Chapter 2.

The next morning, three things happened. The Times—this time saying "The Thruth Shall Make Ye Free" and putting Waleed in mind of a lisping bird—arrived on his doorstep bearing the headline "Klatchian Affairs Consultancy Founded," over an article that was not the one written by Waleed. He was disappointed. He'd written his on good clean notebook paper, just like you were supposed to, and in addition he'd not used nearly so many howevers. His skill at languages included Morporkian, and he thought he'd written a beautiful article. But it got passed up for another clunky, weasel-word-filled de Worde special.

Then the assassination contractor turned up on Waleed's doorstep demanding to know why the assassin he had hired was telling the Watch about The Klatchian Street while an inhumation client was still very much alive and walking the Morporkian ones.

After he left, but before Waleed had even finished his cup of Klatchian coffee, the door was knocked upon again, and this time when Waleed opened it he found a very tall, very thin Klatchian man. He had an elegantly trimmed goatee, and wore a black turban with three falcon feathers stuck in. However, he was also wearing a very Morporkian suit, and while his tie did have a palm tree embroidered on it, it was the perfect length and width to be the latest Morporkian style. His whole look said "I'm proud of where I came from, but I can fit in here, too." Unfortunately, from the neck up, his look said something different to Waleed.

It said Grand Vizier.

Which, really, meant a multiplicity of things, but foremost among them in Waleed's mind was "traditionally rather opposed to Assassins being around." Someone who does not need Assassins himself (the enemies of a Grand Vizier often disappeared without any Assassins being contracted; they often were Assassins) but often has them set against him tends to have that opposition. Waleed had met a Grand Vizier…or someone that Lord Downey had been utterly convinced was one…once before, but he'd gone back where he came from without incident, or at least without incident that involved Waleed. Much.

"Good morning," said the man, and then proceeded in an oily tone that, if the beard and turban had not already fed Waleed's paranoia, would have sufficed to give it at least an appetizer and possibly an entrée as well, "I am Professor Nizam, recently made professor on Klatchian Culture and Wizardry at Unseen University."

Waleed managed an uncommitted "So is that, like, Klatchian culture and Klatchian wizardry, or Klatchian culture and how it relates to wizardry in general?"

"The former. Klatchian wizardry is a fascinating subject, Mr. Sahaffy."

Turned into a snake lately, Professor Nizam, was what Waleed wanted to say, but he knew that even if he had had a good reason to say it, it wouldn't have come out any good.

The coffee kicked in.

Wait, I'm prejudging a Klatchian. I'm doing exactly what I'm supposed to get people to stop, he thought.

Well, it's not like I prejudged him for being Klatchian.

No, you just prejudged him for being a Klatchian of a certain age, height and weight, a nastier part of his brain—one that never managed to be nasty to anyone else—told him. Not much better.

"I'm sure Klatchian wizardry is fascinating and you know lots about it. But you and I both know you're not here for that. You're here to size up the new recruit. Do come in, I have some coffee left." He led Professor Nizam to the sitting room and poured him a cup of coffee.

"I have to say that I myself would have picked someone who was not an assassin." Nizam looked disdainfully at Waleed's diploma. Waleed knew it was a bit unusual for someone who had come from money to actually take the Black Syllabus, but he also knew he didn't come from so much money that being able to have a job to fall back on was unnecessary. Besides, knowing how to hide and how to fight helped immensely when you were a short, skinny Klatchian boy. And besides that, insulting the guild of Assassins was insulting some of the finest people Klatch had ever seen, like Pteppic of Djelibeybi and the famous 71-Hour Ahmed.

"Well, why is that? It's a perfectly legitimate guild, and the other day I was told by my fiancee's father that he was proud his daughter was marrying an Assassin."

"Well, yes, in many contexts it's perfectly legitimate, and I won't say that your future father in law—Mr. Wazir, who owns the bookshop, isn't it?—is wrong. But think of it this way. If you wanted to represent Morporkians to a culture that was already distrustful of them, you wouldn't send Corporal Nobbs and C.M.O.T. Dibbler, would you?"

"Well, of course not."

"Neither do I want to be representing Klatchians with an Assassin. Especially seeing as you'll be working with me, and I don't think you need to be told twice what I put people in mind of, seeing as you were in mind of it yourself."

