**Fast Updates 'R' Us! The next few should be pretty fast (*nods to Yap!*). **

8. Fallen Leaves

            Ponder Stibbons, Unseen University's youngest faculty wizard, held up two suction cups from which thin wires dangled.

            "It won't hurt at all, ma'am," he said. He glanced at the complicated, ant-filled glass and rubber tubes that made up a part of the central processing unit of Hex, the Disc's first artificial intelligence. "At least, I don't think it will…"

            Isabella and the Patrician had conferenced with the senior faculty for a half hour and Ponder had been bouncing around Isabella like a child with a new toy. The thaumometer had detected traces of octarine on her, which he said could conceivably explain Angua's comment about Isabella having too many colours. Octarine was the eighth colour in the spectrum but it was also the colour of magic, which at the very least was capable of upsetting a swamp dragon and confusing a werewolf's nose. Isabella's iconograph also shimmered with an octarine film, but the wizards couldn't say exactly what that meant. To be on the safe side, Ponder suggested Isabella send over the gown she'd been found in to see if it also carried octarine.

            Yet he really threw his scant weight behind the wizard Orangeleaf's club sandwich theory. Problem was, he had trouble coming up with vocabulary for what he wanted to say. Spontaneous movement between points…no, worlds…no, universes was an exciting concept. After a battery of questions, he'd convinced Isabella and Vetinari to accompany him to the High Energy Magic Building, where Hex was the baby of the younger, more modern wizards. The Patrician looked over the apparatus with obvious suspicion.

            "Is there a danger of explosion, Mister Stibbons?" He eyed the crackling light in the dome above him that signalled thaums, the smallest units of magic, being spun in what was apparently a controlled environment.

            "Oh, yes, your lordship," said Ponder. "But that's also true of the paint factory on Dulcet Street."

            "I take it exploding paint wouldn't throw the Disc's balance of magic into chaos."

            "Octarine paint would," said Mustrum Ridcully, Archchancellor of the university. "There was a young wizard, what was his name, now? Scrawny fellow, not enough hair, and he wrote his thesis on the uses of octarine dyes in commercial enterprises. Whatever happened to him?"

            "Fell into a vat of it, Mustrum," said the Dean. "You remember. When we pulled him out he was stiff as a board. I think he's still stored in one of the cellars."

            "I thought octarine breath mints was a good idea," said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. "Certainly better than that idea of his for octarine…" he looked at his colleagues, his face growing pink. "You know…"

            There was silence for a moment. Several wizards made a point to look somewhere other than at the only lady in the room.

            "You'd think it'd be quite a job to get the octarine to stick to the rubber," said the Senior Wrangler thoughtfully.

            "Octarine isn't like rain, Senior Wrangler," said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. "True, if you have a good pair of rubbers, water will slide right down. If it was raining octarine, a process much like the application of glue would occur naturally from the--"

            "Runes!" said Ridcully sharply. "We're in the presence of a lady."

            Lord Vetinari was silently amazed at how quickly the conversation had turned from advanced magic to, if he was hearing the sub-text right, contraceptives. Like every time he was in the presence of the wizards for more than five minutes, he was vaguely uneasy that these were the men with power to rupture space and time as he knew it simply by mispronouncing a spell or letting their minds wander during a complex ritual. And with the exception of Ponder, theirs were wandering minds indeed.

            "What is it you hope to discover with this…machine, Mister Stibbons?"

            "Maybe Hex can tell us what conditions are needed for a Spontaneous Trans-Universe Movement, or STUM." Ponder smiled happily. He loved inventing acronyms.

            "Have you tried it before?" asked Isabella.

            Ponder looked uncomfortable. "Not as such. I've never had anyone here from another part of spacetime. But I've been thinking about this issue for a while, and in theory, it should work."

            "In theory."

            "I promise the moment anything looks wrong I'll disconnect you."

            Isabella glanced at Vetinari, who frowned and said, "There are no alternatives, Mister Stibbons?"

