Disclaimer: I don't own Discworld or any of its contents; Terry Pratchett is the sole owner of this wonderful series, nor would I ever dream of taking credit for his work.
Author's Note: This will be (to my knowledge, at least) the second of this pairing ever created on the Internet. I credit my inspiration in this eclectic, yet wonderful, pairing to Person4, author of the Reaping Affections, which I dearly hope will be updated soon.
Unlikely Alliances: Non Timetis Messor
Good evening, Lord Downey.
The head of the Assassin's Guild's eyes widened as the familiar presence of words that were thought and not heard appeared in his mind, and he looked up to see the sight of a disembodied gray shroud hovering in the air before his desk.
"Ah, yes …" the white-haired gentleman said warily, frowning with slight unease. "The Auditors, wasn't it?"
You are correct.
"Hmm," Downey said, toying with his fountain pen as he stared at the defiance of physics before him; after a few moments of drawn silence he cleared his throat softly. "Are you here about your last transaction? There's no trouble, I hope?" Lord Downey asked, not wishing to have to part with three million dollars—conjured gold or not.
No, the Auditor answered, we judge Mr. Teatime's services as satisfactory.
"You mean … he was actually successful? He inhumed the 'Fat Man?'"
Yes.
"Then …" Lord Downey began, uncertain, "the Hogfather is … dead?" he asked in disbelief—and slight horror.
No.
Lord Downey's brow wrinkled beneath the brim of his top hat. "But you just said the Hogfather was dead."
That is correct: we did.
"But he is not any longer?"
That is also correct.
"I … I'm afraid I don't quite understand," the aged president said, setting his pen down upon his desk.
We do not believe that it is necessary for you to understand, the Auditor replied simply, collectively.
Lord Downey stared at gray-robe shape before him in silence, then looked to his desk, running the beings "words" over in its mind. "I see …" he said finally. He let out a sigh; "I don't suppose you could tell me of what happened to Mr. Teatime, by any chance, then?" he asked.
Mr. Teatime has been deleted, the cowl replied, the bottom of its insubstantial form fluttering in a nonexistent breeze.
Lord Downey tapped the end of his fountain pen upon the desk for several seconds, and then got up and paced over to his drink cabinet, poured a shot of whiskey from its respective decanter, filled a shot to halfway—and then appeared to think better of it and filled it to the top; picking up the drink, he swirled the amber liquid about gently in the glass, staring off into the drink cabinet. The news of Mr. Teatime's demise did not trouble Lord Downey any—truthfully, it was a bit of a relief; however, these "Auditors," as they called themselves, had a general feeling of … wrongness … that seemed to resonate from them.
Bringing his beverage up, the assassin swallowed the liquid down in a single, smooth motion. Wiping his mouth, he asked, "I don't suppose you would care to enlighten me to the purpose of your visit, then?"
We come to you with a commission.
Tuning around, Lord Downey stared at the robe. "I don't know—"
The fee shall be ten million dollars.
And with that, the man's answer halted in his throat, his mouth still open. Ten million dollars was more than enough to quell any objections he might have had. "Very well, then," he said in a guarded matter, a slight frown still creasing the lines of his face. "Who is the client, I must know, of course," Lord Downey said.
Clients, the Auditor said.
Lord Downey frowned. "I beg your pardon?" he asked.
We have two commissions for you, the robe explained. We desire these persons to be deleted, the robe spoke, two pages appearing on Lord Downey's desk. Five million dollars payment for the deletion of each individual.
Walking over, Lord Downey picked up the papers and scanned over their contents. His eyes widened.
"You are willing to pay five million dollars apiece to have these two individuals inhumed," Lord Downey asked, disbelief thick upon his voice as he scanned over the pages once more, just to be sure that he did indeed read them correctly.
Yes.
"But one of these people already has a listed price of nine hundred and fifty thousand dollars."
It does not matter, the Auditor replied. We will pay five million dollars for this person's deletion. Lord Downey didn't see any need to press this point.
"And how soon exactly do you wish for these people to be killed?"
Immediately, the cowl replied in his mind..
"Surely there must be a reason why you are so willing to pay such a high price for these people?" Lord Downey asked.
