Due to unforseen circumstances, James will be the one responding to the reviews.

James pulls out a small paper. He reads through the paper quickly, before pausing. In the fan fiction world, it seems as if half a dozen voices cried out, and then said "What the Fek?"

He clears his throat. "Erm, Anyways…"

"Madame Frosteh, Thank you kindly for your kind review. Yes, our lives our random, but how was I to know Lord Downey bruised easily? Also, I am to inform you that the management is waiting impatiently for your sequel, and that more…"

He pauses, looking at his notes, before turning off-stage. "You don't honestly want me to say this, do you? No need to threaten me! I just wanted to make sure they know I'm not the one asking for this…" He turns back to the audience, shaking his head.

"The management would like possibility more relations between the two fuzzies, and perhaps the inclusion of puppies."

"Next, Madame Egleriel, thank you as well for your review, although your fanfiction scares us deeply. Um, on a personal note, I have no intentions of ever killing my wife, and, erm…don't hurt me?" He ducks behind the paper for a moment, wincing. Seeing nothing is forthcoming, he straightens up. "As for 'Hello, Death", the reasoning behind this will appear later. Needless to say, she's seen Death numerous times before, and one of the last times she did so involved her attempting to…bargain with him. Needless to say, she's not on the level to invite him up for tea, but she is foolhardy like that. I know. I married her."

"Last but not least, Mr. Blank Ned. Ask and ye shall receive, no? But the management would like to point out, you got your wish, now where's that filk about Carrot? Hmmmmm? And I'd personally like to point out to the audience that all flames will be used to prod writer's buttock. Or…"

He pauses, then stomps off-stage and pulls back the curtain. The Author, Sara and Angua look up from their current task, which seems to involve watching cheesy eighties movies and painting each others nails. James pulls back in shock for a moment before shaking his head. "Do you really plan to use the flames to burn Carrot's uniform, so Angua can have a day off with him?"

The Author looks up from her current task of giving Angua a little henna tattoo which reads in Klatch, 'If you can read this, Carrot, you should consider letting Angua have her way with you.' "Of course! You at least own more that one style of knickers. Don't even get me started on that damned 'Protective'. The poor girl's never even been taken on a proper date!" She pulls out a little plushie that bears an uncanny resemblance to said Captain. She sticks lots of little pins in a cough certain area. Somewhere, Captain Carrot begins to shift uncomfortably.

James' begins to back away, right eye twitching. "Erm….That'sallfolksuntilnexttimeOHGODSI'MGONNADIE!"

Locks and Doors, Chapter 3:

Speak your Mind

It wasn't particularly hard to make Sam Vimes speechless. Carrot still held the record of six times in one conversation, but the Patrician wasn't far behind. Vimes had suspected at one point that there was a scoreboard somewhere, where Carrot, Vetinari, and Sybil were furiously attempting to outdo the rest. He had dismissed this thought, but only after realizing the idea of the three of them arguing over tea and biscuits had been rejected by his brain as probable as the Patrician wearing frilly pink undershorts.

Now he was having one of those speechless moments. His mouth was open, but his brain was having a hard time figuring out what to say. It wasn't due to lack of something to say, mind you, but there were so many things to ask they'd all gotten stuck in the pipe. Judging by the faces of his fellow watchmen, he was no the only one suffering from this affliction.

The ambassador of Myrrna drank his beer quietly, waiting for one of them to regain their facilities. He was biting the inside cheek to keep a straight face- between the Captain and the Commander, they were managing to mimic most of the know fish in the Circle Sea. He avoided Angua's gaze; she had given up trying to ask anything and begun to frown at him, much like his wife did when he had done something wrong, but she had yet to figure out what. He wanted to make some comment about flies and such, but he had a feeling it would break the spell that seemed to envelop the table.

In Vimes' mind, a single thought had managed to worm down to his mouth. "Who the bloody hell are you?"

James put down his tankard. "James Ormata Cooper, current ambassador to Ankh-Morpork from Myrrna. Age, 29 years; married to Sara Cooper, nee Dracos." He stared impassively at Vimes.

"You haven't always been an ambassador, have you?" The good natured attitude of the table was gone, Vimes realized.

"You haven't always been a duke, have you?" James countered. Something in his body language told Vimes that he was beginning to tread in territory marked with 'Turn around, you bloody git!' signs; many of them unfinished with drag marks underneath them. Still, when Sam Vimes's patented suspicion arose, any attempt to stop it was like banging a charging camel on the head.

Carrot, however, spoke first, his forehead wrinkled. "Technically, sir, under the Arms Act of 1687, we'd have to arrest you for use of unlicensed weaponry in a confined area…"

"Doesn't both article VXI of that Act and the Diplomatic Laws and Ordinances Act VII resolve me from that?" James undid his sleeve button and slid the dress shirt up to his elbow. Five long knives rested in a black holder stamped with a royal seal; Vimes could only assume this was from Myrrna. The ambassador flicked his wrist quickly and the first knife sprang out to where it could be grasped.

