GLITZ AND GLAMOUR • THINGS START TO LOOK OMINOUS • LATE NIGHTS • A NEAR-DEATH EXPERIENCE • MONEY NOT TO SPEND
Hourglasses continued to stack up over the next two days. It seemed everyone in the city was going to be hit, whether they liked it or not, and the majority opinion was that they did not. A few of the most paranoid had locked themselves away for the duration, every crack and nook covered. Incidentally, the Watch had been getting a lot of complaints from neighbors when the smell of apartments who hadn't stepped out to use the privy got to be too much.
There had been a lot of other complaints too, and minor incidents. People were uneasy. Carrot had gone out to walk the streets even more than usual; just seeing him out and about calmed tempers somewhat. He was a Reassuring Presence.
There wasn't much for the Watch to do in the meanwhile but keep the peace— every lead had gone cold. Otto Chreik had volunteered his iconograph to try to get a picture of the culprit, but it was impossible to predict who would be next. Efforts had led to several pictures of bored, hourglass-less volunteers. The most exciting iconograph they got was of someone picking their nose.
Almost half the Watch had their hourglasses now, including Dorfl the golem.
Vimes had remained hourglass-free so far, which he liked to think was due to his constant vigilance. [4]
At about noon on the third day of the hourglasses, Detritus stuck his head in the doorframe, brow uncharacteristically wrinkled. "Missus Ramkin is here to see you," he said. "She look not happy."
"Angry?" Vimes asked, shooting to his feet on instinct and patting down his armor. He huffed a breath onto his helmet and buffed it into a shine, then jammed it on his head. "I haven't done anything." He said this with less conviction than he might have liked.
"No sir," Detritus said, leaning in close and lowering his voice to a troll version of a whisper. Vimes was alarmed to realize Detritus looked slightly panicked. "I think der lady is upset."
Vimes stared at him.
Then he burst from the office, badly startling a woman who had been waiting in the hallway. Detritus was only a moment behind. His presence served to clear out the rest of the stragglers, some who were still stubbornly trying to complain about their hourglasses.
Vimes barrelled down the stairs, taking them two or even three at a time.
He skidded into the main office and almost directly into Sybil. Then he yanked her aside, because Detritus was still following him and there was no stopping a troll once he got up the momentum.
Vimes held Sybil and the two of them watched as Detritus rebounded off the wall with a loud, extended clang as his specially-made troll armor hit the wall then the floor.
The dust settled.
Vimes looked at Sybil. There were other members of the Watch, all pointedly not watching. Each and every one of them had the same expression on their face— a person who became a Watchman was not a person who knew what to do with a crying woman. And she was crying. Not a lot, but a little, tears gathering at the edge of her eyes.
"Oh, Sam," Sybil said, and hugged him. Vimes made panicked eyes at his Watch. Some of them helped Detritus to his feet, and most of them eased their way out of the room. Traitors, the lot of them.
"What happened?" Vimes asked. "Is Young Sam all right? Are you?"
"Oh, yes, we're fine," Sybil said, pulling back and wiping her face with a giant handkerchief. Detritus must have given it to her before he went upstairs to get Vimes. It was the size of a tea towel. "It's just so terrible— it was all a shock, you see." The tea towel went up and down, then revealed his wife's face again, significantly calmer. "It's Marjorie. I stopped by her estate for our lunch, and I found her there…"
Vimes could get the picture. He also could, and did, get a bad feeling deep in the part of him that, despite his hatred of mysteries, was quite good at solving them.
"Gods," he said, patting her back.
"I know this isn't what you usually do, but do you think you could—"
"Of course," Vimes said, glad to have something concrete to do. He cast around the room for the remaining members of the Watch, and was glad to see Carrot was one of the ones who had stayed. "Captain Carrot?" he said.
"Yessir," Carrot said, and came bounding up. "There, there, Lady Vimes," he said, taking the dishtowel-handkerchief from her and replacing it with, presumably, one of his own. He was one of the only people in Ankh-Morpork who called her Lady Vimes instead of Lady Ramkin, and also Sybil adored him. "You can stay here at the Watch while we go check it out."
"I'm going with you," Sybil said, patting his cheek fondly. She was usually of the opinion that Carrot didn't eat enough, though Vimes feared what would happen if he grew any more.