            "We don't have much direct experience with things quantum, sir. But I assure you, there's really nothing to worry about." Ponder didn't look convinced himself.

            Ridcully stepped in. "If Mister Stibbons says it's safe, Madam, then you can rely on it. Bright fellow. And if something happens, we'll expel him."

            "I'm not a student anymore, Archchancellor," said Ponder wearily.

            "Then we'll withdraw your tenure." Ridcully clapped his hands. "Are we ready? It's almost lunchtime."

            Isabella took a seat on the stool in front of Hex's console, and Ponder attached the suction cups to her temples. The other end of the wires he stuck into various small holes in a square section of the central processing unit. He tapped a bit on the keyboard in front of Hex's output screen and the whine of spinning thaums above them increased.

            The group waited. Isabella closed her eyes because it bothered her to have everyone staring at her. She felt warmth beneath the suction cups but nothing uncomfortable. After a few minutes, Ponder tapped something else onto the keyboard and the heat at Isabella's temples sharpened, like someone had lit a match next to her skin. She flinched. Lord Vetinari laid a steadying hand on her shoulder and frowned at Ponder, who scurried to make some adjustments.

            Finally, there was a clattering sound and a slip of paper came out of a slit next to the control unit. Ponder read it closely.

            "Well?" asked Ridcully.

            "It says some things about glass mulberries… A bit of garble, there." Ponder glanced at the Patrician with embarrassment. "But here it says that slips in spacetime are naturally occurring. There are some bits about, er, club sandwiches, interestingly enough. There's something about," Ponder frowned, "worms, for whatever reason. Oh, yes and then here it says that STUMs are rare. That is…" Ponder's voice faded.

            "Please continue, Mister Stibbons."

            "They occur at random, but Hex calculated a projected average of once every 275.876 years."

            "Good gods," said Isabella.

            "In one direction," continued Ponder. "Hex says it's possible for a STUM to occur  sooner going the other way. Apparently, there's always the opportunity for a return trip once someone has gone through a slip. Law of symmetry and so forth. It's hard to predict when, though. Not sooner than a few weeks after the first event because of…" Ponder eyed the paper. "…the integrity of the wave-form boundaries between…jelly beans."

            "I don't see what jelly beans have to do with it," said the Senior Wrangler.

            "That machine of yours is a heap of scrap, isn't it, Mister Stibbons?"

            "Dean!"

            "I said scrap, Mustrum. I'm right, aren't I, Runes?"

            "Gentlemen," said the Patrician, "it appears that all we've learned is if Miss Capelli is a victim of this Spontaneous--"

            "STUM is easier, milord," said Ponder. He withered under the Patrician's glare.

            "Spontaneous Trans-Universe Movement, she will be staying with us anywhere between a few weeks and just under 276 years. I don't find that especially helpful. Particularly because the if in this situation is the size of a small continent." He held out his hand and Ponder gave him the output sheet from Hex.

            "There appear to be inconsistencies in your machine, Mister Stibbons. There is mention of three edible substances, four if we count worms, which I've heard are sometimes beloved of young children." The Patrician frowned. "I am all for the march of technology, up to a point, but I must conclude that Hex is either malfunctioning due to hunger or is something along the lines of what the Dean so aptly described."

            "Hex can't be hungry, sir." Ponder cleared his throat. "We just gave it a sandwich an hour ago. "

            "I have a small request, Mister Stibbons. After you disconnect Miss Capelli, look elsewhere for more specific information about movement between universes."

            "Most of what we know about things quantum is theory, milord. There isn't a lot of accurate--"

            "I have every confidence," said Vetinari, smiling in his quietly unsettling way, "that you will find a solution in a timely manner. Certainly in less than 276 years. I know the entire senior faculty of this great educational establishment will do its utmost to assist me." He gazed benevolently at the wizards. "Your eagerness to assist will be a sign of the healthy relationship between civic and magical authorities, hm?"

