked all of theirs last night, apparently.(4)"

Vimes had heard stories of people who were tortured for years on end, forced to survive in conditions that Ankh-Morpork restaurant inspectors would cringe at, and eventually turned into human-looking animals who stopped operating on reason and started working on raw instinct.
And it seemed to him that, if such a process could be applied in the exact opposite direction, the end result would be a person who might conceivably last a few rounds against the Patrician. Maybe.

"Excellent," Vetinari approved. "We can always use a few more good, honest, hardworking citizens in our fair city."
Okay, so the Patrician scared him, Vimes silently admitted. "Yes sir."
"Now, what was it I wished to talk to you about...? Ah yes, the matter of the hostage situation earlier today."
"About thirty minutes ago, sir."
"And as I understand it, there was a hostage situation, followed by an unfortunate mishap at a small herb and spice shop?"
"Yes sir."
"I understand that the hostage-taker was apprehended? Is the hostage is safe?"
"Yes sir."
"Did you happen to get her name?"
Vimes' decided not to try play silly buggers on that particular point. "It was our Corporal Nobbs in disguise."
"Ah, of course. Halting the pursuit by giving the criminal someone to take hostage. You are a resourceful individual at times, Commander." Vetinari steepled his hands together, as though formulating his next sentence. "So I am given to understand that... this criminal threatened the hostage in front of the herb and spice shop?"
"Yes sir."
"And a stray shot from your sergeant Detritus struck the shop with rather destructive results?"
"He was disarming the criminal, sir. Not literally, this time, of course. And it was just a normal bolt. Nothing explosive about it at all, sir."
"Indeed. You could hardly have been expected to know that there were explosive spices inside the shop, could you?"
"No sir."
"Indeed. So you and the rest of your officers inspected the premises afterwards?"
He knows, Vimes realized. Only thirty minutes ago, and the man bloody knows what I was doing. "Only briefly, sir. Mr. Stone insisted that it was private property and that he didn't want our help in cleaning up. He even agreed to waive the damage expenses. There was a large crowd of bystanders who can vouch for all that, sir."
"Is that so? Quite a generous man, it seems. But I expect that your officers showed the foresight to take some... debris... from the scene? Purely to ensure that they pose no long-term harm to Mr. Stone, of course?"
Dammit. "Possibly sir."
"Quite so. A commendable show of initiative, Commander. But to be quite blunt, in the future you will make an effort to avoid such destructive hostage situations."
Translation: Cute trick, but it's the River for you if you try it again. "Yes sir."
"Excellent. Now, don't let me keep you from your duties. Oh, and a happy anniversary to you and the Duchess."
Vimes twitched. "Thank-you, sir."
It was only after Vimes had left the room that the Patrician permitted himself a small smile. "Dear me. I imagine that the man forgot about it. Although it would hardly surprise me if some of his officers thought to remind him this year. He has been a little absent-minded as of late."
"As you say, sir," Drumknott agreed.
"But I have the utmost confidence that the problem will soon be remedied."
"Sir?"
Were it possible to look both innocent and evil at the same time, the Patrician would have been managing it. "Oh, the poor man lost his organizer imp back during that inconvenient business with Klatch, so I took the liberty of informing his wife about it. And I hear the newer models are more capable then ever."
Drumknott looked impassively at his pad of paper. "I'm sure he will appreciate it, sir."
"Indeed. Now, I imagine that there is some other news you wished to bring to my attention?"
After the terribly inconvenient business with the old secretary, Vetinari had been quick to locate a new person for the job. Drumknott possessed all the necessary qualities in spades, and came with an extra bonus - a complete and utter lack of political ambition(5). He simply arranged for all the information to be presented before the Patrician, who then did the considerably harder work of actually understanding it all. "Yes sir. There is a disturbance at the corner of Treacle Mine Road."
"I see. That would be where our city's unofficial mascot resides? I believe that it's been several weeks since he's tried to sell something besides his sausages."
"He has taken to selling fake medicines to the passer-byers."
Vetinari looked briefly thoughtful before replying. "Excellent. I wish the man well at his new endeavour, however long it happens to last."
Drumknott produced a piece of paper and gave it to the Patrician. "It is a little different this time, sir."
There was a moment of silence. Then, "I see."

*****
(1) And the gym teacher thinks that Olympic wrestling is for wimps, and that professional wrestling is real.
(2) It takes the Undead to really appreciate the wonders of compound interest.
(3) Completely unlike Humans, of course.
(4) The fact that Ankh-Morpork didn't possess an army was entirely a matter of perspective.
(5) Similar to a sports fan who is given front-row seat to all the games, but is smart enough to not try and join the team.

---

"This should take care of your toothache."
"Really? What is it?"
Lucy gave a scowl that indicated that her imagination for names was beginning to tire slightly. "It's excremento del pollo(1) extract," she informed him. "From Su Asno. Wash it down with a few glasses of water. One dollar."
"Wow! Thanks a lot!" Forking his money over, the customer left with a small bag of salt.

Several paces back, Dibbler was watching her the way he would have watched a someone repeatedly prod a bear in its unmentionables during mating season. That is, he had a feeling that something very bad was about to happen, but the sight was so unbelievable that it couldn't actually be real.
You were supposed to sell things to people. You were supposed to talk past their skepticism, convince them of your sincerity, and leave them briefly thinking that they'd gotten a good deal. After which point, the 'no refunds or exchanges' clause came into effect. The bottom line was, it was supposed to actually take some effort on the seller's part.
To be fair, Miss Tockley was displaying an impressive talent for thinking up foreign names, because he was pretty sure that some of those places weren't in any atlas. And she had the whole 'confidence' thing down to a T. But he was beginning to suspect that it didn't even matter. The people simply lined up, told her about their problem, took their produce, and left their money behind. It was almost as bad as that "Moving Pictures" business, which Dibbler was really trying to forget about. It boded poorly, he was certain. Or in this particular case, it boded richly, but deadly.
The sound of the next customer's voice was enough to trigger some recognition.