Carrot looked at Vimes, who shrugged.
[4] It was not.
The Lady Marjorie Glitz had been found by Sybil, dead as a doornail at the foot of her back stairs which led into the garden. Marjorie kept two or three dragons back there, rescues from the Sunshine Sanctuary, Sybil told him. Marjorie had never married (thus the dragons) and the whole estate belonged to her.
Carrot stood at the top of the stairs, crouched down to look at the length Marjorie must have fallen. Vimes examined the body at the foot. Though the patrolmen who had come before them had roped off the scene, a small gaggle of household staff was peeking in curiously.
"No sign of a struggle up here, sir," said Carrot, standing back up with something in his hand. "But I found a bit of a shoe heel stuck in a snag on the carpet."
"Uh-huh, her high-heel is fraying on one and missing the other," Vimes grunted. Old shoes. Often those old ladies would get attached to fashions from years and years ago, when they had been young and beautiful. These ones were pink and quite ugly.
Carrot descended the stairs carefully.
The Lady Ramkin was occupied with comforting one of the maids behind the rope, so Vimes gestured Carrot over quietly. "Check for a bag, a big thing with flowers," he said. "I want to see her hourglass."
Carrot looked at him curiously, but departed obediently.
Vimes checked over the body, finding nothing out of the ordinary. She'd been too surprised to use her hands to try to catch herself, he thought, and broken her neck. When you were talking a big house like this, down the stairs was a long way to go.
Carrot returned with Marjorie Glitz's bag and set it down carefully beside Vimes, crouching to be on the same level. "What is it, Commander?"
Vimes reached into the bag, holding his breath as the expected smell wafted out. He pulled out the hourglass. All the sand was on the bottom.
"Oh," said Carrot.
"The question is," Vimes said, "Which came first? The sand running out, or the death?"
Carrot looked faintly alarmed.
"What is it?" Sybil said, kneeling down beside them. She cut off Vimes' protests with a click of her teeth. "Oh, hush. I'm fine now. What's going on?" She glanced at the empty hourglass. "Oh," she said, with an intake of breath. "You had better not let anyone else see that."
"But she only tripped," Carrot said. "This doesn't look like foul play to me— though of course we still have to ask the Assassins."
"I agree," said Vimes, because he did. He turned the hourglass upside-down. The sand didn't move. Quietly, he tucked it into his pocket. "But that brings up its own set of questions."
Some of the patrolmen came over and laid out a sheet over the body. Vimes, Carrot, and Sybil watched it float gently over the unmoving face of Marjorie Glitz.
"Have we seen the hourglasses on any other corpses around the city?" Vimes asked his higher-ranked troops, who were crowded into his office. There were plenty of murders, accidents, and murder-accidents every day in this city, even with the Watch around. Some of them were even legal. Corpses were not that hard to find.
"Nope," Nobby said. "Only, most of the stiffs we find around the city get robbed before we even get called in. Hourglasses, wallets, pants and all."
"True," said Angua. "So we couldn't really see if the hourglasses were empty or not." She frowned. "You don't think making the hourglasses run out of sand could really kill a person, do you?"
"I don't know," Vimes said. "I don't know how to do it. But if someone does, they'd be a millionaire within the day. Imagine being able to kill whoever you want, just by getting a hand on their hourglass."
Vimes let this soak in. Sometimes it took a while with these troops.
"But you said the sand was already low," Carrot pointed out. He looked uncomfortable under all that red hair and so close to Nobby, who was squashed nearest to him. "Maybe it was just her time to go?"
"A man shouldn't know when he's going to die," Colon said, shaking his head. "Not till he finds himself on the other end of a sword."
"Yes, if nothing else, I imagine she would be a little more lax about doing crime if she knew her time was almost up," said Cheery.
This suggestion was met with horrified silence. An Ankh-Morpork where its citizens didn't have to worry about consequences was not a good Ankh-Morpork. Say what you wanted about Vetinari's prisons, but no one who had seen one wanted anywhere near the place. The gallows worked to the same effect.
Carrot cleared his throat. Vimes was glad. It was comforting to the troops when Carrot stood up like he knew what to do, which he usually did. "Right," he said. "No one tells anyone our theory about the hourglasses." There was a murmur of acknowledgement. "We need to find out if we're right."
