More of it.

No copyright infringement intended, no claim made on any of the Discworld characters or related indicia, all of whom belong to Terry Pratchett. I said leggo me ear!!

A/N: Gods, I love Pratchett. Every time you read his stuff you find something new and wonderful. Consider this, ye of big brains and a nodding acquaintance with dead languages: When you're a Venturi you're a Venturi all the way, from your first cigarette to your last dying day.

Om thumps the gameboard, causing Offler's miniature boot and Patina's gold-plated carriage to fall over (and producing a few small tsunami on the shores of the Circle Sea). "That's not fair," he says. "You're using weighted dice."

            The Lady and Fate share a condescending look as Om realizes what he's just said. "We are gods," Blind Io remarks. "We aren't fair."

            Om subsides, crossly, and the game resumes play. Down in the jewel-cities of the plain, things move ahead, under tenuous control. He rather wishes the Lady wouldn't smile all the time.

**

            "Well, it wasn't really that difficult," Audax said absently, swirling the dregs of beer in her glass. "Just a question of staying out of peoples' way when they swing swords at you."

            "But the battle for Bes Pelargic was one of the bloodiest of the century," Angua pointed out.

            "Yes, well. You learn quite quickly that it's particularly bloody for the real hero idiot types who think that riding out in the middle of a battlefield on a dirty great white horse and carrying a red flag is a clever thing to do. They seem to think that the point isn't whether or not you die, it's whether you looked good doing it." She swallowed the last of the beer and waved the glass at Mr. Cheese, who refilled it silently. "Battle isn't glamorous or glorious, it's dirty and terrifying and noisy and smelly and dangerous. Once you realize that, you've got an advantage."

            Yes, thought Angua. And I bet you learned how to stay out of the way of the heroes, too. Otherwise you wouldn't be here.

            "I was lucky, anyway," Audax continued. "They had me on as a medical officer, rank of corporal. I was a bit more useful than the average grunt, so they tended to hold me back in the rear guard and make sure I was going to stay alive to patch up the others. Not that there was an awful lot I could do for them, but I tried." She was looking into the glass, and Angua thought to herself that the distant look of horror and disgust on her face wasn't due to the quality of Mr. Cheese's ale (which tended to dissolve metal tankards) so much as to the shouts of memory.  She shook herself, looked up with a grin. "Enough about me," she said. "Tell me about the job. What have I got myself into?"

            Angua smiled in spite of herself. "A few years ago I'd say a very deep hole, but it's gotten better recently. I came in when things were still pretty messy, back when Commander Vimes was still on the bottle. Before he married Lady Sybil."

            Audax blinked. "Not Sybil Ramkin? Big lady, likes dragons, not much for ceremony?"

            "The same. You'd heard of her all the way in Genua?"           

            "Well, sort of. She came through the city on a trip to find a rumored dragon species—the bayou dragon, I think it was—and we had to escort her as bodyguards. Nice lady, I remember, if a bit opinionated."

            Angua smiled and finished her drink. "Certainly opinionated. I'm told she showed extreme bravery when faced with a giant dragon that was attempting to destroy the city and eat her, though."

            "I'd have wet 'em," Audax said wryly. "Tell me more about her husband."

            "Vimes? Oh, Vimes is all right. He's got style, I suppose you'd say."

            "Not the most personable man I've ever met." Audax lit a roll-up and regarded Angua through a haze of smoke. "But fascinating."

            "He's just constantly disgruntled. All the time. Carrot says he hasn't ever been gruntled. And Fred Colon taps his nose knowingly and says he was Brung Low by a Woman."

            "Not Lady Sybil?"

            "Prior to Lady Sybil." Angua stretched. "But he's all right, really. Just about as nasty and cynical as you can get, but he tries to do the right thing. He's fine if you catch him in a good mood, but if he's cross, he'll tear you a new one as soon as look at you."

            Audax nodded. She wasn't going to ask about Carrot. She'd decided that. Nobby had made allusions to the fact that Angua and Carrot were an Item, and Audax didn't particularly feel like hearing the other woman describe her beloved in glowing terms. She'd heard about enough from the other Watchmen about how Carrot was clearly the king. And she didn't like kings.

            "What's it like under Vetinari?" she asked absently, tapping ash off her cigarette. Angua snorted.

            "Half the seamstresses in the city wonder that," she said dryly. "Vetinari is a wise and just ruler. And he has a very well-developed sense of hearing."