The next request was enough to make Lucy pause. "...you're looking for a what?"
The man - at least, she was pretty sure it was a man - looked a little sheepish. "A sex'al magnet, miss. You know, the kind of thing that makes ladies... you know."
Oh gods. Lucy wasn't sure if she was that good of a liar. What this individual needed, she was certain, was radical invasive surgery. "I see. That sort of thing is dangerous, you know."
"I'm desperate, miss."
Lucy reached down for a grapefruit, and came up empty. Glancing downwards, she made a face. She'd actually run out of produce, even after Dibbler had given her all the supplies from his own stand, to say nothing of raiding several nearby fruit sellers. How many 'cures' had she given out, anyway?
Giving the man a small smile, "Wait here a minute. I need to go prepare it."

Dibbler met her halfway. "What's wrong?"
"I'm out of cures!" she hissed.
"Well, I can't get any more around here! Besides, that's Corporal Nobbs of The Watch you're serving. We don't want to do anything too crooked, if you catch my drift..."
"Just give me something! Anything!"
"Look, all I've got left are the sausages-OhnoMiss Tockley, I really don't think-"

*****
(1) A/N: One word - Babelfish.

---

Vimes stared at the object in front of him, as though willing it to disappear. It didn't, but not from lack of effort on Vimes' part.
Carrot was in the office as well, looking rather impressed. "Incredible, sir. That's the Centennial Edition - the best model available. Did your wife get it for your anniversary?"
"Yes." Vimes look down at the small box-like object, engraved with 'Imp Organizer CE'.
"Aren't you going to try it out, sir? I'm sure The Paperwork can wait."
"I guess I can't put it off forever."
"Not for lack of trying, sir."
"I was referring to this organizer imp, Carrot."
"Oh. Sorry sir."
Vimes opened the box.
"Bingely bing-urk!"
Vimes was smiling nastily, his sword having magically appeared at the imp's neck. One trip through organizational hell had been enough for him. This time was going to be different, if he had anything to say about it. "Your first instruction is to stop making that stupid sound whenever you're opened."
Even creatures as unimaginative as imps have a sense of self-preservation. "Not a problem, insert name here> here. My audio responses are fully programmable."
Vimes blinked in surprise. "You mean, I can actually say 'don't say bingely-bingely-beep', and you'll listen to me?"
"Of course, insert name here>. I am the latest and most powerful model, designed for the ultimate in user convenience."
Vimes put his sword away. "Well, that's an improvement. What can you do?"
"I come with a full range of programs to assist you in organizing your daily tasks."
"What kind of programs?"
"Well, I can tell you the time, I can tell you the date, and I can keep track of your appointments."
"But my old one could do all that stuff too!"
"But I do it in a much more sophisticated manner, insert name here>."
Vimes exhaled slowly. "Can you do paperwork?"
"I am programmed to recognize all forms of handwriting and read it out loud."
"Really?" Vimes grabbed a piece of paper off the mountain and held it in front of the imp. "Read this to me."
"Certainly, insert name here>." The imp abruptly gave a groan, and hiccuped, then didn't do anything else.
"What's wrong?" Vimes asked after a moment.
"I've performed an illegal operation."
"Really? Then it's good thing you're at The Watch," Carrot noted helpfully.
Vimes could feel a headache coming on. He gave the Imp a look that any sentient being would have recognized as Unsafe To Be Around. "So what?"
"So you have to close the lid, then open it again."
"Why?"
"Because that will let me start over and try reading it again."
"Why not just try reading it now?"
"Because I've performed an illegal operat-" *click*
After a moment, Carrot spoke up. "You're supposed to open it up again, sir."
Vimes gave him a Look, tossing the piece of paper back onto The Paperwork, which promptly re-absorbed it. "I'll worry about it another time. I'm going to go see if Cheery's found anything yet."

---

Lucy arrived home in a manner that suggested there were invisible slabs of iron tied around her feet. Had someone told her that, she probably would have wholehearted believed them. Saying that she was tired was like saying that Ankh-Morpork was a large town. She felt like a 40 gallon barrel of water after 80 gallons of water had been poured from it.
She would have considered the entire day to be a dream, but the large sack of money over her shoulder proved otherwise. Not only had she sold all the produce Mr. Dibbler had gathered, but he had actually bought the entire stocks of the nearby vendors as well. And then she had sold his entire stock of sausages. Then she had sold all the buns. She had started selling the condiments, but by this time, Dibbler had begun begging her to go home for the rest of the day, saying that he'd tell the crowd to come around the next day. And he'd go find some more supplies.
The man had looked rather spooked, truth be told. As a matter of fact, she suspected that Mr. Dibbler might have accidentally given her more than her forty percent commission, but the man was already looking like the slightest nudge would put him clear over the edge. So she had taken her share and headed back towards Sunny Meadow Avenue.
She had stopped briefly at a small furniture shop on the way back, looking for a second bed. Despite the fact that she was clearly carrying a big bag full of clicking metal objects (i.e. money), and could possibly even buy the entire shop, the shopkeeper had instantly recognized her as 'Miss Tockley', and gave her the bed of her choice for half the asking price. And he was going to deliver it to where she lived for free. It was the least he could do, he had insisted. His son had earlier received a cure for his chronic near-sightedness.
Lucy vaguely remembered selling a few prunes for two dollars to someone who had demonstrated trouble even reading the sign over her stand. The annoying little voice in her head had tried telling her to pay attention to something, but it had sounded even tireder than she was. Definitely proof that her approach was working, she had decided. She might as well keep up the effort and take advantage of this stupid man who wanted to sell her a bed for half-price.

Regardless, Lucy was now at home. Or perhaps more accurately, at hut. It still smelled as foul as ever, she was certain, but standing all day in the main streets of Ankh-Morpork had burned out most of her sense of bad smells.
The bag of money was presently threatening to collapse the table, and her own weight was threatening to collapse the chair she was sitting in. Incidentally, neither was in remotely good shape, and it would probably be a good idea to invest in some structurally-sound furniture in the near-future. Using ill-gotten gain for personal benefit sounded fairly un-witchy, she was sure.
Another skeletal chair was presently serving as a clothing hanger, Lucy dully noted. More specifically, it was supporting a few articles of her own clothing. A pair of her nylons that had run, coupled with her night gown that sported a rip in a strategically embarrassing location. She had set them out as a reminder to find some replacements as soon as some money became available. But strangely enough...
A close inspection of the night gown indicated a complete lack of any ripping. A closer inspection indicated the same thing. An extremely close inspection revealed some microscopic stitching where the rip had been. Hardly daring to speculate, Lucy gave the nylons a similar inspection. And against all worldly logic and common sense, came up with similar results. Truth be told, the rips were completely invisible unless you were actually looking for them, and knew where they had been beforehand.
Clearly someone with too much time on their hands had seen to both articles of clothing. The fact that Irie had been the only other person in the house was the source of a considerable amount of surprise. Apparently the obsessive little man-hater was possessed of some genuine talent...