We judge that it is not necessary for you to know that information in order to carry out the transaction, the Auditor replied simply.
The white-haired man stared at the pages in his hand, and then glanced over to the insubstantial being in front of his desk, and for a moment he opened his mouth to argue the point, but then thought of ten million dollars seemed to suddenly weight his tongue.
"Very well, you have a deal," he said, setting the pages down. "Though I am going to have to insist upon payment before hand.
Very well. The money is now in your vault, the Auditor replied. And then, without another word, it seemed to stretch out and thin before it faded from existence all together.
The man stared at the spot where the airspace that the robe had occupied for some time after it had vanished, and then shook his head. Sitting back into his desk, he stared at the two portraits upon the papers he had been given—one male, one female—before he took off his hat and set it upon the desk as he reached over and picked up the speaking tube.
"Mr. Winvoe?" he spoke. "I have two contracts that our to be carried out immediately," he said pleasantly, as he searched about the papers on his desk for the monthly funds ledger so that he could record the most recent addition.
:Scene Change:
He had no way of knowing that he had set unto motion a chain of cataclysmic events that would shake the very foundation of Cori Celesti itself.
Fate stood in a black void and gazed about him with his depthless eyes, taking in the number of gray shapes that surrounded him.
One of the robes spoke out: You have failed.
Fate glared at one of the shapes—not having any way to be certain which of the robes had spoke, if indeed it was even merely a single of them at all. "You lot certainly aren't helping matters!" he accused acidly. "The gods are beginning to suspect something, after that little debacle with the Hogfather that you orchestrated!" And it was true: the gods of the Discworld were, for the first time, were beginning to experience the first vestiges of fear. Not even when they had been imprisoned by the Sourcerer years ago had they felt this way; it was the first time that one of them had, for all intents and purposes, died.
Regardless, one of the Auditors replied, you are aware of the stipulations of our agreement when we saved rescued you from your world, and yet you have failed multiple times.
"The wizard keeps getting in the way!" he hissed, his features contorting in anger. "He has the favor of one just as powerful as I."
Yes, we are aware of this, one the cowls replied, though the god was at a loss as to which one it was exactly.
"Then why have you not done anything about it?"
One said, We have already put our own plans into motion.
"What do you mean?" Fate asked in confusion, craning his head about to take in the assembled mass of robes.
Just know that you will play a part, and be ready.
"Wait just one moment!" Fate argued, but already existence began to blur about him, reshaping itself into the familiar marble and columns of Dunmanifestin, home of the gods of the Discworld that rested atop the grand mountain of Cori Celesti.
The bottomless-gazed god clenched his fists tightly at his sides, his jaw clenched firmly. Damn them! How dare those celestial bureaucrats presume to order him about in such a manner! But suddenly, a voice broke into his anger from behind him.
"Trouble, dear Fate?" an amused voice from behind, and the god turned about to see the figure of woman leaning against one columnade that circumnavigated the area, with her arms crossed about her chest, an amused smirk on her face as she observed him with her all-emerald eyes.
"I am in no matter to exchange words with you," Fate hissed out between clenched teeth to his ancient enemy before turning about once more to depart.
"Your benefactors will not succeed in their plan," the Lady called out, all traces of pleasantness now gone from her features.
Fate froze. "You cannot protect your pawn forever," he threatened.
The Lady smiled, though there was no mirth in it. "I never sacrifice a pawn," she reminded her enemy.
The graying-haired, middle-aged man turned about, a wicked smile upon his lips, and he stopped just before the woman known only as the "Lady." He leaned forward until his face was inches from hers, and their eyes met: his twin black holes meeting her jade vision—neither of gazes wavering.
"Ah," he said softly, "but you have no choice in the matter, my lady," he said softly. "Death is the fate of all things, sooner or later. I will have your little wizard in time—all I must do is wait," he said, smiling at her; then he turned about and departed, vanishing into the air.
The Lady waited until her foe had left before she moved from her spot, walking over to the golden model of the Discworld that was the game table of the gods. She stared down at the playing field with her intense gaze; now it was time for her to make her move in this game—perhaps the final game that the gods might ever play.