"Nobby, Colon, you talk to Throat Dibbler," Vimes said. "See if he's—ahem— acquired any hourglasses of the recently-deceased."
"I suggest you take Detritus too," Carrot interjected. "Dibbler sometimes needs a little harder persuading to cooperate with authority."
"Yessir!" said Detritus, trying to salute, to the horror of everyone in range. "I do good cooperating!"
"In the meanwhile," Vimes said. "Er, let me see everyone's hourglasses who's got them."
With more reluctance now, Detritus, Colon, and Cheery produced theirs. All were mostly full, though Colon's was leaning a little sandward. An old Seargent was he, though not apparently about to drop dead at any moment.
Vimes cleared his throat. "Good," he said. "Carry on."
"Do stop worrying, Sam," said the Lady Ramkin as they dressed for bed.
"Who's worried?" asked Vimes. "Where's Young Sam?"
"Tucked in, where we put him not fifteen minutes ago, hourglass-free," soothed Sybil. "Really, there's not much more you can do at the moment. What did your patrolmen say?"
Vimes reluctantly abandoned his armor to the closet and followed her towards the canopy bed. "They were only able to uncover two hourglasses whose names matched our records of the dead. Both empty." He sat on the edge of the bed and shook his slippers off irritably, then his dressing gown. "Did you know Captain Humpeding has an almost entirely full hourglass? You can hardly see the time that's passed so far."
"Sally is a vampire, dear," said Sybil. "I imagine she's got a long time to go."
Vimes grumbled as he got under the covers and punched the pillow into shape. "If she stays in the Watch, she's going to run out of ranks eventually."
Sybil laughed. "Maybe she'll become Patrician then. Can you imagine Vetinari rolling in his grave because there's a Samuel Vimes-trained Watchman as Patrician?"
This actually served to cheer him up greatly.
Still, though, Vimes found himself staring up into the dark in the small hours, long after Sybil had fallen asleep. The fact remained that whatever the purpose of the hourglasses, someone or something was putting them in his city. And it probably wasn't for a good reason.
Like Colon said, a man— or woman— shouldn't know when they were going to die. It was against the natural order of things. They especially shouldn't have to worry about how much sand might be left in the hypothetical life-timer of a one-year-old boy…
Maybe Vimes would just check on Young Sam for a moment. Whether he had gotten his hourglass or not, the lad probably needed peeking in on anyway.
Mind made up, Vimes swung his legs out of bed quietly and reached for his dressing gown.
His hand hit something hard and clinky in the pocket.
Gritting his teeth, Vimes eschewed the slippers, waiting comfortably in all their cotton glory, and put on his old, worn boots instead, then went to the closet for his armor.
The station was much quieter for the night watch, even at the big one in Pseudopolis Yard. Vimes was left alone as he stomped up the stairs to his office, wearing pajamas with his boots and breastplate and helmet.
He stormed in and sat behind his desk, lighting a cigar and chewing angrily. He put the object from his dressing-gown, now transferred to his trouser pocket, on the desk.
All things said, it was a handsome hourglass.
The casing was made of the same sort of iron as Vimes' original, favorite armor, with all the wear and tear that came with it. His name was scrolled into the top, and the glass had more than a few dings itself, which probably said something about Vimes' life. But the glass was shaped very oddly.
Vimes was proud to see the sand was at a pretty good level— not Sally von Humpeding levels, but not about to fall down the stairs either. A good few years of Watchman life left, so long as he stayed away from frilly pink high heels.
That raised an interesting question. If you died when the sand ran out, did that mean you were immortal until then? The prospect of Ankh-Morporkians who didn't fear death was even more disturbing than the other alternatives.
Something shifted in the corner of his eye.
Of course, there was always the possibility they were wrong and that Vimes was going to die any minute.
Vimes had got his crossbow out and loaded by the time the shadows coalesced into something more solid. The cigar fell out of his mouth.
Hᴇʟʟᴏ, said the figure in the corner. As ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ sᴇᴇ, ᴡᴇᴀᴘᴏɴs ᴡᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ʜᴇʀᴇ—
Vimes shot. He knew precisely who and what it was the moment he saw him, deep in that animal hindbrain in which every man feared it and knew it all at once. Death politely didn't move out of the way, and the bolt went through his form and hit the wall behind.