---

"Sorry, sir. I'm still waiting for the tests to finish."
"No problem. Carry on, Corporal."
That said, Vimes took his leave of Cheery's laboratory. Only once he was well past the 'Thanke ye lucky stars ye are note smoking' sign did he produce a cigar and light up. Certain lessons were learned before the first time, because the first time was generally the last time as well. Fire and Cheery's laboratory fell into that broad category by a considerable margin. As far as Vimes was concerned, his wife's swamp dragon pens were dangerous enough.
There seemed to be a discussion at the front desk. And it was loud enough to reach all the way up to the laboratory. Considering the time of day, Vimes was surprised to hear the racket. Usually all the criminals took a break for supper around now. Mind, earlier today he had assigned Sergeant Colon the task of pre-screening some job applicants...
A groaning figure rushed past him.
"Nobby?"
"'sir."
"What's wrong with you? You're groaning like you just ate one of Dibbler's sausages inna bun."
"No, definitely not a sausage inna bun," Nobby gasped, clearly undergoing some discomfort in the gastronomical regions. "It was... porco comprimido, she said."
There were some things that Vimes long ago decided that he was better off not knowing. This was probably one of them. "Well, it's your supper break you're using up."
"Yessir..." Nobby disappeared around the corner, clearly en route to the privy at top speed.
Vimes conveniently pushed any speculation out of his mind and continued to the front desk and whatever ruckus it presented stages. It wasn't uncommon to get some unusual applicants for the Watch at times...

At the front desk, Sergeant Colon was presently attempting to screen an applicant. And so far, it wasn't going well. "Look, miss, I wasn't saying that-"
"I'm sure you'd like me to believe that, wouldn't you!?!"
"Miss..." Colon glanced downwards at the application, least a mispronounced name be added to the long list of faults being attributed to him at the moment. "Miss Irie, look-"
"Why don't you just admit it, you self-serving, egotistical man!!! You feel belittled and inferior in the presence of someone with talent, and you're desperately trying to compensate for your own shortcomings!!!"
The sergeant boggled in disbelief. "I... am?"
Irie glared dangerously at him, or at least tried very hard to. The final result was somewhere between a stare and a scowl. "You just finished telling me that a job in the Watch wasn't a good place for a seamstress! It's obvious what you're thinking!!!"
Colon swallowed, trying very hard to keep his mind on the task of interviewing this applicant. It wasn't as though he'd never had to deal with problem applicants before, because you got all kinds wanting to join the Watch. And he had techniques for handling all sorts of developments.
Unfortunately, he was having difficulty getting past the pair of *ahem* developments that this applicant possessed. The fact that they were quite properly and decently concealed beneath her clothing held about as much water as insisting that an elephant covered by a large table cloth can be ignored. That is, throughout her devout and passionate spiel, complete with theatrics, the clothing was striving to indicate that certain regions were obeying gravity in a largely basketball-like fashion. The speech wasn't helping matters either.
A distraction, Colon quickly decided. He grabbed a pen and began writing things down on the application form. Anything at all.
"...and I'm an extremely talented seamstress, I'll have you know!!!"
Oh gods. She was trying to stare him down, which was failing miserably. But it involved leaning forwards, which wasn't. "I'm... sure you are, miss," he agreed in complete honesty, frantically scratching down a grocery list.(1)
"My father taught me everything I know-"
*SNAP*
Colon hastily rummaged around for another pen, least his brain start hemorrhaging. "I... family business, was it?" he managed to gasp.
"...and I've been learning since I was only three years old!!!" she continued relentlessly.
*THUNK*
From the doorway, Vimes sighed, noting that it was going to be a few minutes before Sergeant Colon returned to the real world. "Is there a problem here?" he inquired, slowly entering the room.
She spun to face him. "Who are you?"
One outlet of Vimes' ingrained cynicism towards the world was his belief that on the whole, the world wasn't a very original or dramatic place. So when someone claiming to be a seamstress showed up to join the Watch...
"I'm Commander Vimes," he informed her. "Incidentally, I run this Watch. And you are?"
To her credit, unlike many other people who had faced down Vimes' glare, she didn't flinch. "Irie von Celeste."
"Oh really? That sounds Uberwaldian. And your parents?"
"Maria von Celeste and Igor." While said in an entirely un-noble manner, her tone of voice still indicated that neither individual was anyone she was the least bit ashamed of.
There was no helping it. Vimes twitched. "Igor?"
She frowned. "Not Igor, Igor."
It wasn't just crimes that started making sense with a few crucial bits of information, Vimes reflected briefly. "Of course. He taught you everything, did he?"
Irie actually looked a little embarrassed for a moment. "Ah... well, I haven't got as far as brains yet..."
Vimes nodded slowly. "Igor?"
"Yes sir?" Igor replied, suddenly present in the room. While Vimes had steadfastly refused to be a 'Master', on account of already having too many titles for his liking, the business of always appearing when called was something that Igor hadn't wanted to give up. Just because you were a modern Igor didn't mean that some of the old ways didn't have their merit.
"This young woman's name is Irie von Celeste. Ring a bell with you?"
Igor brightened as he saw her, apparently surprised enough to slip into the Igorian dialect for a moment. "Mith Irie! It's been ageth!"
She smiled too. "Why are you in Ankh-Morpork, Igor? And you're still trying to use that funny accent!?"
"I'th-I mean, it's all part of being modern. Mister Vimes hired me three months ago when he was in Uberwald. He doesn't mind the accent."
"Well, good for you. I know that Igor and Igor were saying that you'd never amount to much, but I just knew you'd make a name for yourself! Oh, and Igor told me if I saw you to say hello."
"It's nice to hear from them," Igor agreed. "Mister Vimes says I have to go easy on the piercings, but that's it. And I have a whole lab downstairs to work in. I miss the thunder and lightning back home, though."
"It's definitely not the same out here," Irie agreed. "You can't get the ominous howling wolves either."
"Anyway," Vimes continued, getting a grip back on reality, "now that we've done a background check on you, Miss Celeste... why don't we finish the interview business right now?"
Irie instantly snapped back to focus on Vimes. "And what makes you think that I even want to join such a discriminating organization?!?"
"Because you just finished applying, didn't you? And I think you'll find that the Watch is the most undiscriminating organization in this entire city, actually. We hire Humans, Dwarves, Trolls, Gargoyles, Golems, Zombies, Werewolves, Igors, and a few other races that I can't remember off the top of my head that Carrot probably hired without me realizing it. And when they join, they all become Watchmen. Every single person in this building and on patrol is a Watchman, and I don't see any reason why you should get any preferential treatment."
"Oh." That was apparently a mindful for Irie, who's brows furrowed sharply. "I... guess that... makes sense..."
Vimes smiled in his non-cheerful, you'll-probably-regret-this way. "Then I'm happy you agree, Lance-Constable Irie. You'd best go get yourself some supper. You can report for your first shift at six o'clock tonight."