Carrot paused for a moment. "You are correct, sir. Though it would have been preferable if you had shown the seal before you threw them." Angua was trying not to cringe; Carrot sometimes had the uncanny ability to sound like a mother chiding an errant youngster when speaking to even the most hardened criminals.

James shrugged. "I apologize, Captain. I did not expect I'd actually use them."

Vimes still had his eyes on the knives. "Those are assassin's knives."

"I think not!" indifference was replaced with a hint of outrage. "These are throwing knives. I hardly think that the Assassins Guild has a patent on these. Anyways, these are thicker and have different balances than those stilettos Lord Downey carries, the bloody wanker." Vimes found himself nodding; he and the ambassador were part of the exclusive, wonderful club of people that had caused physical harm to Downey.

Carrot, whom had yet to join the club, or even imagined doing such a thing (as far as Vimes could tell), looked confused. "Don't they have official assassins in Myrrna? I seem to recall reading that there were…."

James shook his head, and stroked the blue stone ring in his right earlobe. "We have one sanctioned assassin in Myrrna. The Royal Assassin mostly keeps assassins from getting to the throne than the other way around. She's not one to cross."

Angua sputtered in her beer. "It's a she?"

"As far as I can tell. Or at least, she was one. The Royal Assassin is sort of a gender neutralizing job."

Angua nodded, "Sort of like being a watchman."

Carrot looked at her for a moment, but turned away before she noticed.

An hour later, the four of them found themselves outside the Bucket. The unlicensed thieves were gone, dragged off to the nearest watch house. Vimes held out a swamp dragon hatching to the ambassador. He nodded thanks before lighting his cigarette.

The Commander of the Watch put the swamp dragon back in his pocket; he'd need to return the poor thing to the pens before Sybil noticed. "Captain, would you be so kind as to walk the ambassador home? No point in letting another diplomatic mishap go on under our noses." Carrot nodded. Whether that involved him as the victim or the aggressor, Vimes didn't say.

James said nothing, and Vimes suddenly wondered if leaving the man alone with anyone was a good idea. Then again, Carrot wasn't just anyone. So Vimes swallowed his unease and waved them off. Time to rescue his son from the clutches of womanhood, he mused.

Nothing was said for several blocks, as James walked ahead; Carrot seemed to be struggling with something. Angua tried to catch his eye, but he just smiled and shook his head, going back to his internal monologue. She sighed, and glared at the back of the ambassador's head. Something about him set off a shiver within her. For all his outward appearances, nothing was particularly interesting about him; he smelled of ink, paper, must and normal human smells…but there was an edge to it that bit at her olfactory like a rusty razor. She just couldn't put her finger on it; it almost smelled like magic- but not like that came from the University. It was a rawer, wilder thing, hidden amongst the depths of his person.

Whatever it was, it made part of her want to slink up to him with her tail between her legs, exposing her throat in submission. It wasn't a pleasant feeling. She sighed and realized she was ready to collapse. Time to go home.

Angua felt bad leaving Carrot alone with him- but Carrot could take care of himself, as she was too tired to deal with the jangle of her nerves. "Er, this is where I leave you two. Thank you very much, sir, and congratulate your wife for me." She bowed to James, then turned to Carrot to give his hand a slight squeeze. To her surprise, he gave her a small peck on the cheek in return. Normally he wasn't one for public affection. She searched for a reason in his face, but if there was something he wanted to say, he wasn't showing it. She turned down the road to her flat, trying desperately not to watch the two men disappear.

First there were four, then there were three, and now there were two.

"Hm, nice girl. Are you two seeing each other?"

"Oh, we have an Understanding, sir."

James stopped walking, but didn't look back to the captain. "Excuse me?"

Carrot looked up, confused. "Um, I said we have an Understanding, sir."

"I thought that's what you said." He didn't look at Carrot, but focused intent on the wall to his left. Looks couldn't kill (1), but it was enough to make some of the gargoyles scrabble away. "She's so in love with you she's fighting all her natural instincts to keep away, just to stay with you, and all you can call it is an Understanding?" He took a drag from the cigarette. "You really are an ass, aren't you."

Carrot looked affronted. He'd been called many things in his rather short lifetime, but generally they were pleasant or of such subtle nature they went through one ear and right out the other. This, however, even metaphor challenged captain could understand. "Now wait a minute, sir…"

"Yes?" The ambassador turned on the balls of his feet to face him.

Carrot was at a loss for what to say. Somewhere, quite possibly from behind that steel door that some knew loomed in his mind, a voice pointed out that the man was right. "I care about her a lot…" he said weakly.

