Perpetrator's Note: Heehee, things begin to get a little weird, man. This chapter features Death, the witches, Susan, Teatime, and a number of other oddities, all of whom are realizing that something has gone subtly awry.

Quite far away, in the vast, fetid city of Ankh-Morpork, Imander Scrubb was about to die.

He was a thief, or rather, would be a thief, once he had completed his apprenticeship with the Thieves' Guild. Currently he was trying to pick the pocket of one of Chrysoprase the troll's hired goons, which proved that stupidity really can be terminal.

Trolls are not by nature overly observant creatures, but even then can recognize the feeling of a wallet the size of a paving slab being hefted out of their back pocket. Imander was foolish to think he could even lift a troll's wallet, let alone carry it anywhere, but, as has been mentioned, he wasn't too bright.

The troll turned, eyed him dully, and delivered a skull-cracking blow to his head without a blink. Imander dropped like a stone, and the wallet, which really was a stone, shattered into a thousand pieces on the sidewalk.

The troll grunted, scooped up the fallen coins, and wandered off, leaving the still-cooling body to be idly stepped over by passers-by. In this part of Ankh-Morpork, a corpse on the sidewalk was as commonplace as chewing gum.

Imander stared in bewilderment at his body, until a hand tapped him on the shoulder.

THAT REALLY WASN'T A VERY GOOD IDEA, BOY.

He turned, and found himself confronted with a robed, scythe-bearing figure that even he couldn't fail to recognized. "I'm dead, aren't I?" he asked intelligently.

YOU'RE QUICK.

Imander beamed. "That's what my teacher said, sir, and he said it in just that tone of voice."

I'LL BET HE DID,Death muttered, as Imander's soul slowly faded. People like that kept him in business, but after all this time he still could not fail to marvel over the sheer stupidity of some people.

He turned, regarding the street around him. He'd had appointments here quite often—it wasn't the Shades, but it was close enough. This was the Street of Temples, on which were crammed shrines to just about every religion known on the Disc, and a few that weren't. The Temple of the Offler the Crocodile God was wedged in next to a garish, glittering building of a sect he didn't recognize, which was odd, as Death had personal acquaintance with most of the gods. It looked as though some maniac had managed to trap a rainbow within glass, and then, not satisfied, had sprinkled it with glitter and sequins and the odd fluffy pink cloud or two. Just looking at it made his head ache, which was another wonder, since he couldn't remember ever having had a headache before.

He took out his next lifetimer, and stared at it. Joie DeVive it said, in curling letters, but that was not the odd thing. The odd thing was that the timer, which by all rights ought to have been filled with sand, held instead light, a brilliant blue light that swirled and eddied but did not pass down to the lower bulb. He knew where Joie DeVive was—he always knew where everybody was—and he eyed the horrendous building speculatively.

WELL, he thought, THAT'S...INTERESTING.

He stepped out and crossed the street.

In the kingdom of Lancre, Granny Weatherwax was in a foul humor.

This was nothing new. If Granny wasn't in a foul humor, it was best to run, because it meant she'd either gone mad or been replaced by a Pod Person. However, she was in a particularly bad mood today, owing largely to the nightmares she'd had the night before.

She stalked up the pathway to Nanny Ogg's cottage, which at first glance was a cheerful place such as might house any elderly lady, though if one got a look at the lawn decorations one might wonder just what said lady had done for a living in her younger years. Granny didn't bother to knock, but barged right in, ignoring the flurry of daughters-in-law that hurried to get out of her way.

"Gytha!" she bellowed, loud enough to rattle the glass ornaments on the mantle. "Gytha, I believe we may have a problem."

Nanny Ogg's round, cheerful face stuck itself around the kitchen doorframe. "You mean a new one?" she said, adjusting her hat and ambling out into the parlor. "I've got company, girls. Scram."

The daughters-in-law accordingly scrammed, fleeing like a herd of terrified chickens.

"Sit down, Esme. Don't tell me someone stole young Verence's book again."

"No—"

"Goodie Hennedy sneezed herself into Yesterday?"

"No—"

"Don't tell me Agnes is on another diet."

"No. Gytha Ogg, will you shut up for five seconds and let a woman speak?"

Nanny shut up. When Granny Weatherwax used that tone, it was wise to shut up, if you valued your tongue intact.