A short time later, Vimes was seated at his office desk, studiously ignoring The Paperwork, and deep in thought. Sometimes he had hunches, and time had taught him to pay some attention to them. Right now, he had a hunch that he probably wasn't going to find any good, normal watchmen. Employment in The Watch could offer a number of things, but nothing spectacular or unique that the Guilds in the city didn't. But perhaps more importantly, it frequently didn't offer a swift kick in the arse to non-conformists. And the people who really shone in The Watch so far were the people who stood to benefit from that absence.
So with that in mind, Vimes supposed that it was quite possible that you could find a good watchman, dragging some abnormal baggage around. What you had to hope was that you could find one who could set the baggage aside long enough to be good watchman. If you found those kind of people, you were all set.
And if worst came to worst, he supposed, The Watch could probably do worse than a young lady capable of learning the Igorian brand of tailoring. Now he just had to find someone who could do the paperwork...

*****
(1) Mrs. Colon never quite received a satisfactory answer explaining why why 'melons' were on the list that week.

---

It was rather seldom that Havelock Vetinari ventured outside of the Palace for any reason at all. It was something that required a minimum of intelligence, which was why he employed other people to do it for him. But every so often, generally during exceptional circumstances, he would order his carriage to be made ready, and would bestow a visit upon the city which he oversaw.
Incidently, today was one of those days, and it was the corner of Treacle Mine Road that had the dubious privilege of having the carriage slow to a halt before it. The location was relatively empty at the moment, although the amount of debris scattered around suggested that it had experienced an inordinate level of traffic earlier on in the day.
The Patrician lightly stepped down from the carriage, his silver-topped cane being put to the busy task of balancing out a weak-looking leg(A/N: left or right?). He was wearing some of his best clothing, which was to say that it was made of moderately glossy material, and wore a thin silver chain around his neck. To the casual observer, he looked like a live practice dummy for Thieves' Guild training.
Fortunately, there weren't any casual observers nearby. And even if a person didn't actually recognize him as the ruler of Ankh-Morpork, they probably would have recognized him as 'someone to not try and pickpocket'. Because somebody(1) knew what had happened to the last person who had tried.
Hobbling a short distance, the Patrician came to a halt before a figure huddled in front of a bucket. It was the kind of huddle that indicated that life, for that person, was presently near the 'tight-rope walker halfway across the waterfall who sees a hurricane approached' point.
The figure didn't even look up to see who was casting the shadow. "G'way. Closed for the day. Open again tomorrow morning."
"It is quite fortunate then," Vetinari noted, "that I did not come to purchase anything from you."
The figure cautiously raised his head to see who had spoken.
"And you would be the enterprising Mr. Dibbler, I believe?"
It wasn't a question. Furthermore, Dibbler immediately recognized the person who was speaking to him as the person he theoretically paid taxes to each year. His eyes darted to each side frantically, the lack of immediate and endless excuses demonstrating his present state of mind and existence.
"I understand you have started a new business?" Vetinari inquired rhetorically. "In the area of medicinal commerce? And are doing quite well, thus far?"
"Couldn't help it," he stammered weakly. "The blokes just kept coming and coming and coming... bugger'd if I know why they were lining up."
"Is that so? Perhaps I am in error, but I would imagine that such a situation would actually be beneficial to most businesses? In the interests of being a successful businessman?"
"Well, yeah, 'course I want t'be successful..."
"Then what seems to be the problem?"
Dibbler opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out. Because he didn't know. Today had been a dream come true, or at least it should have been. At this exact moment, he was richer than he'd ever been in his entire life. And tomorrow could very well update that fact by another significant margin.
That was supposed to be a good thing. But whenever his memory played the day over... all those people practically breaking their arms to hand over their money, joyfully accepting whatever they were given in return... "S'not right," he managed weakly. "I dunno why. They believed whatever she told 'em."
The Patrician adopted an expression of surprise, which no one who had met him would have believed for a moment. "Fascinating. So, in fact, it was not you who was doing the sales?"
"Well, I hired the girl yesterday... I thought, pretty face, looks like she's got a good head on her shoulders... double my profits(2) and all..."
"But of course. Who would this girl be?"
"Miss Tockley. Lucy, I think her name was. Looked like she'd just come into town, if you get my meaning."
"Indeed?" A hint of a suggestion of a whisper of interest crossed Vetinari's face. "I don't believe that I've ever heard of that name in our city before... but it sounds like she may have come from the Ramtops regions?"
"Er... yeah, maybe," Dibbler agreed, who's experience with any region beyond his present one was quite limited. "She had that look about her, but I think they're usually... er, more plump, I hear. And she said she'd had some schooling. She sounded like it too."
"Most interesting. Perhaps she learned a great deal about cures during her schooling? That could certainly serve to help sell your cures, correct? I imagine that a great of medicinal knowledge would be required to properly sell them."
Dibbler winced. "Well... that is... I say cures, y'know. But really..."
"Ah, but of course. You are, in fact, selling false cures to the people."
"Er... I guess you could look at it that way..."
The Patrician nodded understandingly. "Quite so. A morally bankrupt activity(3), but I would hardly be a fair ruler if I discriminated against criminal activity, correct? And I've always considered it to be a good thing for our citizens to learn about civilization in a first-hand manner."
"Er... I thought so too."
"And this young lady? She was, of course, aware that the cures were less than legitimate?"
"Actually..." Dibbler's brows furrowed. "If I didn't know better... I'd almost say she was happy that they were false. Strange, huh? But she sure was good at it..."
"So I have heard. And I expect that many other people have heard as well. I imagine that there will be an even larger crowd appearing tomorrow to buy your cures." Vetinari abruptly seemed to remember something. "That is, your false cures."
Dibbler's expression was an interesting cross between greed and horror. "Er... I suppose so."
"Then let me be the first to congratulate you on your recent success. I won't trouble you by asking the details of your success, but I do so look forward to seeing them summarized on your tax return this year."
"Er... right."
"Then I won't keep you any longer, Mr. Dibbler. Good day."
Dibbler only sighed as he watched the carriage head back towards the Palace. Somehow, despite the money, this business was going all wrong.