"Look, I bet you do. You also care about your fellow watchmen, and the people in Ankh-Morpork. Do you have Understandings with them as well?"

"What? No! I…" Carrot never had to admit defeat before. This just wasn't fair. What did he ever do to the ambassador? Sure, Mister Vimes had attempted to question him about this every once and a while, but usually gave up after a minute or two. Everyone generally gave up after a few minutes of listening to him. Carrot didn't argue, he just let people argue with themselves.

"Look, I'm just asking." The ambassador sighed, releasing a stream of smoke that seemed to have a life of its own. "It's not easy, is it? You're good man, Carrot, but honestly? From I've seen and heard, well, it seems to me you're a tad bit scared."

"I'm not scared, sir." Carrot's face was that of silent anger, the calm before a storm.

James stood his ground. "Everyone is scared of something. Are you telling me you're not scared in the least that someday she's going to run? Not scared that she's going to go off, without a so much of a word, breaking your heart? Worried that if you try and get too close, and let her in, she'll hurt you?" There was a silence that stretched between the two men large enough to fit A'Tuin. "Or is there another reason you've left her hanging like that; let yourself hanging out there too? Its still going to hurt when one of you loses your grip. Nobody's perfect, Carrot; not you, not me, not Angua, not Commander Vimes. Hell, Vetinari's probably got more than a few problems of his own."

A sigh escaped Carrot like a death rattle, and his giant shoulders sagged at a loss. The older man patted his shoulder, no anger or pity on his face, but a look of understanding. "How do you know all this?"

James shrugged, not out of indifference, but of past awkwardness. "Because ten years ago, I did the same thing."

Carrot blinked at that for a moment, before smiling weakly. "Oh."

They walked on in silence for while longer, listening to the relative silence of Ankh-Morpork during the hours known only to watchmen and thieves.

"What was that?" James turned to look at the taller man.

Carrot paused before repeating himself. "Why are the king and queen of Myrrna in Ankh-Morpork?"

The shorter man turned abruptly, alarm spreading across his features. "How did you-…We're not…" He pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed deeply. "What makes you say that?"

"I borrowed a book on the history of Myrrna from the Librarian." Carrot shrugged. "It had some interesting things to say about the monarchy there. Is it true the king has to drink the blood of his forbearers to accept the crown?"

"What! Um, no, I think that was a rumor spread by the Duke of Quirm. I take it you've been reading Peransantoles? I was wondering how you knew about our assassin."

"I didn't think so, sir. But he did spend a great deal of time talking about it."

"Try Armana's History of the Circle Sea; Peransantoles never even went to Myrrna." There was a pause. "I was never a king, Captain."

"I saw the engraving on the portrait, sir."

When they had met for the first time, he had shown them why Sara and he wore keys. Angua had closed her eyes after she saw the coffin. Vimes had focused on the portrait itself. Only Carrot had noticed the silver crown and certain words, like "Prince", on the frame.

"Damn, you would see that, wouldn't you?" James folded his hands behind his head. "But I'm not lying. I never was a king, Captain." He held up a hand to Carrot's unvoiced protest. "A consort to the crown, however…"

"Oh. I think I understand, sir." Carrot scratched the back of his neck absently. "You didn't answer my question, sir."

James nodded. "Because…well, Sometimes personal is the same as important." He looked over to the adopted dwarf. "Now, I've heard rumor the King of Ankh-Morpork is running around as a watchman, Captain…."

"Don't know anything about that, sir. And you can call me Carrot, sir."

"Ah." He fished in his vest pocket for another cigarette. "Carrot, then, if you call me sir one more time, I will deck you, laws and ordinances be damned. I have a name, just like everyone else. Understood?"

"I think so."

"Good." They walked on, talking about uninteresting things, like weather and what they thought actually was in CMOT Dibbler's buns.

"Uh, sir…I think we just passed your…" Carrot had enough to slap a hand over his mouth before something connected HARD with his left eye. "Ow!"

"I told you, didn't I? Now come in, I'm sure we have some raw steak you can put on that."

To Be Continued...

(1). Except for a few occasions in recorded history where reality bucked the trend. The last known happened ten years ago, when Mrs. Hangslow found Mr. Hangslow with the girl from shipping.

So yes, I had to end this chapter on a silly note. Too much angst makes me cranky. And I always wanted to punch Carrot for being so danged nice.

The relationship conversation was inspired by one in Hopeless Savages: Ground Zero, where one character figures out the sentence "If you love someone, you will set them free" is a crock a shite. People are already free- you need to hold on to them for dear life.

Fade out to James, in shock, having his hair braid by Sara and The Author. Angua is seated on the floor, experimenting with various varnishes on his toes. A single whimper escapes.