JUSTICE OF THE PEA.

By SHANE TOMKINSON.

(amended- thanks BigCat-x)

An earthquake in Ankh-Morpork releases an ancient evil. Is it the lamia feasting on the undead? Or a lost masterpiece of BS Johnson?

Ancient laws manifest in Ankh-Morpork as a catastrophe threatens to engulf the city, Vimes and Vetinari find themselves outside the law if they try to help… where is justice? Where indeed?

2.

Sgt. Colon stood, leaning, over a mud covered figure on the floor. He was unnaturally still.

'How long has he stood like this?' asked Cheery Littlebottom. She had just arrived.

No one was too sure. There were a variety of shrugs, a wave of eyebrows and some hushed, respectful grunts from the five Watch men and women. Deep underground, each person felt the pressure of broken masonry, natural treacle and soft mud bearing down on them. But to Cheri these were just geological wallpaper from a not very attractive decade, the sort of decade which approved of raffia chairs and fondue sets. It was almost like visiting her aunt.

One of the new watchmen had gone back to the Watch House for her, he was known as Eyeball Atkins since he went blind in one eye trying to outstare a gargoyle. As she stomped through the crowds near Glim Street Eyeball had told her what had happened. Carrot and Angua, with half a dozen watchmen, had arrived at the earthquake site in time to prevent any more concerned citizenry climbing into the hole. Angua had quickly found the few merchants who were trapped in the rubble of their shops whilst Carrot had easily organized their rescue, he even found a wagon to load recovered merchandise onto and a lingering thief to hold the reins after he checked the thieves Guild membership card to ensure the wagon might be legitimately stolen. It wouldn't be, Carrot had that effect on people. He had calmed down an old lady who had lost her mob and rescued a litter of kittens stuck on a teetering wall.

It had been a typical Ankh-Morporkian disaster, that is, a lot of fun for everyone except those the disaster happens to. That was, until Carrot had found a deeper hole. Eyeball Atkins could tell it had been made by a tumbling house, punching its way through a century old layer of previous buried city. Dank air rose but the footprints of many people were easily seen.

Collecting lanterns and candles, a few of the watch went in to find the more tenacious 'rescuers'. Almost immediately they had found their comrade, immobile in a small chamber with a sputtering candle. Sgt. Colon was so still he made rock look jittery. In fact, here in this hole, far below the streets of Ankh-Morpork, the rock did seem a little jittery, nervously wondering if it could cope with what was suddenly resting on it.

'Where's Nobby?' Cheri asked.

'Gone to get help,' muttered Angua. 'Carrot is bringing him back.'

Cheri nodded, looking for a crime scene. 'So why am I here?'

Sgt. Colon managed a squeaking noise. If he had been an animal and Cheri was a doting, naive and strangely empathic child, she might have responded to his message 'I'm stranded deep underground on something very, very dangerous. Get help. Whatever you do, don't tell mum,' with something more sympathetic then 'Eh? Speak up!'

Colon's mind staggered as he tried to make his feelings known without actually releasing his breath. He was even keeping his sweat in. Cheri decided to search around him, seeking the clues, letting the surrounding scene sink in. Something was here. Something that was so immense that even Sgt. Colon had seen it. It had to be bloody obvious.

'Nobby must know,' she muttered to herself as she moved around the sergeant. There was no point in asking him any questions, he was taking the stoicism of the moment to the extreme.

Retrace the scene, Vimes had once told her. Angua could do that several days afterwards by smell. Cheri had to see in her mind the sequence of events that had led to this frozen moment. She moved to the broken archway of the tunnel and looked into the chamber. At least there were a dozen heavy candlesticks here, the scene was well-lit.

'Why were they down here?' she asked, already knowing the answer. The candlesticks were solid silver.

Between Eyeball Atkins and Angua, Cheri got the story. Colon and Nobby had wandered into this room, after being cornered by citizens who expected them to act like the City Watch, looking for a body. Cheri raised her eyebrows. No one cared about dead bodies, they were part of the city ambience. Then she understood. If the Watch were busy, there would be no one to stop the looting for at least half an hour. She followed their steps through the black mud.

There was something in the mud under Sgt. Colon.

What was it? She leaned over Colon's knee to look into a cold face.

A woman lay there.

She was stiff, proud, almost regal. She lay deathly still.

Cheri was about to lean forward to wipe some mud from the face but a guttural, deeply hidden shriek from Colon stopped her.