*****
(1) Not everybody, just somebody. No one knew exactly who that person was, but everybody knew that there was somebody who knew. And it wasn't necessarily the person who had tried it. At least, not any more.
(2) A true businessman never considers the possibility that there might not be any for their latest venture.
(3) Spoken by someone who had probably cancelled his own account a long time ago.

---

Lucy wasn't sure how long she had sat at the table, staring at her ill-gotten bag of money. At some point, a new bed had been dropped off, but she had returned to the table immediately afterwards. It could have been ten minutes; it could have been ten hours. Regardless, she was eventually snapped out of her trance by the front door opening.
Irie entered, looking rather distraught. Actually, she looked like she was about to burst into tears at any moment.
"Find a job?" Lucy asked. Actually, what she wanted to say was something like 'so how many times were you discriminated against today?', but she seemed to have already hit her nastiness quota for the day. You could only do bad things to so many people each day, she supposed.
It was apparently a nasty question anyway. "Waaaah! I told them I was a seamstress!"
Lucy's mind wandered back to the expertly mended clothing. Oh gods... "You must have really made an impression on everybody."
Irie collapsed on another chair, burying her head in her arms. "I didn't know that seamstresses did that around here! I only found out accidentally on the way home!!!"
It was hard not to feel a little bit of pity for someone who had accidentally told half the city that they were a prostitute. "There, there... I'm sure everyone will forget by tomorrow," she lied.
"I was doing so well," Irie continued mournfully. "I was standing up for myself, being independent, and making sure everyone knew full well that I wasn't going be a doormat, and... and I ruined it all!"
"It was just a bit of bad luck. Tomorrow, you can tell everyone that you're a... thread and needle specialist. I don't think I've seen many of those in this city." Lucy doubted that most people even bothered in the first place.
"I wish I could be like you," Irie sighed. "I'll bet you've never done anything like that before..."
".. nothing quite like that, no."
"I'll bet that whenever someone tried to belittle you, you didn't mess things up."
"I just gave them the rotten fruit and charged them an extra dollar."
Irie blinked. "You were selling fruit to people?"
"That's right."
"That doesn't sound very..." Irie briefly paused, trying to decide upon the right word. "...very liberating."
"Actually, it was very liberating. I was calling it medicine and charging them twenty times the normal price."
"You..." Irie goggled at the person that she had just finished expressing devout admiration for. "You're working as a con-artist!?!"
Lucy actually smiled. It felt good to hear someone else say it. No one would ever call a witch a con-artist. Not if they liked being healthy and human-shaped. "I didn't keep track, but I think I may have jilted almost a thousand people today! I sure made a lot of commission, anyway."
"But that's... bad!"
"Oh, I think I'm probably going to hell."
"But that's... really bad."
Lucy giggled, unable to help herself. "But at least I won't be a witch when I'm there!"
"Ah..." Irie briefly struggled to phrase her next comment diplomatically. "No offense, Lucy, but I think... you might be obsessing over this 'witch' business. It's not good to obsess over something so much."
Lucy just stared for a minute, but eventually let the matter drop. "Whatever. I'm dead tired from not being a witch all day, so I'm going to bed if you don't mind. By the way, we've got separate beds now, thanks to some idiot who sold me one for half price on my way home."
Irie abruptly stood up. "Oh! I almost forgot! I made you something this morning!"
"You did?"
"Well, I was waiting for my breakfast to cook, and I was thinking how wonderful it was that I have someone like you showing me how to be an independent and strong individual in the world, and... just let me go get it!"
Lucy sighed quietly as the other girl rushed into the bedroom, once again desperately hoping that whatever Irie condition had, it wasn't contagious.
Several seconds later, Irie rushed back into the room and shoved something into Lucy's hands. "Here you go!"
"It's a..." Lucy examined the object for a moment. "...a night gown."
"Well, the one you have now is sort of... plain," Irie pointed out, looking almost a little sheepish. "So I thought I'd make you a nicer one."
It was a nice gown, Lucy had to admit. It was the type that you normally window-shopped for, because it tended to show up with a price tag with your yearly income written on it. If you looked really closely, you could see that it had originated from some rather inelegant and possibly downright tacky patterns. But like an artist turning a mixture of earth and egg white into a portrait worth millions of dollars, they had been seamlessly sewn together to create something that could conservatively be called beautiful. Or more accurately, a work of art.
Lucy tried not to smile, but was unsuccessful. Whatever else she wanted to say about Irie, her ability with a thread and needle was clearly not up for debate. And whatever she wanted to say about her view of the world, she was a nice person at heart. Heading towards the bedroom, "I'm going to try it on."
For the metaphorical icing on the cake, the gown was a perfect fit. And it was comfortable on a level that lacked any adequately descriptive-enough words. "This is... this is made entirely of silk!" she exclaimed, her tone of voice a complicated mixture of delight and disbelief.
Coming back into the room, "Where did you get the material for it?"
"Is it... comfortable? The material looked alright before... and I can alter it if you want me to..."
"Comfortable?" Lucy lightly stepped across the room, luxuriating in the feel of the material against her skin. "Irie, I could wear this for the rest of my life! And my afterlife, too!"
"Really? That's a relief. I don't like wasting good material, and when I was straightening up the laundry room this morning, I wasn't sure what to do with all those boxer shorts hanging up...."
Lucy's movement ground to a halt. "Excuse me?"
"...But then I saw your night gown on the chair. I sewed it up, but then I decided that it'd be even better to just make you a new one...."
"Boxer shorts?"
"That's right. Oh, I have to get going now, because I'm a watchman now. Except that watchman isn't the same thing as man of course, because everyone becomes one, no matter what they were before, and I think it's almost six o'clock now..."
Lucy's teeth clenching together as she struggled against a newfound urge to boil the gown, and maybe herself for good measure. "I am... wearing a night gown... made from... boxer shorts?"
Irie almost vanished out the door, but skidded to a halt and looked back. "Oh, Lucy, I almost forgot! I heard that someone started selling medicines today, just like you are! Except that this person's medicines actually work, so I guess they're real medicines. So you might have some competition pretty soon. But I just know that you'll rise to the challenge and come out on top!!! But you should get some sleep now, because you're looking a little pale, okay? Bye!!!"
A deafening silence echoed through the room, and Lucy's face slowly continued on its way towards a look popularly known as 'death warmed over'. Even the boxer shorts were briefly forgotten.
... selling medicines...
No.
...just started today...
Impossible.
...medicines actually work...
It couldn't be-
The annoying little voice in her head that she'd spent all day trying to kill chose this moment to wake up and gave her a metaphorical kick in the arse. This proved to be enough to cause several mental tumblers to finally click into place.
Lucy sprinted out the door.