            The relationship between the Patrician and the wizards tended to be along the lines of Don't call us, we'll call you. This arrangement was comfortable for both parties, though the Archchancellor had the sense that an end to it would be far more uncomfortable for him than the Patrician. Unpleasant things like taxes might be brought up. He cleared his throat.

             "You can count on us, your lordship," he said.

            On the streets, traffic was lighter. Isabella sat quietly in the carriage, her hands clasped in her lap.

            "I would like you to stay at the Palace until this is sorted out," said the Patrician. "Lady Sybil and Sir Samuel have done more than enough to look after you. I think the responsibility is now mine."

            The carriage avoided the traffic around the Plaza of Broken Moons by turning down Ars Lane to the Eight Deadly Sins. Isabella rang the little bell that signalled the driver should stop. Outside, the red and gold columns of a Lingian temple gleamed in the sunlight.

            "Monks?" the Patrician said doubtfully.

            "I'm collecting explanations for what's happened. Six so far." Isabella sighed as she climbed out of the carriage. "Be back before dark."

**

            It was Captain Carrot who knocked on the right door. This wasn't that unusual, since Carrot, adopted dwarf, Watchman by choice and rightful but disinterested king of Ankh-Morpork, had a knack for getting just about anyone to behave with the steady, upright honesty he himself always showed.

            So when the shabby door of yet another house in the Shades opened up to his knock, the woman, bumble bee-stomached and wearing a kerchief tied around her neck, looked up at Carrot with surprise that turned quickly to utter relief.

            "Oh, what a weight it's been on me poor heart!" she cried, pulling Carrot inside. He had to duck under the low door frame. The air smelled of well-worn boots and the memory of stale bacon. The furniture was rough, brown, bent, frayed. Carrot had to stoop if he didn't want his head through the ceiling.

            "Three nights ago, it happened," she said. "An' I haven't had a decent night's sleep since."

            "I'm here to put your mind at rest, good woman," said Carrot.

            "I tol' my son, I tol'm to call the Watch but he was against it. But I say, you don't find two bodies drained…drained o' every livin' drop o' blood, and not say somethin'."

            If the room hadn't been so cramped, Carrot would have straightened with the resolve of his duty as a policeman.

            "Will you show me where they were found, ma'am?"

            She led the way down to the cellar. In the light of her grubby stub of a candle, Carrot saw immediately the shelves stacked with brass spittoons, silver candlesticks, cutlery, and other objects distinctly out of place in the poor hovel. Normally ultra-honest, Carrot had been a copper long enough to know what his priorities were. He ignored the goods.

            "Can you tell me what happened, ma'am?"

            "Three nights ago I found two bodies just a'layin' here on the ground. Right where you're standin'. It was horrible. They was white as…" She had trouble coming up with a metaphor for anything white. People in the Shades didn't use sheets and when it did snow in Ankh-Morpork, a weak yellow colour was more accurate. "White as…white. I screams and calls me son and he got rid of 'em."

            "Got rid of 'em?" said Carrot, grimly, scanning the ground in the dim candlelight.

            "Dumped 'em in the Ankh. I know it wasn't right, but we was scared." Her voice dropped. "And them vampires ha' been gettin' worse."

            "Did you know who they were?" asked Carrot. "The bodies."

            "Never seen 'em before in me life."

            Carrot again showed how far he'd come as a cop. The obvious lie of the woman was set aside in favour of something he spotted on the floor.

            "Could I use your candle for a moment, ma'am?"

            Carrot was hunched over to begin with in the low cellar, but now he crouched down and examined the floor in the candlelight. It was dirt. Centuries of dirt stomped down by generations of feet until it was almost as smooth and hard as stone. A rather brown-black stone. A darker blackness in one small part caught his attention. He lifted a few gritty, black leaves between his fingers.

            "Wha's that, then?" asked the woman.

            Carrot held the leaves to his nose. And then blinked. And then wiped the tear from his eye. The smell could seduce an elephant. He tucked the leaves into a folded piece of paper.