"I had a Dream," Granny said, leaning back on the sofa and glancing disdainfully at Greebo, who had leapt onto the arm and was now cheerfully leering at her.

Nanny groaned. "As in, with a capital D?"

Granny nodded. "I did. You know I don't normally hold with this dream-sight business—"

"—of course not," muttered Nanny, who knew Granny didn't hold with anything unless she was the one doing it.

"—but this was...diff'runt." She shifted uneasily, and Nanny felt a pang of fear—for Esme to be uneasy was tantamount to a small Apocalypse.

"It wasn't very clear, but...there's somethin' abroad, somethin' worse'n we've ever faced, maybe. It's not far at all from here, an'...blast it, I couldn't see! There's somethin' about a castle, an' a girl who ain't a girl, an' a man who ain't a man, who's crazier than a loon—"

She broke off, shaking her head. "I've never seen anythin' so muddled in my life. It's like the future was tryin' to show me something, but it didn't know what was to happen any more than I did. Long and short of it is, Gytha, there's somethin' mortal dangerous around here, and I'd like to find it before it finds Lancre."

Nanny sat and digested this. She knew that Esme's heart was in the right place, but she did tend to get a bit...well, dramatic when she was bored. It was like she needed to exist in a constant state of upheaval, for without any upheaval to correct, what use was a witch? Things had been quiet in Lancre ever since the mess after the birth of Verence and Magrat's daughter had cleared up, and Granny hadn't had much to do. It was no wonder she was getting a bit...funny.

But still...Nanny put much more faith in dream-sight than Granny did, and if Granny was willing to believe it, it must have been convincing indeed. She didn't understand just what Granny meant by castles and people who weren't people, but she'd gotten through most of her life in a state of cheerful incomprehension of many things, so this didn't overly faze her.

"Where?" she asked.

"North of here. High in the mountains. I think we'd better take a look at it."

Nanny sighed—she had known that was coming. For a woman who didn't hold with messing about in 'forn' parts, Granny had become quite willing to travel. "Fine. Shall I summon Agnes, then?"

Granny nodded. "And Magrat, too, if Verence can spare her."

Nanny blinked. Granny hadn't had much use for Magrat even when she'd been a full-time witch, and now that she was into the queening business Granny hardly said a word about her. If she wanted Magrat along as well...good grief, what had she seen?

"If you say so," Nanny said at last, rising to her feet. Granny caught her hand.

"We may need her, Gytha," she said, in a tone of unaccustomed earnestness. "I don't know just what's waitin' for us, out there, but...I'll tell you plain truth, Gytha Ogg: is scares the daylights out of me."

Teatime surveyed his new castle with a happy, slightly manic gleam in his one good eye. The Auditors, bless them, had given him everything he would need to set up his own kingdom—castle, armies, herds of terrified peasants hunkering in badly-thatched huts—and he hoppity-skipped through the flagged corridors of his new abode, cackling with glee.

Teatime, like Verence, had absolutely no idea what one was supposed to do as king, and, like Verence, he had decided to order some books on the subject. Like everything provided by the Auditors, they arrived with alacrity, and he now bounded into the library and picked one up.

"The Prince," he mused, his eye taking in the title. It had been written by someone named Mockinnajelly. He flipped it open and thumbed through the table of contents, smiling slightly to himself. This was definitely not the sort of book Verence would have ordered—it said nothing about improving the lot of the common man, or of justly and fairly ruling all subjects. Instead it said a lot of things about torture and blood and ruling through fear, which were all subjects Teatime was quite interested in.

He settled into a fat armchair and began to read. Teatime might have been mad as a hatter, but he was quite intelligent, and it didn't take him long to plough through the first half of the massive tome. He learned he would need a Chief Torturer, an Inquisitor (several, to be on the safe side), a Privy Council (why anyone would want a council in a privy, he didn't know, but he'd make the arrangements), and other assorted people mostly designed to backstab one another for his own amusement.

It wasn't till he'd got halfway through the book that he struck a snag, and when he did he laid it on his lap and gazed thoughtfully at the opened pages. He'd reached chapter eighteen, which was entitled: "Thee Importanse of Choosing a Qeuen".

