V. Bad Smells

Keli cast her mind around, looking for something to say. She considered telling a joke, but decided it might not be very... majestic.

"I hear Ankh-Morpork is lovely this time of year," she said.

"Really?" laughed Edwin, suddenly dropping his reserved manner. "Who on earth told you that?"

"Er-"

"Suffice it to say,theriver is particularly toxic andany partof the city downwind of it becomes mysteriouslydeserted."

"Is it true that the river is solid?" asked Keli, also smiling.

"Unfortunately. Some unlicensed thieves tried to drown an acquaintance of mine in it, but when they pushed him off the bridge, he bounced. Landed on the thieves, actually. The Thieves' Guild saw to it that broken limbs were the least of their problems."

"Yes... I've heard about that. Legalised theft. I expect the crime rate must be astronomical."

"You'd think that, wouldn't you?" nodded Edwin. "But the thing is, you can pay the Guild a premium and they'll leave you alone for a year. And they have to leave you a card. If a citizen is robbed with no note, they take it up with the Thieves' Guild and the unlicensed thief is... dealt with."

"Dealt with?"

"Let's just say that the weathercock on top of the Thieves' Guild makes an excellent skewer."

"That's disgusting."

"I prefer 'reassuring'. It's a deterrent to other unlicensed thieves."

"Yes, I can imagine."

A servant arrived presently to take the dirty dishes downstairs.

"That was a bloody near miss!" cried Mort when the servant was gone.

"She didn't see anything!" exclaimed Ysabell.

"Say what you want, but he disappeared the moment she came in! Never again! What if she'd got a glimpse?"

"Mort," reasoned Ysabell, "We'll have to tell the servants eventually. He'll bepoppinground to see Susan-"

"Yes, about that," Mort interrupted savagely. "Do you think it's ... healthy ... for a young girl to-"

"Now you stop that!" interjected Ysabell with equal severity. "We've been through this before! Death or not, he's still my father!"

There was an awkward silence between the two adults, like the hush in the wake of a tidal wave. Susan had started to cry.

"Erm, Ysabell?" said Mort meekly, staring at his daughter.

"What?"

"Do you notice how - when Susan cries - the rest of her face goes red, but there's a mark..."

"Right where Father slapped you," nodded Ysabell. "Yes. Odd, isn't it?"

"But people don't generally inherit scars."

"They don't? Oh. Well, I suppose genes must make exceptions for Death."

There were eight courses. Eighteen magnificent courses: soup, salad, white meat, red meat, fish, some odd Klatchian dish, ice cream and dessert.

The rich wizards sitting around Cutwell were chuckling amiably about the "good old days" at UU. Cutwell tried to be inconspicuous, but his smell had other ideas; indeed, everyone around him had shifted their chairs about a foot away from him, but that did little to alleviate the assault on their nostrils.

He slumped miserably in his chair. This could not get any worse‡.

The Archchancellor at the top of the table was swaying slightly in his chair. After a moment, his face swayed into the table. His extremely long nose was saved from certain fracture by the fluffy chocolate pudding before on his plate.
However, he sharply raised his head, with the words, "Ludic-" and he fell again. There was a nasty cracking noise; he'd missed the pudding this time.

A lecturer that Cutwell had never seen before dipped a finger into the Arch Chancellor's wine and sniffed it. Giving the finger a suspicious glare, he gingerly licked it.

"There's something in this wine."

"What?" asked one wizard anxiously.

"Buggered if I know, but it smells likedog piss."

Everyone turned... to Cutwell.

‡As absolutely everyone knows, it is extremely dangerous to think a situation can get no worse, because obviously the moment such a thought crosses your mind, the situation is completely certain to, indeed, become worse. This is required by law, much like the ominous burning wheel that rolls away from every carriage accident, or the smoking boots that always remain when someone has been murdered by magic.

"Ptarinexos, you idiot!" cried the unlucky Ephebian. "Don't you see the bloody crocodiles! And this toga is dry-clean only! Look at all the-"

He tried futilely to brush off some of the mud, but his hand went through his own body.

I AM AFRAID THAT YOU WILL NO LONGER REQUIRE A TOGA.

"That's illegal," protested the Ephebian.

THERE IS NOMORE DRY-CLEANING.

"What about that one-"

I SUGGEST THAT YOU TAKE A LOOK BEHIND YOU.

TheEphebian turned around. "Oh."

YES.