Lifting a hand that she had kept closed the entire time, she placed it above the table and kept it still, feeling the dice that rolled about within her fist. Opening her palm, she blew onto the pair of dice softly, and watched as they fell tumbled through the air.
The Lady knew that Fate was correct: that it was impossible to defeat death—even the gods and Great A'Tuin would have to answer to the call of the reaper eventually. The dice spun end-over-end as they fell, bouncing upon the surface of the table and moving about as if they had a life of there own before finally settling on a destination: the twin-city of Ankh-Morpork.
No, the Lady knew that death could not be defeated, but did not the old saying go, "If you cannot beat them, join them?"
:Scene Change:
Susan Sto Helit broke her vigil of the cobblestones of Short Street, the longest street in all of Ankh-Morpork (and rumored to have been named by Bloody Stupid Johnson,) and looked up, taking note that despite a total lack of attention to where she was going, she was in no danger of even so much as brushing against another inhabitant of the overly crowed street: in the matter of fact, none of the residents seemed to even be aware of her presence, and yet all seemed to be clearing a path for her unconsciously.
The granddaughter of Death let out a slight sigh; it was normal for her to manifest the abilities that she had inherited from her grandfather if she didn't pay attention, but recently it had been happening more and more frequently. It was another reminder to her that she wasn't like other people—that she wasn't normal.
In the not so recent past, she would have ceased this accidental use of her inherited abilities immediately, but now she only gave the course of action the most fleeting of considerations before dismissing it, instead continuing on her way, unnoticed. The truth was, she wasn't so sure she wanted to be human quite so much any more: after meeting the assassin Mr. Teatime, she had seen just to what lengths a human was capable of becoming, and committing—and it had terrified her more than her ancestry ever had before.
She had just reached the junction of Short and Filigree when she suddenly froze, all other sounds seeming to vanish in that instance as a deafening mental echo, that was not so much felt as it was heard, sounded in the back of her mind. Susan's brow wrinkled in slight confusion—she, of course, was used to this sort of event, only this time it was more vague than the flashes of teeth she had remembered on Hogswatchnight: it had been the sound of . . . rolling dice?
"I wonder what that bloody well means," she warily mumbled to herself, brining a slender hand to pinch the bridge of her nose in frustration. "Regardless, everything is going to go to all Hell, due to it, no doubt—it always does . . ." the white-haired woman muttered to herself bitterly, as she raised her head and sent a scathing glare towards the heavens.
The woman was about to redirect her gaze and continue on her way when something caught her attention and she froze. There, just in the corner of her vision above her, was a sign reading "The Mended Drum." The sounds of various crashes and yelling could be heard from within.
She had, of course, known about the infamous tavern—you couldn't live in Ankh-Morpork and not hear about it—but he had never personally visited it (barring that whole incident with Music With Rocks In,) instead chasing to go to Bier's due to the nature of its clientele. But now, staring at the sign, the fancy of entering seemed to appear in her mind unbidden. She had originally been on her way to Bier's, but . . . perhaps she should change her plans: she had become somewhat of a recluse as of late, and Gawain and Twyla had begun to take note—it would most likely do her well to be around "normal" people for once. Besides, it wasn't as if she had to converse with anyone; she could just chose to make herself unnoticed. And maybe they carried something that could actually make her drunk (yet another trait she had inherited from her grandfather.)
Shaking her head to herself, she pulled open the door to the tavern and entered the seething tempest within.
:Scene Change:
If there was something to be said about Rincewind, this much could be said about him in all truth: he had experienced life and been places—more often than not, unwillingly. Rincewind was what you might call an unwilling tourist (and his initial impression of the word still held true, even to himself, since he felt he was an idiot for allowing himself to be dragged to theses places.) And as was traditional for a traveler, he had become pissed on the local foreign spirits. Yes, the self-proclaimed "Wizzard" had tasted the alcohol of the Agatean Empire, Klatch, and FourEcks.