---

Corporal Nobbs knew something was wrong the minute he returned to the Watch house from dinner. The reason he knew this was because Commander Vimes was smiling at him.
It wasn't that Vimes disliked Nobby. Far from it, rather.
He and Nobby had been through the thick, thin, and everything else together. They had patrolled the bars and bridges and many other untravelled places together for years. How many times had they seen the other person running ahead of them, inspiring them to pick up their own pace? (1) How many times had Vimes looked the other way while Nobby permanently borrowed any valuables that happened to be upon any passed-out criminals? How many times had Nobby dragged Vimes' drunken, passed-out carcass back to the old Watch house? Nobby had seen Vimes become a nobleman, and Vimes had seen Nobby almost become a nobleman, and their opinions on much of the whole business had turned out to be almost identical.
But that didn't mean Vimes was predisposed towards smiling at Nobby, or anyone else, for that matter. No, when Vimes smiled, it was frequently because the receiver of the smile was about to find themselves thrust into a really lousy situation. In the nicest possible way, Vimes often smiled when life gave him an opportunity to legally, legitimately, and politely be a general asshole to someone who was making his life inconvenient.
"Ah, Corporal Nobbs," Vimes greeted cheerfully. "Feeling better now?"
"Er, yessir." Nobby cringed. Vimes didn't call him 'Corporal' unless the situation was going to be really bad. It was only five feet to the doorway...
"I know you're supposed to be on traffic duty, but I assigned Constable Bloodyhugepickaxe to it today. I have a different assignment for you tonight."
Worse and worse. "Um... really?"
"That's right," Vimes confirmed, stepping aside to reveal someone behind him. "Say hello to our latest watchman, Lance-constable Irie von Celeste. She's coming from Uberwald, to The Watch, as a highly talented-"
"Thread and Needle specialist," Irie interjected quickly, a faint redness appearing on her face for a moment.
"-thread and needle specialist," Vimes agreed, his smile briefly widening.
Nobby warily regarded the new watchman. He briefly noted that she was wearing a suit of armour that had received the full Sergeant Angua treatment, but didn't dwell on that fact for very long. He knew how life was supposed to treat him, and any moment now, the ball was due to drop. "Er... hi?" he ventured cautiously.
Even as she rivetted her gaze on him, Nobby could tell that he was being tested. He didn't know what for, but he knew that tended to fail most tests aside from the 'Genetic throwback quotient' test. So he'd probably failed already. Same old, same old.
Vimes was speaking again. "Corporal Nobbs is one of our most experienced officers in the Watch, Constable Irie. Normally I'd just send you out, but you look like someone who can learn from the Watch's finest."
Nobby quietly sighed in relief as he finally realized that his Commander's smile was actually directed towards the new person. Maybe this evening would be alright after all-
"So you'll be showing her around the city, Nob-I mean, Corporal Nobbs."
"Huh?"
"She can't be a good watchman if she doesn't know our city," Vimes elaborated, "and I imagine you know this city better than almost anybody. So you can show her the ropes this evening, alright?"
It wasn't a question, Nobby knew, even as the door to Vimes' office shut behind him. It sounded like a question, but it was a demand. Well, there was no helping it. Nobby didn't like trainees, and hadn't trained one since Carrot had first joined up. And that had NOT gone well. This was going to be a bad evening.
"You're a Corporal?" Irie demanded.
That was an easy question. "Yup."
"And I suppose," she accused, "that you got there by ruthlessly stepping upon the heads of your fellow officers in a display of pathetic and simple-minded machismo?"
Nobby briefly mulled over the question. "Er... I don't think so. There was only four or five of us in The Watch when I got the rank, really."
Irie deflated, but quickly rallied. "Then I suppose you think that a woman has no business in an organization like this, and they should be regulated to menial household chores and have no place in the modern workforce?"
This one took longer to think over, but Nobby gave it an effort. "Well... I dunno. We don't have many woman-folk in The Watch. And I'm always getting stuck wearin' that old dress and letting the crooks take me hostage so's to slow 'em down."
"You mean... you willingly wear a dress?"
Nobby looked a little defensive. "Well, some poor sod's gotta do it sometimes, y'know. And that thing is bloody uncomfortable, let me tell you... 'Sides, never hurts to walk a mile in someone else's shoes, I always say(2)."
A strange and complicated series of thoughts and emotions appeared to cross Irie's face, then faded into nothing. "Oh. Well... so you're showing me how to be a watchman? Um, I mean, Corporal?"
Nobby cursed inwardly. Bugger if he knew how to teach someone how to be a watchman. He wasn't entirely sure that he knew how himself. And Vimes was always saying that the rules were never the same each day...
"Er... I'll... show you along the way," he desperately ad-libbed, gesturing towards the doorway. "S'not stuff you can just teach, see?"
"I guess not."
Nobby led her out of the Watch House, thoughts awhirl. The way he saw it, he didn't have a lot of options at the moment. He had to train a trainee, but didn't know how.
"Okay," he began slowly, his mind formulating a plan of sorts. "Er, a watchman's gotta be able to learn things, see? So we're just gonna do a normal patrol down Short Street. You gotta watch and learn, and ask questions, right? You gotta be able to think for yerself in The Watch, understand?"
Irie nodded obediently. "I'll do my best to be a good watchman and be a credit to liberated womankind everywhere!"
"Er, right," Nobby agreed. He'd just... act normal. Do a normal patrol, answer any questions she had, and hope she picked up the rest by herself. Easy for him, anyway.
Nobby suddenly found himself smiling. Maybe if he did a... bad job, Vimes would get someone else to train her instead.