            Audax nodded. "Wise and just. That's what I've heard about him."

            Angua got up, tossing some coins onto the table, where they landed in a puddle and immediately began to corrode. "Come on. We've got to keep the streets safe for the citizenry."

            They proceeded down Gleam Street, nightsticks swinging gently. Angua shot a glance at her.  "Let's put it like this. He's got a mind like a corkscrew. Vimes says things like "he ought to be hung, but they can't find a twisty enough rope," but he admires him. I don't know anyone else he admires so much."

            Audax considered this. Interesting place, Ankh-Morpork. Very interesting.

**

            Anton Mirill woke up with a stifled scream, and then with an unstifled one. "Gaah, don't do that!"

            The forbidding shape of his roommate loomed over him, eyes glowing dim red in the dark. "You were having an extremely loud nightmare," he said reasonably. "I was going to wake you up."

            Mirill slumped back against his pillows, heart beginning to slow from its frantic pace. "Well, waking up to see you standing over me isn't much of an improvement. Gods, what an awful dream." He shoved his damp hair out of his eyes. Radu sat down on the foot of the bed, and made an effort to get his eyes to stop glowing, because he knew how much this bothered Mirill. "It was the city---but on fire. Bodies everywhere in heaps, you know, like wood….people scuttling through the streets like rats…….."

            "The plague thing again?"

            "Yeah," he said, crossly. "I know we're not supposed to be able to see the future, but…"

            "Hell, stranger things have happened. Besides, some people do have precognition. Any decent medium knows that." Radu yawned. "Talk to the diviners tomorrow. Maybe someone else has been having crazy dreams."

            "Yeah," said Mirill again. He shivered. Thing was, there was almost nothing he could do about it, even if his nightmares did come true. But the pump in Marrow Lane—that was part of it. He'd seen it in the dreams so many times now. It was a focus.

            "Maybe if they shut it down," he murmured, "if they stop that…things will be better."

            "What?" Radu said sleepily from his own bed.

            "Nothing," said Mirill, staring into the darkness. He didn't sleep again that night.

**

            Vimes looked up as Cheri Littlebottom poked her head round his door. "Sorry to disturb you, sir," she panted, "but you're to go to the Palace at once. Lord Vetinari's orders."

            Vimes groaned. It had been such a nice night so far; he didn't want to think about what Vetinari had in store for him this time. At least he couldn't get promoted any further, or required to wear any dress uniforms stupider than the one he was currently stuck with. He got up, put on his leather cloak, and followed the dwarf out of the Watch House. "Did he say what this was about?"

            "No, sir," said Cheri, hurrying to keep up with his stride. "Just that it was urgent."

            "It always is," sighed Vimes. Vetinari's terrier, they called him, among other things. He came when called, and followed orders. Sort of. Creatively. Vetinari got right up his nose, but for some reason Vimes still found himself working for the man. He supposed it was preferable to serving an inbred streak of piss like Ronnie Rust, or Carcharus Selachii, or Gale Venturi. At least Vetinari didn't pretend to be noble.

            They arrived at the Palace, and found several members of the Night Watch already there. Carrot hurried up to them and snapped off a brisk salute. "Evening, sir. You're to go right in."

            Vimes regarded him dryly. "Why is everyone milling around here instead of walking their beats?" he inquired.

            "It's a slow night," said Carrot. "Besides, it was an APB. People get curious when Vetinari sends out a clacks to every single tower in the city demanding that you come and see him immediately."

            Vimes sighed. "Tell them to go back to work," he said. "We're not having a party." Carrot nodded and ripped off another textbook salute, and hurried off to disperse the Watchmen. Vimes looked down at the top of Cheri's helmet. "Stick around, Littlebottom. I have a feeling I might need you."

            She nodded, and he hurried into the Palace. As always, it was slightly darker than he expected, and the smell of polish and age hung heavy on the air. Drumknott was waiting for him.

            "What's this all about?" Vimes demanded, stalking past the clerk and up the stairs. Drumknott hurried to keep up.

            "I'm sure I couldn't say," he said.

            "We're not going to war again, are we? Or being attacked?"

            "Not as far as I know, Your Grace." Drumknott put on an extra burst of speed and reached the Oblong Office door before Vimes did. He knocked. "Commander Vimes to see you, sir."

            "Enter," said Vetinari. Vimes squared his shoulders and went in, taking up his usual position in front of the massive desk, staring at a point directly over and to the left of the Patrician's head. "Ah, Vimes."