Though the liquor that held Rincewind's heart was known other than good old fashioned Ankh-Morpork beer. It was familiar, and in his book familiar equated to boring. Sure, its consistency was more to that of gravy, it had "distinctive" taste, and often times you would find something floating in your glass, but that was never a surprise to him: it was expected—and often times you would awaken, drunk, on the Ankh River, but that was to be expected, too.
The beer of the Mended Drum gave Rincewind an escape from his life—which was anything from normal or boring. He had a group of "interesting" friends: a blithely ignorant tourist, the Disc's oldest surviving barbarian hero, a simian bookkeeper for a best friend, and a talking kangaroo. Plus, more of a crucible than anything else, trouble followed him wherever he went—on hundreds of little feet, in fact.
Rincewind cast a glance to the Luggage, the ironbound, wooden chest at rest besides his stool, and gave a slight snort; but it was then that the Luggage got to its multiple feet and took a few steps forward in seeming curiosity. Blinking at traveling container, Rincewind turned in his seat to follow its gaze and was met with the sight of the tavern door opening and a woman in a black dress entering.
Rincewind's brow wrinkled in slight confusion at the sight of her: she appeared to be a middle-aged woman with white hair that a steak of black running through it drawn up into a bun. "Exotic" would be the wrong adjective to describe the woman's looks; instead, her features and appearance all blended together to give her a dark and mysterious kind of beauty that Rincewind doubted that any other woman would be able to replicate—there something unique about her, though what it was Rincewind couldn't exactly say what. It was this observation that brought Rincewind his confusion; all the people seemed to be ignoring her—not so much as a single person, so far as he could tell, had paid her even a glancing acknowledgment of her presence. Her dress—a standard evening affair—wasn't even the standard of attire that one would expect someone to wear to the Drum.
The wizard then dismissed the lady from his mind, just as all the other patrons of the bar had. It wasn't so much that he had anything against her; it was just that, in his experience, women usually resulted in him running from something.
Susan walked through the Mended Drum, briefly taking in the sights and noting that it would seem that the tavern seemed to resist change: hardly anything had changed from when she had visited when she was sixteen. Walking unobstructed through the mass of people, she mad her way to the bar and took up vacancy in an empty stool a seat over to the right of a man in red; she removed a handful of dollar coins and dropped them down upon the counter, giving the selection of bottles upon the shelf behind the bar a glance.
"What's the green one?" she asked morosely, pointing to indicate bottle with a pale, slender finger.
The barkeep's face screwed up as a strange sense of déjà vu overcoming him all of a sudden; this seemed very familiar to him for some reason. Taking the bottle from the shelf, he wiped his hand across the label to clear some dust and peered at the name. "The Melon Brandy?" he asked.
"Yeah, sure," Susan replied, a lock of raven hair coming free from her bun and falling to her face in response to her mood.
Pouring the glass, the barkeep tried to make out the figure sitting in the stool before him, but he couldn't quite do it. He was getting on in his years, it was true, but he seemed to recall a similar figure around two decades earlier almost the exactly like this customer—he didn't remember much of the strange man, other than that he was very generous with his money, and so the barkeep filled the glass without complaint.
Taking the drink, she swallowed it in one quick swallow—and closed her eyes in frustration, as she felt no sensation other than that of the brandy sliding down her throat.
Rincewind meanwhile looked from his drink as the Luggage rose to its many feet and walked around behind him. Raising his glass to his lips, he swallowed some of his beer as he saw it stop before the person who had taken up a spot at the counter one seat to the right of him; he noted with some interest that it was that strange woman he had observed a few moments ago, only that now she had an extremely somber expression on her face as she nursed a glass of some drink that he didn't recognize. He frowned slightly as he noticed that the Luggage was staring up at her in a curious manner—or, at least, as close as wooden chest could do so, lacking a face.
"Hey, leave her alone, you," he admonished the chest. "She doesn't have any potato chips." Upon saying this, Rincewind was slightly shocked that he didn't immediately think of potatoes upon looking at the woman, as he had developed a habit of doing with those of the female persuasion, as of late.