*****
(1) Because this meant that they were now closer to the pursuing criminals.
(2) Nobby frequently was walking in other people's shoes. It was up for debate whether he'd ever owned a pair of his own, actually.

---

A short time later, the sound of iron-heeled shoes running up the hallway got Vimes' attention in his office. "Come in, Cheery," he invited, not bothering to wait for the knock.
Throwing open the door, the dwarf came to a halt, hastily saluting. "I've got the results back, Commander."
Vimes perked up. "And?"
"You were right, sir. The package that Angua recovered has a lot of Slab in it. But it's also got about five other chemicals that are outlawed by the Alchemist's Guild."
"You mean... they actually outlaw some chemicals?"
"Yes sir." Cheery had worked at the aforementioned Guild before joining The Watch. "Some chemicals can be very dangerous."
"Cheery, the Alchemist's Guild doesn't think that nitroglycerin is dangerous."
"No sir. But they think these chemicals are."
That pretty much decided it. "So, Mr. Stone has slab in his herb and spice shop, does he? As well as other chemicals that even the Alchemist's Guild think are dangerous?"
"There's too much to be an accident, sir."
"Good. Where's Detritus? He'll be interested to know about this. And I don't feel like waiting until tomorrow morning to follow up on this lead."
"He's in the canteen, I think."
Vimes got to his feet. "Good job, Corporal. It's time to prod a little buttock."

