[Disclaimer: The Discworld and all related characters are the property of Terry Pratchett. This piece of fiction is not his work, but it draws so heavily upon his work that he may be considered to reserve all rights to it – whether he wants them or not.
On a more personal note, this is my first piece of fanfiction. It is set shortly after the events – or most of the events – in Night Watch.]
* * *
A brief explanation of the role of Assassins on the Discworld may be in order.
Assassins are respectable people. They train at a prestigious Guild, wear a distinctive uniform, and speak with impeccable grammar. Furthermore, they carry business cards, which is, in itself, a guarantee of respectability. Assassins are the finest ladies and gentlemen on the Disc.
Assassins are honest workers. Granted, their occupation may be frowned upon in certain backwoods localities, but they are well aware of that. They simply see it as one more reason to travel armed; foreigners can be so terribly gauche. In Ankh-Morpork, however, the services of the Assassins are as integral a part of the upper-class lifestyle [1] as cross-gartered stockings and unidentifiable frilly accessories. When the job is not performed cleanly and efficiently, the fragile fabric of Society disintegrates. A true Assassin never settles for anything less than a job done right.
Assassins are keen entrepreneurs. They know exactly how much a human life is worth, and, in many cases, can wheedle enough coin from a patron to cause him to run deeply into debt. At this point, of course, somebody looks to collect, the patron becomes a client, and the cycle begins anew, with the series of contracts turning the wheels of commerce like blood through a watermill.
There is no possible doubt in the matter; Assassins are respectable, conscientious businesspeople.
In this respect, they resemble another group that is both esteemed and necessary: the Guild of Seamstresses. But the Seamstresses serve all classes.
[1] The word "lifestyle" was first introduced to Ankh-Morpork by a visiting campire [2] of Uberwald. Until then, the term used was "life." The upper-classes embraced the neologism; after all, anybody can live – goodness, the poor seem to be doing it more than ever nowadays! – but only the Right People can have a Lifestyle.
[2] Campires are quite rare, and may be distinguished from vampires by the symbols that repel them. Vampires fear axes of Blind Io and other religious paraphernalia. Campires abhor drab clothing and frightful hair.
* * *
The knives arced through the air, glinting in the firelight. Some were thin as needles, the better to pierce between armor plates, or chinks of chainmail, or vertebrae. Others were daggers, so perfectly dagger-shaped that you could use them to mark footnotes. And every one of them was being flung with steel-cracking force at a wall that had broken far weaker implements over the centuries. Twenty-five young Assassins held their breath as the scraping of metal on stone punctuated the silence.
Like an adolescent, drunken colossus, the knife-thrower posed atop a table, boards creaking under his boots, beer mugs hastily kicked aside. Next to him, seated on the bench, a slender underclassman watched, his expression placidly unreadable. Even through the haze of liquor, it occurred to the knife-thrower that this was worse than heckling on some fundamental level, and so, without letting his throwing arm falter, he spared the watcher a glance. "Eh, how do you like that, Dog-Botherer?"
"Remarkable," said the watcher, seated. It was always a useful word. "Tell me, Downey, are those Guild stilettos?"
"You worried I'm going to break them?"
"That would be unfortunate."
"Haven't missed the chinks yet, Dog-Botherer! Say, should I try it from farther away? I think I will!"
Young Downey jumped down, strode across the dining hall of the Guild and stood by the fireplace. The far wall, exactly eight octisnicks [1] away, flickered only dimly, as the firelight seemed to graze it reluctantly and glancingly. A romantic observer might have attributed this to an act of deference, the rays of light bowing solemnly away from the Inhumagraphia that decked the wall.
Havelock Vetinari was not a romantic observer, and what he saw was a drunken fool flinging guild property at a stone wall in dim light. No doubt Downey stole the blades from Lady Calomel's bedroom and intended to return them later that night with an anonymous, but obnoxious, note. Vetinari did not approve of this sort of showiness. Theatrics, he thought, should be saved for the theater.
He winced slightly as Downey gave a theatrical grin and the watching students silently applauded. With a peculiar, drunken grace, Downey flung another knife at the stonework, where it jammed into a crack between the blocks, joining eight others. Bowing in a way that clearly was not meant to convey an iota of humility, he drew the last stiletto from the silk pouch at his waist.
And stopped. Vetinari was grasping the knife by the blade. "Downey," he pronounced with oracular solemnity, "you are drunk."
Downey racked his brains for a comeback. Something pithy.
"Well, you're a scag, Vetinari. And I throw better drunk than you could sober."
Vetinari sighed and released the stiletto. He knew enough about Malignity to realize that Downey had pushed his luck too far. It's always the last one that breaks. If the boy had borrowed anything from anybody, it was time that they took it back. Before it was returned to his relations with his other effects and an apologetic note.
[1] The official Assassin unit of length, the snick is defined as the length of an Agatean throwing dagger, model A5.
It was the middle of the night by Calomel's clock. In a room tastefully decorated with black violets, purple silks, and soft carpeting, which politely concealed blowguns, suspended blades, and very creaky floorboards, the Keeper of the Blades slept fitfully, prey to unsettling dreams. It has been said that there's no rest for the wicked; this is certainly true for the wicked with wicked indigestion.
The raven perched on the windowsill was dreaming too. Ghastly nightmares; he was perching precariously on a slippery bust while a deranged man ranted below. And there was the word, always the word, the alien refrain that had replaced his beautiful baritone-tenor caw. It was coming again!
"CAWcawCAW!"
The raven jerked awake and nearly rolled off the windowsill. Hopefully, nobody had heard.
"WHOOO!"
Bother. A nearby owl had noticed.
"COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO!"
And awakened the crowing cockerel in the Guild courtyard.
Lady Calomel jerked awake and neatly rolled to her left, dodging a potential dagger. She scanned the room silently for intruders. Had somebody come for the knives? She would face death before she was disgraced with their theft [1]. They were precious to her and – she clicked open the false bottom of her nightstand – gone!
After wrapping a thick, crimson scarf around her neck to keep out the cold, Deirdre Calomel tucked three daggers into the sash of her flimsy peignoir and sprinted out into the freezing halls of the Guild. Her little ones needed her, and if any harm came to them, the price would be paid in flesh and blood. And possibly nerve tissue.
[1] Preferably somebody else's death, really.
* * *
Downey held the stiletto high above his head, and closed his eyes. "And now," he said, "for the gran fin-alley!" Again, a blade shot through the air.
CRACK. TING. TING.
As the fragments of the knife spun slowly to a stop on the stone floor, the watching students remained appropriately silent. This was a grim moment, after all, and although only one thought ran through their minds, they waited a full five seconds to vocalize it.
"DIBS ON HIS ROOM!"