Susan looked down from her drink as heard the patter of very many feet approach her, and she came face to face with what appeared to be a chest with legs. She peered at in slight wonderment: it moved about and had legs and seeming mannerism to it, but she couldn't sense that it was alive—at least, not in the usual sense, anyhow. It was then that what the man said registered in her mind. He could see her? Looking up curiously, Susan saw that it was the man in red a seat over from her, who appeared to be frowning at the chest with a disapproving expression on his face that was much akin to what one would give to a disobedient pet. The governess took a quick second to assess the man: he was thin in build, and had an unkempt look about him, with slightly long brown hair and a scrubby beard—but not in an overly way. Then, she realized, he was wearing the pointy, wide brimmed hat traditional of wizards, and realized that was why he could see her. She did find the word "Wizzard" sewn in gold sequin to be slightly odd, though—she was certain that only wizards wore that particular attire, so what could the purpose of it be, she couldn't help but wonder?
Susan looked down at the animate chest that, for all purposes, seemed to be staring at her, despite its lack of eyes. "This . . ." she groped for a word within her mind, "chest," she finally decided, "belongs to you?" she asked, edging back on her stool slightly as the lid raised slightly and it suddenly smiled at her with a "mouth" full of ivory teeth.
"Unfortunately," the wizard replied in a somber tome, appearing for al the world that he dearly wished the fact wasn't true. "It took a liking to me one day, for some reason," he explained, "and I haven't been able to be rid of it since." The wizard then looked up and blinked at her in confusion. "Though usually he isn't this way with people."
Susan glanced down at the chest. "Antisocial, is it?" she asked.
"Homicidal would be more appropriate," Rincewind said dryly, and Susan looked to him to see if he was kidding—he wasn't.
Not sure what to say, the governess waved to the barkeep to pour another glass of brandy, which she then downed in one smooth motion, slamming the glass upon the counter. She then shook her head and cursed genetics, proceeding to glare sullenly at the glass. Rincewind, noticing the expression upon the woman's face acutely turned back to his drink, a wary expression on his face. He had just exchanged a few sentences with a woman, and she had yet to be aggressive or show any intent to want to harm or kill him in any way—though he wasn't about to dismiss the thought: he knew his luck; any second that would change, he was sure.
Both of them had their attention turned to the same point, however, as the Luggage started shifting about on its feet in front of the woman, and the inept wizard could only stare at the chest in utter bafflement.
"What does it want?" Susan asked after a little while of silently staring at the wooden chest as it seemingly tried to catch her attention.
"I'm not quite sure," Rincewind said, frowning—things generally stopped being boring when things of this nature occurred. "Maybe you look—or smell or however it is it perceives things—familiar to it?" Rincewind guessed, and he looked up at the woman, tilting his head to the side in consideration. "Come to think of it . . ." he began. "We haven't by chance met before have we?" The woman did look familiar to him, but he couldn't quite place his finger on where—nor was he sure he wanted it to be placed at all. Rincewind wasn't big on reunions: the last one he had experienced with an old acquaintance had been in a dungeon on the other side of the Disc, and had led to him being in the middle of a war between five armies—all of whom wished him bodily harm—and a band elderly heroes. The end result was him getting flung across the world, yet again, and into a country that was only rumored to exist: where there were talking animals and people talked in a language where the words they said didn't mean what the speaker itself meant.
Susan gave the wizard a glance, considering him and searching her memory. She shook her head; they had never met, she was positive of it—her memory, after all, was perfect, she thought with disdain.
"Are you certain?" Rincewind asked nervously, the feeling that retribution he had worried about earlier was here. "You do seem familiar? You haven't tried to kill me before, by any chance, have you?" he asked nervously, wishing for all the world to be somewhere else at the moment: anywhere, so long as it was a long distance away from this strange woman; he didn't think he'd be able to handle another adventure.
Susan looked up, wondering why he would ask such a question as that—and with such a serious and nervous expression—but she couldn't help but smile bitterly at him; Rincewind tensed at the facial expression, getting ready to do what he was best at instantly, should the need arise. "Believe me," she said, "I wouldn't forget, if that was the case," she said bitterly, causing the severely anxious man to nearly suffer a panic attack as he considered all things that answer could possibly mean—a more than a few of them would involve him running from danger in the near future.