---

The first time that you entered the Mended Drum, it was because you were looking for either a drink or a fight. Every time afterwards, you came for the fighting, because there were plenty of other safer places to get a drink. For a good, spontaneous, no-holds-barred, anything-goes brawl, The Drum boasted a quality and intensity unrivalled by any other establishment, although the historical Hundred Weeks War between the nations of Klatch and Omnia might have placed a close second.
Tonight, it was looking to be the same, and the regular patrons were already eyeing each other carefully. Getting knocked out or killed was something to be generally avoided, because it meant that you couldn't try to knock out or kill other people any longer. So you kept your weapon(s) in one hand/fist, and used the other to drink as much beer as possible before the fighting started. Many people said it was uncivilized, and they were absolutely right. Civilized people usually don't
have the decency to get liquored up before they start fighting.
*BANG*
The door was abruptly thrown open with a flourish to make a theatre patron weep for joy.
*THUD*
The door, already in poor shape from a previous brawl, fell completely off its hinges.
*Thump*thump*thump*THUMP*
Through the pine doorway, a figure strode mightily into the bar.
At this point, reality finally managed to re-assert itself, with all the splendour and elegance of a native Chinese food stand at an international pet show.
To be exact, the Drum's poor lighting revealed that the figure was a young, unarmed, lady in a night gown and little else who couldn't have weighed more then ten-stone. The slightly crazed expression on her face suggested that she might not have been aware of that fact.
"What the-"
"EVERYONE WHO BOUGHT SOMETHING FROM ME TODAY, HANDS UP!!!" she yelled, her tone of voice carrying at least another forty-stone behind it.
When a young lady walks into a seedy bar like the Drum, never mind her state of dress, and starts yelling orders to a room-full of drunken, heavily-armed, candidates for an anthropology exhibit, the outcome is virtually inevitable. The resulting script, especially the young lady's role, is unfriendly, indelicate, and tends to involve a lot of things that would make this story unsuitable for children.
So the next scene was a big surprise to everyone present, especially to the two-dozen people who found themselves slowly raising their hands in response to her demand.
The young lady briefly counted the hands, then scowled angrily. The number was, to judge by her expression, unsatisfactory.
Matching forwards until she was in the centre of the bar, which effectively surrounded her with the aforementioned evolutionary throwbacks, she gave the room a glare that carried the same weight as her voice had.
In a much quieter voice, which nonetheless managed to clearly resonate through all the beer that had been quaffed by the listeners. "Hands up... everyone who's cure didn't work."
Silence. It was the kind of silence that not only lets you hear a pin drop, but its passage through the air beforehand. Even the bartender had stopped serving drinks by this point. No hands went up.
She rotated slowly, eyeing each person individually, and evoking within them the feeling a dog gets when it knows it's somehow failing to follow its master's command. "I said, hands up everyone-"
A meaty hand clapped down on her shoulder, forcefully interrupting her.
Spinning around, she glared at the seven-foot man who was presently following the traditional script by giving her a lecherous grin. "Hey, pretty girl. How 'bout you an' me-"
*THUNK*
Slowly, the man toppled over backwards, an arrow wedged firmly in his left eye in a manner that a new eyeglass prescription probably wouldn't fix.
"Didja see that?"
"Unbelievable!"
"Great shot! Right in the eye!"
The bar turned to face the shooter, who was another classic example of a Drum patron. He was presently reloading his crossbow again, but had a smile plastered across his face.
"No-Eyes Ned?"
"I'll be buggered!"
"But he couldn't hit a barn from the inside!"
"He's so bad, gettin' drunk makes him shoot better!"
The thug who went by the name of No-Eyes Ned gave a nasty laugh. "I gots myself a eyesight cure this afternoon. And that lady's dere is Miss Tockley, and she's der one who gave it t'me."
The patrons of the Drum, even the ones who hadn't raised their hands in response to the first question, gave a chorus of impressed looks towards the nightgown-clad individual who was looking more and more disgruntled by the moment.
"Bloody good cure, then."
"Yeah, I gots a cure from her too."
"I don't lisp anymore."
"My broken arm's all better."
Lucy rounded upon the person with the cured broken arm. "You can't be serious!" she snapped. "I remember you! You said your arm was broken in three places!"
He cringed, but nodded. "Well, I think so... Mebe four places?"
"I sold you an APPLE!" Lucy yelled in frustration.
"Weeell... maybe, okay. But it was a special apple."
"No, it was a plain, normal, discount surplus apple that was starting to rot! And apples don't cure broken arms!"
The man's massive brow crinkled in thought. "Well... this one did."
"This can't have been the only apple you've ever eaten! Think back to the last one you ate!"
"You gave it to me, remember? And it cured my broken arm!"
Lucy's eyebrow twitched. "The one before that!"
"Well... I had one last month, I think."
"See? And it didn't cure your broken arm, did it? DID IT?!?"
"Well..."
Some occupants in the room began to ease towards the walls, which looks quite amusing when the only threatening thing is an unarmed young lady in a night gown. The interrogatee looked as though he wished her could join them. "Well..."
"Well WHAT?!?"
"No," the man admitted. "But my arm wasn't broken then, you know."
A quiet chorus of nods and positive-sounded grunts circled the bar, acknowledging the depth of logic behind the statement.
"Stands to reason."
"Yup."
"An apple can't cure a broken arm if the arm ain't broken."
Lucy looked like she wanted to either scream very loudly or simply break down and cry. After several very long moments, she settled at a compromise which involved collapsing on a stool with her head resting on the bar.
"I hate my life," she muttered into the wood.
The men exchanged a few wary glances.
"S'okay, miss," one man offered kindly. "Yer prolly just a little tired. Can't be easy, makin' all dem cures. How 'bout ye let me buy ye a drink?"
There next thirty seconds were surprisingly complicated, but Lucy's mind was spinning too much to actually listen to anything being said around her. It was finally beginning to dawn on her addled mind that she'd spent the past half hour chasing down random citizens of Ankh-Morpork who she'd sold cures to during the day. And no matter how ridiculous or incurable the ailment, she still hadn't found a failed cure. The damn witch inside her had won again.
It was also dawning on her that she'd done it while wearing scant but a nightgown.
A light tap to the shoulder finally got her attention.
"Miss Tockley, is it?" It was the bartender. "Did a lot of cures, did you?"
Lucy followed his gesture along the length of the bar, her eyes coming about to stare at a large stomach. Looking upwards, they met up with the face of a man who was either smiling, scowling, or laughing at her. It was the kind of face that could technically be doing all three at once, because it had clearly been bludgeoned enough that no particular expression could be executed in its entirety. The mass of scars across the left side of his face had possibly been inflicted with a meat grinder, although a buffalo stampede was a definite possibility as well. She vaguely recalled selling an pneumonia cure to someone like him earlier during the day.
There were about twenty individuals behind him, and they were all variations on the original themes. Some of the Trolls had moss still growing on them. The Dwarf in the line had an axe with a three-foot wide blade. As they all realized that she was looking at them, some hurriedly put away their six-foot swords and fifty-pound iron clubs.
Lucy stared back at the bartender in disbelief, her eyes asking the question that she couldn't quite put words to at the moment.
"They want to buy you a drink," the bartender explained patiently.
"A drink?"
"Yeah. All of them do."
Her eyes dragged themselves back to the crowd. Some of them quickly tried to straighten up and smile.
The bartender set a mug in front of her, filled to the top with a brownish substance. "Whatever's got you so down, Miss, a few mugs of this'll prolly scare it away."
Lucy hesitantly wrapped her fingers around the upper-half of the mug's handle and tilted the mug to get a top-down look. After a few seconds, the substance caught up with the mug(1). She sighed sadly. "I should be so lucky."
"Maybe, but they're free."
What the hell. Lucy took a large swig of the beer and swallowed.
The Mended Drum's idea of a good beer is one that doesn't waste space in the mug with bubbles. Or with more water than is absolutely necessary. Most of the alcohol doesn't even bother using the stomach as a pathway to the brain, because there's a shorter route through the bloodstream. It can also be used to grease axles and squeaky hinges, strip old paint, as well as seal roof tiles. The premium version can be drunk with a fork.
Lucy's eyes rapidly crossed and uncrossed several times as the beer hit the back of her throat and some of it continued down into her stomach. The rest hit her brain in a fashion that caused a giddy smile to form on her face.
The bartender sighed. "You okay, Miss?"
"I... don' feel v'ry witchy..." she announced to the world in general.
This statement was taken in stride by the rest of the bar. "Ain't seen many wimmen who drink the beer here."
"Prolly got magic powers and such, y'know?"
"Not a bloody chance."
"I'm talkin' 'bout her, not the beer."
"Oh. Well, maybe. What with dem cures and all."
"I... don... feel witchy at all," Lucy elaborated slowly, the smile on her face slowly widening in a fashion impossible for sober people to duplicate. Her mind quickly absorbed this piece of information, and came to an impressive variety of conclusions.
a) She didn't feel witchy; b) She'd just had a drink of the beer; c) Thus, it was the beer that was making her feel un-witchy; d) Therefore, this was obviously magical beer that possessed the innate power to neutralize a person's witchy-ness.(2)
After several moments, she slammed the now-empty mug down on the counter and exhaled noisily. "Gonna drown all t'witchy-ness!" she decided aloud. "Gimme 'nuther!" (3)
This was met with a chorus of approvals from the rest of the crowd, who quickly decided to start drowning their own witchy-ness, just in case.
"Good on 'ya!"
"'ave a nuther!"
"Next one's on me!"
"I get t'pay for the one after!"
Two more mugs of the Drum's Finest later, a thought percolated to the top of Lucy's now thoroughly-addled senses. Setting down the mug, even as it was immediately topped up again, courtesy of the next barbarian in line, she glanced around. "S'ppose... 'ppos'd t'be singin'," she realized.
The nearby drinkers nodded slowly, unable to deny the truth of the statement. Drinking wasn't the same without a good rousing song containing wizards and knobs or similar.
"So what's the song gonna be?"
"We did 'Ankh-Morpork, Ankh-Morpork' yesserday night."
"Well, we did 'The Wizard's Staff' the night before that."
"I knowa song," Lucy informed them, although her mug probably heard her best.
"You're bloody good at all this, miss."
"Why don't ya start? We'll all join in ASAP."
"ASAP? What's that?"
"Er... it's foreign fer 'As Soon As... um, Pissed'."
"Well, don't go pullin' to much o' edjucated stuff around here, understand?"
Lucy coughed, taking another drink to clear her throat. The room waited expectantly.
"Thish... ish a shong..." Her brows furrowed briefly. "...S'bout a hedgehog."

*****
(1) Having a reputation to maintain, The Drum had stopped serving that cissy 'liquid beer' stuff years ago. Any company can claim their beer makes you manly - The Drum's has been known to actually lower one's voice by up to an octave.
(2) Readers may have gathered that the person handling the logical reasoning is probably not playing with a full deck of cards anymore.
(3) Actually she's probably well on her way to rolling coins and flipping dice.

---

end chapter 3