Cheri looked up. Colon was waggling his eyes at what was beneath him.

Looking down she saw a sword in the hand of the woman. Poised, and somehow, looking ready to slice into Colon. She was laying on her back, her outstretched right arm holding the sword that was half hidden in the mud. Colon was standing over the arm, looking down.

His gaze was riveted on the sword, with a broken tip.

Etched along the blade was writing, right up to the sheared off tip. Deep, scored words. There was no doubt that these were words that were taken seriously.

"Justice of the Pea".

Stark words. Old fashioned, invoking… something… Cheri could not put her finger on what, but she felt a chord strike within her. This was ancient magic, prehistory magic. It was sword magic and if there was one thing that a dwarf understood it was… eating rat? Okay, she thought, if there was two things a dwarf understood, it was eating rat and mining. Cheri stopped herself. Dwarves knew a lot. One of the many things they knew were swords, proper swords, pattern welded and honed to perfection, as hard as flint and thrice as fast as a waiter presenting a bill.

Cheri looked at Sgt. Colon. He would not have seen the words, unless he had stepped on the blade itself.

The woman had a blindfold on. There were some words on the blindfold, but these were lost in the mire. Her other arm was buried in the mud and her robes were…

Cheri stood back, her hands on her hips, tutting as she realized what lay in the quagmire then snarled at Colon.

'It's a statue! Look at the robes, they're made of bronze- damn good bronze too! Look at that verdigree, you could put that on toast and eat it.'

'We tried that,' said Angua.

'Oh?'

'Yes. I mean, telling him, you know, not actually eating the stuff.' She cocked her head. 'Here's Carrot with Nobby.'

There were a few sounds from the tunnel, mixed in with the concerned cries of citizens seeking salvage being herded out by the Watch, that were easily identifiable as Nobby.

'I almost 'ad 'elp…'

'Yes. Me.'

'No, real 'elp… you kno', a wizard!'

'Nobby, what are you talking about?'

Carrot was dragging Nobby the last few feet into the cave where everyone waited. Angua leaned back, assaulted by the rancid stench of BBQ and tobacco.

'Are you okay?' Cheri whispered. Angua nodded, unsure. She should be able to ignore the smell, it just seemed so encompassing, it ransacked her nostrils and charged into the pit of her stomach. Angua nodded again, trying to concentrate on the statue.

'Sorry, sarge,' muttered Nobby. He couldn't look at his friend.

'What is going on?' demanded Cheri.

Nobby pointed to the feet of the statue. 'I saw it! Just as the sarge was stepping over 'er.'

'What? What did you see?'

Nobby's face staggered under the weight of the conflicting words and emotions that tried to escape being used. 'Just look, you'll see…'

Cheri moved around to have a better look at where he pointed.

Then she moved back, quite quickly for a dwarf in steel heels, her face bleached in shocked surprise.

'It's one of his…' sighed Cheri.

'Carrot! Don't go near it,' hissed Angua. Her eyes were dimmed but she could sense the scent aura of each person in the tunnel. There was a definite change from disquiet to worry, now it was fear. It was catching. It had something to do with the half buried statue. The only person unaffected was Carrot.

Carrot held out his hand for a lantern, then advanced on the statue.

'Don't worry, Colon,' he offered, resting his palm on his friends back as he looked down. 'Let's just see what we have… oh dear…'

Carrot controlled his survival urge. His entire body tried to jump back but his skin stopped it getting very far. He knew that he had to be there, to help his colleague.

But the words were there, visible through the black mud, embossed in a metal plate.

B.S. Johnson.

OoOoO

The Monks of Cool live in a secluded Rimwards mountain range, it would be accurate to say that their monastery clings to an extremely exclusive mountain range. Even the gods were on a waiting list for available crags. Every dawn arrived behind a flight of cranes, their gentle passage over bright green willow trees accompanied by a cool jazz sax solo. Slow light passed over waiting monks who sat on chrome loungers and as each day begins they decided if this day will be cool or not.

It is said, by ancient sages who should know better before committing ideas to papyrus, that these monks controlled the destiny of thousands across the Disc with their decision each morning.

The Monks of Cool would argue that this was so not the case.

Over immeasurable centuries, through trials of the mind and body, the Monks of Cool have striven to achieve pure equality, not neutrality, by always opposing each action. For a Monk of Cool to dance across bending willows in deadly combat with demons, their uniquely named sword a blur of stunningly choreographed moves, another Monk of Cool will be tied up, shin kicked mercilessly then tipped over the side of the mountain to get to the bottom as painfully, comically and clumsily as possible. As the battling Monk would never utter more than a sigh or a quiet word, the opposing Monk usually screamed profanities the whole way down.