"You could at least pretend it hurt you," Vimes said, slumping dejectedly in his chair. Is this what being dead felt like? It didn't feel like it.
Oᴜᴄʜ, said Death, courteously.
"Yeah, that didn't make me feel better," Vimes said. "I have more crossbow bolts, and I'm not afraid to use them."
Tʜᴇsᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ʙʀᴀᴠᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴅs ғᴏʀ ᴀ ᴍᴀɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ʙʟᴜᴇ ʜᴀɴᴅᴘʀɪɴᴛ ᴜᴘ ᴛʜᴇ sɪᴅᴇ ᴏғ ʜɪs ʙʀᴇᴀsᴛᴘʟᴀᴛᴇ.
"I'm not ready to go." On a whim, Vimes picked up his hourglass from the desk. "See? I've still got more time."
I ᴀᴍ ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴇʀᴇ ғᴏʀ—
Someone, or two someones, burst through the door, yelling.
"Ayiiii!" said Carrot, while Angua was mostly just growling.
Vimes, already having had the shock scared out of him by coming face-to-non-face with Death, just stared. Both Captains Angua and Carrot were half-dressed. Angua was wearing her breastplate and helmet, and, apparently, Carrot's pants. Carrot had gone for breastplate but no shirt, but at least he was wearing underwear, and at least it was his own.
Both were barefoot, but Carrot had his shiny sword and Angua had found a club somewhere.
Nᴏ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴀʟᴀʀᴍᴇᴅ, said Death. Iᴛ ɪs ᴏɴʟʏ ᴍᴇ.
Carrot and Angua looked at each other.
"Ayiii!" said Carrot.
"Growl," said Angua, and the two of them charged.
Their weapons went boiii-ng off the wall, and Vimes winced. Carrot went nose-first into hard stone, but Angua managed to catch herself only to tumble to the floor in a sprawl of limbs and Carrot's trousers.
Vimes craned his neck to look at them. "Well done, troops," he said.
"We won't let you take the Commander!" Carrot said, rubbing his nose with one hand and holding out the sword with the other.
"We heard the crossbow bolt," Angua said, standing. "Are you okay, Vimes?"
"I'm fine, Angua," Vimes said, vaguely perplexed to realize it was true. He had heard things about walking into the light, and this didn't feel like that. "I don't think he's here for me. Right?"
Cᴏʀʀᴇᴄᴛ, said Death. I ᴀᴍ, ɪɴ ᴀ sᴇɴsᴇ, ᴀʟᴡᴀʏs ʜᴇʀᴇ. Hᴏᴡᴇᴠᴇʀ, I ᴀᴍ ʜᴇʀᴇ ɴᴏᴡ sᴘᴇᴄɪғɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ ᴛᴏ ᴀsᴋ ғᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴀssɪsᴛᴀɴᴄᴇ.
Angua and Carrot lowered their weapons, looking faintly embarrassed.
"This is about the hourglasses?" Carrot said.
Yᴇs, Death said. Iᴛ ɪs ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍɪɴɢ ǫᴜɪᴛᴇ ᴀ ᴘʀᴏʙʟᴇᴍ.
"We've noticed," Vimes said, standing up and trying to relieve his jelly-legs from the close brush with Death. He was still holding the hourglass. He put down the crossbow, but not the timer.
"You got yours," Carrot observed. "What's that glass thing on the side?"
Vimes' hourglass was shaped like a regular one, but there was a length of glass piping that seemed to split off from one side, then match back with the other. There was no sand in that part at the moment.
Hᴍᴍ, said Death. Aʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ, ʙʏ ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇ, ᴀ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴛʀᴀᴠᴇʟʟᴇʀ?
"Ha, ha," said Vimes. "Is that illegal?"
"Why does it say Commander Samuel Vimes?" asked Angua quickly. "Not Sir or Duke? As a matter of fact, I don't think the rest of the Watch have their rank titles."
"It's your True Name," said Carrot. "Right?"
Yᴇs, said Death, watching him carefully with deep blue eyes. Tʜᴀᴛ ɪs ᴀɴ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴇsᴛɪɴɢ sᴡᴏʀᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ.