While he couldn't quite work out if it had been a threat or not, but he decided to take it as a possible one, just to tread on the safe side. Neither of them noticed that the Luggage had backed up some and seemed to be gazing at the two of the curiously.
Susan noted his unease about her, and she let out a sigh; he was a wizard, of course he would be able to tell what she was—they could see Death, after all. Getting up from her stool, a few more strands of her hair snaking free from her bun to fall limply before her face in sympathy to her current mood, she nodded to the wizard. "Well," she said, "it has been a pleasure speaking with you Mr. . . ." she said, trailing off at the end. "I never did quite get your name?"
Rincewind felt his tongue seize up, and his eyes widened as he looked around widely for a place to hide. He looked to the Luggage; he supposed he could always hide in it, if matters came to it—it had worked well enough in EcksEcksEcksEcks, hadn't it? "Oh . . ." he said, smiling nervously at her. "I'm nobody important . . ." he said, and Rincewind wasn't quite sure if it was more depressing that the statement was true, or that the universe in general obviously did not seem to share his opinion.
Susan smiled thinly as she reflected that she could not fault his answer. What person would want to willingly turn Death to their attention?
If only she could know the irony of that statement in regards to this particular individual.
"Very well then," she said simply, nodding. "At any rate, perhaps we shall meet again," she said, not really meaning it, knowing that this man would go out of his way in the future to avoid her. She began to walk off, not caring about the large surplus of coins she had left on the counter.
"Of course," Rincewind answered, watching as she leave, the Luggage doing similarly; then it turned to him and merely seemed to gaze at him. Rincewind fidgeted under the nonexistent gaze of the chest, feeling very ill at ease by its vigil. "What? Don't look at me like that," Rincewind said, though it was more of a plead. "Every time I have met a woman, it has lead to nothing but grief for me!" he defended.
The Luggage merely continued to stare at him, and Rincewind found himself beginning to sweat under its attention. Just when he thought he could not take any more of the accusatory stare from the living suitcase, it seemed to sway to the side quizzically, and then turned around and hurried out of the pub through the back way.
Rincewind stared at it, letting out the breath he had been holding; he wasn't concerned at the moment with where the Luggage had went, just so long as it wasn't here—staring at him.
You know, he heard a voice say in the back of his mind, it's right.
"Oh, no," Rincewind moaned, closing his eyes as he tried to pull his hat over his head to hide from the familiar voice. "Not you again."
You didn't have to be so rude, his conscience admonished, heedless of his grievance.
"I wasn't being rude—I was being scared."
You were still rude.
"You know how I am with woman!" Rincewind argued to himself—more disturbed by the fact that this act wasn't, in fact, so disturbing to him.
That's no excuse.
"Look how things ended up with Conina!" he hissed. "I don't know about you, but I have no desire to return to the Dungeon Dimension anytime soon—or ever for that matter!"
You know I'm right, though, his mind continued, undeterred.
"Shut up!" Rincewind wailed quietly, getting a strange look from the barkeep.
And his conscience was silent was finally silent, though Rincewind couldn't help but stare forlornly at the remaining dregs of beer in his mug.
And Susan left the bar, not even bothering with the trouble of making herself unnoticeable any longer.
:Scene Change:
The Assassin lurked in the alleyway of the forgotten drum, twirling his dagger among his digits, but halted the finger play as he heard the door to the Mended Drum open. He pressed his body flat to the wall of the alley and peeked around the corner, grinning to himself as he saw his hit walk out. Normally, it went against the Assassin's honor to kill a mark out in the street, like a common thug, but he figured that five hundred thousand dollars was more than worth a little tarnish on his name.
Meanwhile, he was not aware of (though it was more that he couldn't see) the figure that watched him from the end of the alleyway. This figure was Death, who was waiting patiently in the shadows. He pulled a lifetimer from his rubs and watched as the last grains of sand drained.
The Assassin, waited; his target seemed to have paused, and looking around the corner he saw that she was just staring up at the sky with a disappointed look on her face. That was fine; he could wait. So instead, he merely slid a bit deeper into the shadows and listened intently for the sound her footsteps resuming.