Over time, through ingenious and very cool disguises, the Monks of Cool have built a library that has listed everything found on the Discworld. It is a simple library of a million ledgers marked 'cool' or 'not'.

One bane of the library has always been cities. Especially sprawling, dirty and poorly built cities. No prizes will be offered for which city causes the most debate amongst the Monks of Cool. And so, after many years of avoidance, a Monk must travel there.

Months ago preparations were begun. Disguises considered and inventive yet uniquely named weapons secreted into walking canes and travel picnic cases. Two Monks will carry out the test of Ankh-Morpork. As one walks to the city, another must travel an equal distance in the opposite direction seeking cool or not.

oOoOo

The heavily engraved gold jar rolled about of its own accord, only for a few seconds. When it did stop moving, it felt as though the air had stopped as well. There was a definite expectation in this room as though someone should begin laughing insanely or screaming in lost, horrified terror.

Two men, members of the Thieves Guild who had avoided the Watch, were frozen where they stood. Moments before they believed the gods had blessed them. In the remains of a crumpled old tower, sinking into the morass of a silted black river, under another layer of crumbling city, they had found a rotting chest. Both men recognized the signs; ancient tower sinking soon to be lost for all eternity, revealed by an earthquake, found by two gimlet-eyed thieves. It was wassname, you know. Fate.

The iron bands of the chest were a brown stained memory on the spongy wood. It crumbled with a single good blow. As the chest collapsed a ragged roll tumbled out, the rags sloughing like old skin.

All this descriptive work was lost on the thieves. What fell out was solid gold.

Then it did the thing that blessings of the gods shouldn't do. It let whatever was inside it out. The tower echoed with an exultant hiss and the rush of an escaping wossname, you know. Evil entity.

A sense of displaced normality seeped back into the tower. The gold jar lay on the floor. The two thieves blinked and stared at each other. A moment of quiet reflection passed, hurried along by a definite lurch as the tower was given a friendly nudge into the silt by the weight above it.

'Well?' said Mr Anchorage, his eyes stuck to the open jar. 'Do you think we should tell someone?'

Mr Blancmange blinked, turning to look at the other thief. Mr Anchorage was a tall, thin and slippery fellow. In the guild he was a hooker, he even had his pole with him, the bottom of the hooking pole was wet with mud and silt.

'Tell them what? We found and opened a heavy, gold jar. It acted as though possessed, then stopped. We heard what might-'

'Or might not!'

'…Or might not have been a hungry sigh then a sibilant laugh of the damned. Then silence.'

Mr Anchorage thought things over. He looked at his friend in the cool glow of their miners lamp. Mr Blancmange was a footpad with a difference, he had a good head on his shoulders. It was almost as though all the sense he had tapped out of others over the years had found its way into his head. 'It does sound like trouble, doesn't it?'

'Oh yes. Exactly like trouble. So whose fault would it be?'

Mr Anchorage had no problems with that answer. He pointed at the still jar. 'Whatever was in that jar, I wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley. No way… what?'

Mr Blancmange was staring at him. 'Who opened it?' he asked. 'The wossname? Let's call it a Soul Casket of the Unnameable, eh? Who opened it?'

Mr Anchorage had no problems with that answer either. 'Um, we did.'

'Ergo?'

'Bless you.'

'I mean, who opened the Soul Casket of the Unnameable that released some thing that sighed and will cause a huge, unimaginable amount of trouble. Who, should they be the sort of down-at-heels, low-level types who would typically do such a thing in ignorance, opened it?'

'Us?'

Mr Blancmange nodded, continuing. 'An unimaginable amount of trouble, which will all be blamed on those who opened the jar…'

Mr Anchorage went paler than he already was. Alabaster looked grubby in comparison. 'Oh bugger…'

Mr Blancmange scuffed forward. He eyed the shadows, his ears straining, then he quickly seized the gold jar and immediately dropped it. Crouching back, his arms raised against an attack that did not happen, the heavy man leant forward to pick up the jar.

'There is only one thing we can do.'

Mr Anchorage watched the jar. 'Move to Uberwald?' he guessed.

'Good thought but no, we melt this down, change our names then move to Uberwald.'

The tower ended their conversation with a definite squelch as an entire level sunk into the silt. No more needed to be said. Both men fled into the tunnels having avoiding falling into the black, muddy river.