"Thanks," Carrot beamed, then sheathed it as an afterthought. "What's this you say about needing our help?"
Death looked a little embarrassed, though how Vimes could tell he couldn't have said.
Yᴏᴜ ᴄᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ʜᴏᴜʀɢʟᴀssᴇs. Tʜᴇʏ ᴀʀᴇ ʟɪғᴇ-ᴛɪᴍᴇʀs. Tʜᴇʏ ᴍᴇᴀsᴜʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ sᴘᴀɴ ᴏғ ᴀ ʙᴇɪɴɢ's ʟɪғᴇ.
"We figured," said Angua. "You want us to find out who sent them out? We've been looking into it already."
Death stared at them. I ғɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪᴠɪɴɢ ᴠᴇʀʏ ᴏᴅᴅ, he said. Qᴜɪᴛᴇ ᴇsᴘᴇᴄɪᴀʟʟʏ ᴛʜᴏsᴇ ɪɴ Aɴᴋʜ-Mᴏʀᴘᴏʀᴋ.
"Why, thank you," said Vimes, oddly touched with civic pride as only a citizen of Ankh-Morpork could be. "How did your life-timers get out?" He gave Death a hard, stern look. "You didn't release them, did you?"
Nᴏ, said Death. Tʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ ᴀ ʙᴀᴅ ɪᴅᴇᴀ.
"Yeah, we've gotten that sense," said Vimes.
Tʜɪs ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴏɴʟʏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴᴇᴅ ɪғ sᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ᴅᴇʟɪʙᴇʀᴀᴛᴇʟʏ sᴜᴍᴍᴏɴᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪғᴇ-ᴛɪᴍᴇʀs ᴛᴏ ᴛʜɪs ᴘʟᴀɴᴇ, Death said. Iɴ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ᴄᴀsᴇ, ᴡᴇ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ғɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴠᴇʀsᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇғғᴇᴄᴛs ᴀɴᴅ ɢᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇʀs ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴍʏ ʀᴇᴀʟᴍ.
"I'm guessing the whole city is going to get one at some point," said Vimes.
Iɴᴅᴇᴇᴅ, said Death. Bᴜᴛ I ғᴇᴀʀ ɪғ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴs, ɪᴛ ᴡɪʟʟ sᴘʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴏᴜᴛsɪᴅᴇ Aɴᴋʜ-Mᴏʀᴘᴏʀᴋ. Aɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇɴ I ᴍᴀʏ ɴᴏᴛ ʙᴇ ᴀʙʟᴇ ᴛᴏ ɢᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ʙᴀᴄᴋ.
"What happens if they stay in the world of the living?" asked Carrot.
Pʀᴏʙᴀʙʟʏ ᴊᴜsᴛ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ɪᴍᴀɢɪɴɪɴɢ, said Death. Oɴʟʏ ᴡᴏʀsᴇ.
"Oh," said Angua faintly. "Good."
"Do you have somewhere for us to start?" asked Carrot politely. "Only, we've been looking 'round the whole city and we haven't found anything. Who do you think would do this?"
Oɴʟʏ sᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ᴋɴᴇᴡ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴇxɪsᴛᴇᴅ ᴀᴛ ᴀʟʟ, Death said. Aɴᴅ ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs ɴᴏᴛ ᴍᴇ, ᴍʏ ʀᴀᴠᴇɴ, ᴏʀ ᴍʏ ɢʀᴀɴᴅᴅᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ.
"So that leaves…?" Angua asked.
I ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ɴᴏ ᴏɴᴇ, Death said. Dᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ sᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ᴄᴀɴ ʟᴇᴀʀɴ ᴏғ ᴛʜɪɴɢs ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜɪs? Iᴛ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴀʟᴍᴏsᴛ ᴄᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴʟʏ ʙᴇ ғᴏʀʙɪᴅᴅᴇɴ ᴋɴᴏᴡʟᴇᴅɢᴇ, ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ᴍᴏsᴛ ᴍᴏʀᴛᴀʟs ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ғᴇᴀʀ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴏᴜᴄʜ.