Then he looked about in slight bewilderment: what was that noise? It sounded like hundreds of little feet. Looking in the direction of the sound, he turned his head to see the last sight that had greeted many a person before him—a wide-open mouth, framed by white teeth, with a mahogany tongue. His eyes widened in horror, the Assassin lashed out with his dagger, and, to his horror, was only met the dull thud as the blade sunk into wood.
He didn't even have time to scream, and at that moment, the robed anthropomorphic personification pulled an hourglass from the recesses of its shroud, and watched the last of the sands fall into the bottom bulb, and he arced the scythe through the Assassin's body, the phantom blade severing the tether between soul and body as the physical vanished.
Death watched this event with great interest. He knew what the chest was of course, having seen it numerous times before, and he knew who owned it. The Luggage licked its red tongue around its mouth, and then seemed to turn and flashed a row of teeth at the skeleton standing in the shadows before it wandered off back into the pub.
Death watched it go curiously, raising a bleached digit to his chin in a thoughtful manner. Then the skeleton turned walked over to the Assassin, who seemed to be looking about in confusion.
REMORA SELACHII? Death asked, with a voice that was like a coffin lid slamming shut.
Remora turned around and gazed at the grim reaper, and his eyes widened in slight surprise, though was all the reaction he gave.
"I take it I'm dead, then?" the Assassin asked, though it was more of a reflection than an actual question.
IT WOULD APPEAR SO, YES, Death said, nodding his skull. Then he paused as he saw the familiar figure of his granddaughter walk by the alleyway, the blue glow of his eye sockets flaring momentarily, in what would pass for a confused blink for the skeleton. UMM … he began, turning towards the soul of the Remora Selachii, who was patiently standing there, looking about as he waited for whatever it was supposed to be that happened to occur. I DON'T SUPPOSE YOU COULD TELL ME WHOM YOU WERE GOING TO KILL, COULD YOU? Death asked.
Remora shrugged. "Don't see why not," he admitted. "Doesn't matter now, really. I was supposed to inhume some bird—a governess or something."
Death turned to where he just saw his granddaughter. REALLY? He mused, tilting his head slightly in thought.
"Yeah," the Assassin said, nodding and then shaking his head to himself in amazement. "Don't know whom she got mad, but I wouldn't want to be in her shoes," he commented.
OH?
Remora nodded. "Someone but a price of five million dollars on her head. Mark my words, every self-respecting Assassin in the city is going to want to take a go at her."
That thought did not sit well with Death at all.
I DON'T SUPPOSE YOU COULD TELL ME WHO THE CLIENT IS, COULD YOU—OUT OF CURIOUSITY? He asked, attempting to be nonchalant, though not quite sure he had the hang of it.
"Sorry," Remora said as he began to fade away. "None of us really knows: the boss has been real secretive about this one. Although …" he reflected thoughtfully, "there was another contract put out for the same amount as her, now that I think about it?"
WAS THERE? Death asked with interest.
The Assassin was near gone now, but he nodded. "Some wizard fellow. Name was 'Ricewin' or something, if I recall," he commented, and then was gone from sight.
The last comment of the soul caused Death to give pause, and he looked up into the vastness of the night sky in thought. Then turning, he disappeared into the shadows.
:Scene Change:
Rincewind looked up as he heard the familiar sound of the Luggage returning, and he stared at it: was that a dagger sticking out of its lid? As the chest stopped by his feet, Rincewind reached out and gripped the handle of the weapon, giving a sharp tug as the knife came loose. He stared at it openly, and then looked to the Luggage, who was merely gazing up at him. He opened his mouth to ask, but then thought better of it and merely tossed the dagger to the side, the Luggage opening its mouth and swallowing the weapon as it descended.
Getting a few dollar coins from his pocket, Rincewind dropped them upon the counter and got up and left.
Okay, well this is my first shout at a Discworld story, and I'm desperately hoping that I managed to at least keep the people in character somewhat. Remora Selachii is an actual Assassin from the Discworld computer game Discworld: Noir for the PC and Playstation, and I decided to use him since I needed one.
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Well, if you should feel so inclined, feel free to give feedback.