            "Sir."

            "Vimes, I believe I have pointed out that you are extremely unpopular with every major Guild in the city," Lord Vetinari began.

            "Yes, sir."

            "And while this is regrettable, it has occasionally served its purpose." Vetinari's fingers were steepled over two pieces of paper that looked like clacks flimsies. "And it appears I must call on your specialized relationship with Ankh-Morpork once again."

            "Sir?"

            "The city needs to be shut down."

            Vimes blinked. "Sir?" he repeated, trying to parse what he'd just heard. Vetinari's face tightened a little.

            "If you go on saying "Sir" in that confused voice, you will be very sorry," he said. "I repeat: the city needs to be shut down. Quarantined."

            Vimes stopped himself from saying "Sir?" again by folding his arms very tight and saying "You must be deranged!" instead.

            Vetinari gave him a long cool look. "Excuse me, Sir Samuel?"

            "I mean," he said hastily,  "you can't close Ankh-Morpork down! It can't be done—there are hundreds of carts entering and leaving the city every day, gods know how many people going in and out—and that's just by the gates! What about the harbour, or the river, or the seventeen different entrance tunnels?"

            Lord Vetinari's expression didn't change much. "I have here," he said, "two messages. One from the ruler of Sto Lat and one from the ruler of Quirm. Both of them report to me that their cities are in the grip of a particularly virulent plague, and advise me to shut the city gates at once and use all available resources to seal Ankh-Morpork from the outside."

            "Bollocks," said Vimes, but he didn't say it very loudly. Vetinari kindly pretended not to hear, and slid the messages over the desk to him. He read them with narrowed eyes, and eventually looked back up at the Patrician. "Look, sir….you know as well as I do that this is ridiculous. Locking down the city won't help; if the plague does come here, a closed gate isn't going to stop it. Things can get chucked over city walls; things can float past on rivers. Besides, enforcing it would take all my men all their time, and you and I both know what happens when we don't spend our time wisely." He straightened up. "Sir."

            "I don't have much of a choice," said the Patrician. "If the plague hits Ankh-Morpork, we'll have chaos anyway." He got up and went over to the windows, clasping his hands behind his back. "It's killed five thousand in Sto Lat already."

            "So quickly?" said Vimes, thinking. "Ye gods."

            "Quite." Lord Vetinari sighed. "Shut it down, Vimes."

            There was a tap at the door. "M'lord? The shipment of grapes from Quirm is here, and the merchant begs an audience with you."

            Vetinari turned from the window, exchanging a glance with Vimes. "From Quirm," he said.

            "Yes, m'lord. Says it's vital that he speaks with you."

            Bet I know what he's going to say, thought Vimes. Well, it's too late to shut the city gates against it. We're really in the midden now.

            Vetinari strode over to the door. For a moment Vimes considered trying to stop him, but there was very little he could have done; before the Patrician reached the door, it was thrown open, and a young man lurched in. His face was grey-white and sheened with sweat; his hair was plastered to his forehead in damp wiggles, and he was swaying like a leaf. "My lord," he gasped thickly. "My lord…there is great danger…"

            Vetinari pinched the bridge of his nose. "I know," he said quietly. "Take him away and see he gets medical attention. And burn the cart."

            The messenger crumpled to his knees, coughing heavily. "They're all…dying…" he managed. "All dead. My lord…send help…"

            Two of the Palace guard lifted the man to his feet. Vetinari sighed. "I will try," he said. "Go."

            When they had half-carried him away, the Patrician turned to Vimes. "You know what you have to do, I think."

            "Yes." He didn't want to think about it, but he knew. He wondered if there was anything he could do to stop himself coming down with it, and then kicked himself mentally for being a selfish bastard. "You'll send out a proclamation?"

            "The Times can be useful for once," Vetinari mused. "Yes. I'm declaring a state of emergency."

            "What about….the men who touched him?"

            "They will be given instructions." Vetinari gave him a tired glance. "Do not let me detain you, Commander."

            There it was again, Vetinari's assumption that his will would be done no matter what. This wasn't the time to make an issue of it…but Vimes knew he'd never make an issue of it, not really. Vetinari did the ordering, and he did the fetching and carrying. That was just the way things were.

            He saluted, turned on his heel, and marched out holding his breath. And resolutely not thinking about the half-bottle of Bearhugger's he kept in his bottom drawer as a constant self-test.