A look of distaste crossed each of the Watchmen's faces. "The Library," they said, together.
Aʜ, ʏᴇs, Death said. I ᴘɪᴄᴋ ᴜᴘ ᴍᴀɴʏ sᴏᴜʟs ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ.
Vimes glanced out the window, where the moon was still high. "That will have to wait until morning," he said. "You just can't get bananas this time of night."
Iᴛ ɪs ǫᴜɪᴛᴇ ᴇᴍʙᴀʀʀᴀssɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴀsᴋ ғᴏʀ ʜᴇʟᴘ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜɪs, said Death, shuffling his probably-feet. I ᴀᴍ ᴀғʀᴀɪᴅ I ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ sᴜᴄʜ ᴀ ɢʀᴀsᴘ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪᴠɪɴɢ ᴀs I ᴅᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ. Tʜɪs ɪs ᴡʜʏ I ᴀsᴋ ʏᴏᴜ.
"Er," said Carrot. "Is there a way to contact you? That is, if you want to find the culprit with us." One did not just assume Death wanted to do anything.
I ᴅᴏ, said Death. Bᴜᴛ ɪғ ɪᴛ's ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ sᴀᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜ, I ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀɪᴍɪɴᴀʟ ɪs ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴇɴᴅ ᴜᴘ ɪɴ ᴏɴᴇ ᴏғ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴊᴀɪʟs.
The living occupants of the room gulped, because this seemed just the moment.
"Probably we could make an exception this once," said Vimes hurriedly, and Angua and Carrot hastened to agree.
Tʜᴇɴ I ɢɪᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀ ᴛᴏᴋᴇɴ, said Death, producing three coins from within the impossible depths of his robes. Both sides were a skull, and when Vimes flipped it absently in his hand, it looked like it was grinning and also gave him a headache. Sɪᴍᴘʟʏ ᴘᴜᴛ ᴛʜɪs ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛɪᴍᴇʀs ᴀɴᴅ I ᴡɪʟʟ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴡʜᴏ ɪs ᴄᴀʟʟɪɴɢ ᴍᴇ.
"But Carrot and Angua don't even have theirs yet," said Vimes.
Aʜᴇᴍ, said Death.
Blushing, Carrot patted down his clothes, then reached into his underwear and emerged with an hourglass. He glanced at it, then, face flaming redder, passed it to Angua. Angua did a similar maneuver with the life-timer she found in Carrot's pants pocket. Ardently, neither looked at Vimes.
Angua's was a fat hourglass trimmed in red wood, with three scratch marks across the glass like claw marks. Her name was embossed on the top in gold, with a sort of flourish to the letters that indicated the writer was Uberwaldian.
Vimes glanced at Carrot's. It was very fine work— definitely the most beautiful life-timer Vimes had seen so far. It was scrolled in metal like Carrot's sword, with a bright, unearthly shine to it.
Carrot gave it a long, quiet look, then put it away once more.
"Thanks for the help, I suppose," Vimes said.
I ʜᴏᴘᴇ ɪᴛ ᴅᴏᴇs ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ sᴀɪᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ᴛʜɪs ǫᴜɪᴇᴛ.
"As the grave," Vimes promised.
"The soul of discretion," Angua said.
"I shouldn't like panic in the streets," said Carrot, earnest-faced. "You can count on us."
Death paused, waiting. Oʜ, he said. I ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ᴀ ᴘᴜɴ ᴛᴏᴏ.
"No thank you," said Carrot.
Rɪɢʜᴛ, Death said, and coughed awkwardly. It was clearly not the cough of a being that needed to cough. Possibly he had never tried it before, because he seemed embarrassed again after it was finally over. Gᴏᴏᴅʙʏᴇ.
And then he was gone, like he'd never been there at all.
"Small and big gods, ninehells," Vimes breathed. "That guy scared the knurd out of me. What were you two thinking, going after Death with a sword and a club?"
"Actually, it's a chair leg," said Angua sheepishly.
"Didn't you go after him first, sir?" asked Carrot.
"Yes, but I'm an idiot," said Vimes. He picked up his cigar, which was still smoldering on his desk where he had dropped it. "You're supposed to be smarter than me. Please go get dressed— in your own clothes, if you will. I'll see you tomorrow."