Had they stayed they may have seen a boatman approach. From his dark ferry he watched the last stones of the tower sink from sight and memory. A minute was shaved off time as he waited. No one appeared at the shore.

Death pulled a timepiece from his robes. This was a special timepiece. There were only a few left like this. They had certain rules to follow. Creatures this ancient expected a boatman on the black river.

Gold sand was still trickling.

'OH BUGGER,' he swore, turning the boat around. 'WHERE HAS SHE GOT TO NOW?'

oOoOo

Several hours later Lord Vetinari was looking across the rooftops, or at least those that could not move out of the way of his gaze, from his palace. It was an amazing feat, but as heat rises out of a badly insulated house, so do small acts of guilt. To the eyes' of the Patrician many of the old, proud houses immediately below the palace seemed to be doing their utmost to inch away these days, like hiding behind a taller cousin in a family portrait.

Vimes had just arrived, showing a remarkable sense of prediction that Vetinari would like a word.

A pall of greasy smoke still hung over where Glim Street had been. Vimes had caught up on the reports at the Watch House. His only complaint had been that he had not been called sooner but that was the price to pay for rising up the ranks, he told himself and made a mental vow to make sure that it did not happen again. Then he had walked to the palace, knowing that Vetinari was probably going to ask him to solve the problem of providing candles for the city under some ducal responsibility he had found.

Vetinari stood by the window, sipping from a glass of hot water with lemon. He frowned at the roof of the courthouse. Vimes waited, glancing about and noticed quotes from several builders were on the patricians table already, although he knew better than to read any details.

'Have you ever noticed that the roof of the courthouse rises to a flat apex?' Vetinari finished his tea and lay the cup to one side.

Vimes nodded. Naturally he had not, though he knew that he would notice the minute some bugger might be sitting up there.

'Hmm, always interested me, that flat space,' murmured Vetinari.

Vimes moved to the window to look. Now that he thought about it, he knew where Vetinari meant. It was a small flat area, probably for a patrician long since deposed. It was unlikely that a statue of a god was ever there. It would be a terrible slur to the capricious nature of all the other gods who would no doubt do all in their power to ruin any trial. Yes, Vimes nodded, that empty space was ideal for the patient assassin to sit and wait for someone entering the court with the kind of testimony that might be unfortunate for others.

'There used to be a statue there.' Vetinari gave him a careful smile.

'Oh? Of who?'

'Of whom, of whom,' murmured Vetinari. 'Of Justice. It vanished they say, on the day the courthouse was opened.'

'Ah, so, its loss means we are lawless.'

'No. Law and Justice are very different. We both know that.' Vetinari had closed his eyes, he allowed a little smile. 'Anyway, whilst you are here. What do you know about the Ankh Waxchaundelers, Tallowchaundelers, Lanterners, Candelstycke-casters and Glimsmen Act?'

Vimes forgot the courthouse. He had the sense of a trap closing in on him.

'Will I need my Watch badge or the hat with the feathers?' he snarled.

'The hat. Please don't let me detain you any longer from your duties. Drumknott has prepared a synopsis of the act for you to read through,' he paused, tapping his cheek. 'I do believe Lady Sybil has the full version in your library. She did say so, when we spoke recently.'

Sam's eyes said all they needed to. With a sharp salute he turned and stamped out of the office. In the corridor Drumknott was waiting, he held a file ready which he presented to Vimes. 'Now this-oh!'

Vimes tore it from his hand then stopped, looking back at Drumknott he muttered a thank you. It was not the secretary's fault. Once outside, Vimes lit a cigar and bent back the cover of the folder. There were various sheets of the legal mumbo-jumbo that lawyers liked, a notated street map and some notes about the act Vetinari had mentioned.

Some words leapt out of the page. Sam Vimes nearly dropped his cigar. He re-read the words, 'including the Ducal properties of Glim Street and divers trades.'

He owned Glim Street. As a kid, he could remember scraping the spent wax from the stalls as they were stored at night, hoping for enough to make a candle for his mum.

He owned Glim Street. The shops and merchants were his tenants. According to the street map he also owned the surrounding factories of vats for rendering tallow or boiling honey frames, even the halls used by wick winders were his.

Looking back at the palace he wondered, not for the first time, how much more Vetinari knew about him than he did.

Still, time to go and see his street, he thought.

oOoOo

End of two. I hope you enjoyed. Chapter three to follow.