"Well, I don't actually have to do any assassinating. Say, is this job dangerous? I became an Assassin because I wanted exciting prospects."

"Yesterday morning I had a half-brick heaved through my window with a note on it reading 'You'll Get Yours, Raghead.' I wouldn't call that danger, because it was the window in the kitchen and I haven't used the kitchen since my sister died. "

"Oh, I'm sorry. Was she such a good cook that you can't defile her memory?" said Waleed, but also thought Must remember to ask him why he does not live in the University. All the other wizards do.

"No, Mr. Sahaffy. She was such a bad alchemist that I still can't use my kitchen."

"Well, that wouldn't have been Guild work. There's no style in throwing a half-brick through a window. Anyway, I'm making baklava for the inaugural meeting of the Klatchian-Morporkian Relations Committee. I'm expecting some of my guildmates, and Mr. Wazir, and his daughter, and Mr. Goriff. Representing the Watch will be Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson on account of his speaking our language. I sent many messenger pigeons last night."

"You have been busy. Perhaps I should go and get someone other than myself to represent wizardry. I shall be back with Ponder Stibbons."

"Who's Ponder Stibbons?"

"The weedy one with glasses. High Energy Magic Department."

"Oh, that's Ponder Stibbons. I've seen him out and about a few times. At least you're not bringing Ridcully; nothing against Ridcully, but I'd have to make so much more food! Incidentally, how long have you been at the University? You don't exactly have the physique."

"I grew up in a poor Klatchian town where a fresh fish and a piece of bread was a feast fit for a sultan. And while you'd think that would only make me more likely to overindulge on University food, it only made me unable to stomach as much of it as the rest of the wizards eat. But I am as they say a true Ankh-Morpork success story. From rags to an Unseen University professorship!"

"I grew up here. I was born in Klatch, but my mum is Morporkian, so she wanted to move back here. There are things I don't know. I don't know nearly as much about Klatch as people think I do. Vimes said I had quote-unquote an Ankhian accent so thick you could float rocks."

"Mr. Sahaffy, you could float trolls. But I am not going to call you any less Klatchian for that. You stepped up, even though you weren't going to be punished by the Watch anyway, and your willingness to work for the cause is more important than your accent or your green eyes or where your mother was from. I will be back this afternoon. If I had disliked you, I would instead be going to Vimes to pick someone else."

Professor Nizam left, and Waleed sorted out the rest of the messages he had gotten from friends and family. Rather embarrassingly, he had not known his mother and father were on vacation in Quirm until he saw a note from the shoppe's assistant manager in the pile. It read simply "Sahaffys in Quirm. Check inbox." Because all of the responses to his invitations had come by messenger pigeon or the clacks, Waleed had not yet attacked the veritable mountain of paper in his inbox, which was a large wooden box that could be slid in and out of Waleed's front room, something like a dresser drawer with a lid. He was proud of it. Even though the Post Office was unreliable, letters still traveled in Ankh-Morpork; delivering them was a good way for boys to earn pocket money, and some people even delivered letters to their friends themselves, although that was best done when the friend could be expected to be not at home, because you'd feel bloody silly if you went to tell your friend something in a letter and he turned out to be in. Anyway, the inbox was full, but rather near the top of it was a letter from Mr. and Mrs. Sahaffy about their upcoming vacation in Quirm. Waleed resolved to check it more frequently, and quite possibly to get a Dis-organizer as well. Apart from his parents, everyone else he had invited was able to come to the meeting.

He poured himself another cup of coffee and waited for them to show up. He knew they would be late. Klatchians were never on time. Waleed pictured a Klatchian Dis-organizer. "3 p.m. Or possibly 3.15 p.m. Or 3.30 p.m. Sometime this afternoon. When you feel like stopping by." It was no wonder 71-Hour Ahmed had become famous; he was the first Klatchian in history to be early. But Waleed didn't mind that everyone would be late. It gave him more time to make baklava and plan the agenda. Which needed quite a bit of planning.

Author's Note: Klatch has to be, to be canon-compliant, more stereotypically Arab than I would write real-world Arabs. I would never say "Arabs were never on time," even though I had an Arabic professor who was late to his own classes. It's still something of an unfair generalization on Roundworld. But this takes place on Discworld, and on Discworld the clichés are bigger just so that you get a cooler noise when they deflate.