            "I think you better tell me what part of the river the bodies were dumped in, ma'am," he said. "And it is my duty to tell you that it's wrong to steal."

**

            "I am a fool. Yes! I am addle-headed, like the monkey upside down in a tree." The Dali Pooka made little gestures around his head, which Isabella assumed to refer to his addle-headedness.

            The Lingian monk had the misfortune to be tall in a tradition which valued smallness. He walked with a hunch, he sat with shoulder and head bowed and always appeared to talk to the floor. His bright red and yellow robe only reached his knees; whoever made Lingian holy wear didn't take into account that anyone would be so much bigger than the average size. Dali Pooka was a head taller than the rest of the monks Isabella had seen when she was escorted through the temple courtyard to his prayer pavilion. He covered up the shortfall in robe by wearing knee-high red socks.

            "Everyone is busy, but I alone am idle," he said to the polished walnut floor, on which he and Isabella sat opposite each other on red cushions. "Other men are strong and brave, but I alone am weak and cowardly. Other men are clever, but I alone am stupid. Wandering the Disc in an aimless walk," he jumped up to demonstrate this, "like a restless wind."

            He sat again and smiled with satisfaction at the floor.

            "Your holiness, you have a reputation for great wisdom," said Isabella, though she was having doubts about her sources. They quite possibly didn't exist if, for instance, the theory of the philosopher Vitalites was correct.

            "The wise! The wise!" cried Dali Pooka. "When men begin to call themselves wise, so arises pretence. With pretence comes the straying off the True Path."

            "Ah," said Isabella. "Well, that's just what I wanted to speak with you about."

            She related her tale just as she had to Vimes, Vetinari, the Chief Priest of Blind Io, Vitalites, Orangeleaf and the wizards at Unseen University. She referred to her friend Nancy. When she was finished, Dali Pooka nodded as if he'd heard the whole thing before.

            "It is clear as rainfall," he said. "Your friend is dreaming."

            Isabella closed her eyes. "Is she."

            "Oh, yes. When we sleep, we are awake. When we dream, we create a new reality. This world," Dali Pooka gave a wave that encompassed the great brass gong at the end of the room and the corridors to the temple courtyard and the sky outside, "is only an invention of the dreams of others. You are here because I am dreaming of you, and I am here because you are dreaming of me. We are both dreaming of the gong and the temple courtyard. You see?"

            "Yes," Isabella said, though she wasn't being altogether honest. Normally, she didn't question reality too often. But these were not normal times.

            Dali Pooka beamed. "Your friend has simply awakened in someone else's dream of reality. And like in dreams, it is a world not unlike the one she knows, but different."

            "It makes sense," said Isabella gloomily.

            "I should hope not. Dreams never make sense. People who try to find meaning in dreams are like fallen leaves looking for meaning in the forest." Dali Pooka rubbed his hands. "I'm dreaming right now of a hot tea. Would you like some?"

            Isabella politely refused and left the temple feeling vaguely as if she really was walking in a dream. It was something like the feeling she'd had when she awakened in the guest room at Sybil's five days ago. The cotton-headed sensation had come from the fever, she thought, but it was perfectly possible it was something else. Something more fundamental.

            She waved at a cab up the street. Questioning reality was… It was out of the question. Wherever she was, that was real. It had to be. Anything else would be insanity.

            The cab, for instance, was real. Solid wood, well polished. The driver was real. Isabella would have never voluntarily dreamed of a man with such bad teeth. She climbed into the cab and gave the driver an address. The carriage seat felt real, and the horses certainly smelled like it. She was sure she would have dreamed a more pleasant smell for the city in general if she'd had the choice to affect reality in that way.

            The carriage headed for Scoone Avenue. Isabella owed Sybil something for her hospitality; maybe a design for new dragon stables would do it. Then off to the Temple of Blind Io. If she couldn't see if her life was real, perhaps she'd have more luck with her death.