Hmm. That one might pose a problem. Teatime had never given much thought to women before, having devoted most of his demented brainpower to plotting murder, performing murder, and gloating over murder, but if a king must have a queen then he supposed he must find one. The problem was, he wasn't acquainted with many women—oh, he'd met quite a few, very briefly, but none of them would be in any shape for queenship, even if he did want a zombie bride.

He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, thinking. Having memorized Twerps' Peerage was an advantage—he could go over the lists of eligible females at will, dismissing this and that one. She had freckles, that one was fat, this one...oh, yes, he'd killed this one, hadn't he? Oops. He shut his eyes, humming tunelessly to himself, and then all at once they popped open again, alight with demented glee.

"Perfect," he said, clapping his hands like a delighted child. "Oh, this is going to be such fun."

It was currently recess time at the Learning Through Fun school, and Susan Sto-Helit was seated at her desk, enjoying a rare moment of silence. She was, as usual, dressed in black, and would have seemed perfectly at ease were it not for her hair. The wild white mass, with its one streak of black, was coiling and uncoiling itself restlessly—one minute it was in a bun, the next in a long braid down her back, and then a nest of ringlets. The children were used to this phenomenon by now, though they rarely saw it—it took quite a lot to fluster Susan, but she was flustered now, and the most irritating part was that she had absolutely no idea why.

She'd felt very odd all morning, as though something had gone vaguely wrong with the grand scheme of the universe. Against her established custom, she had sat and deliberately tried to remember the future, and for the first time in all her memory, she couldn't do it. It was as though the future itself didn't know what the hell was going on, and that only increased her agitation. If the future didn't know what was up, well, then, the gods only knew what had buggered up now.

She wondered vaguely if something had gone wrong with Lobsang—he was, after all, part human, and being Time couldn't be easy for someone who had grown up being (more or less) mortal. Susan would have died the death before she'd admit it, but she'd been thinking about Lobsang quite a lot, more even than she realized. He'd pop into her head at almost every idle moment, despite all her furious attempts to drive him out, until she was driven nearly to distraction.

It's not like I care, she told herself firmly. If something's wrong with him, it affects all of us, that's all. Of course there's nothing personal in it.

Of course not.

She was just about to stand and tidy up when something came tumbling in through the open window, landing with a muffled curse atop a heap of broken crayons. Ordinarily Susan's heart would have sunk at the sight of it, but anything that broke her preoccupied worrying was welcome at this point. Besides, given who it was, they could probably give her some idea of what was going on.

"'s not my fault," Quoth said irritably, sitting up and ruffling his feathers. "It's the downdrafts, I tell you. Murder on a poor bird."

The Death of Rats straightened his robes and shook his tiny scythe. SQUEAK, he said, and Susan didn't need to be able to understand him to know he was swearing. It was all in the tone.

"Oh, bugger off," Quoth said, glancing around the room. "There I was, just ready to settle down to a nice mess of eyeballs, and in you pop saying the Master has a message for his granddaughter, we've just got to leave now, never mind my lunch..."

SQUEAKsaid the Death of the Rats, firmly, and Quoth dried up.

Susan sighed. "Dare I ask?" she said, crossing her arms. "No offense, but you two showing up usually means something's gone to hell again."

The Death of Rats leaped up onto her desk and waved his scythe excitedly.

SQUEAK, he said. SQUEAK EEK EEK EEEEEK.

Susan turned to Quoth for translation, her eyebrows raised. The little rat was more agitated than she'd ever seen it.

"He says your grandfather's found something...interesting, and wants you to drop in when you've got a moment," Quoth said, pecking at a marble. "Well, actually he said to drop everything and get over there, but frankly I can't see what's so urgent. He wasn't even home when we left."

Susan frowned. Death didn't usually contact her unless something had royally buggered up, but from the sounds of it that wasn't the case this time. The Death of Rats seemed more excited than upset, which was a rarity. Perhaps this wouldn't mean some odious chore for her, after all.

"All right," she said, stopping Time with a blink. "Let me get my coat."

Death stepped up to the wide stairs leading up to the garish building, and was about to pass through the front door when it abruptly opened. Someone started to heave out a bucket of wash-water, only to stop on sight of him and nearly trip, dropping the bucket and splashing everything within ten feet.

"Bugger!" she—it was a she, more or less—swore, wiping fruitlessly at the soapsuds that had splattered her clothes. Death looked at her, and at the lifetimer, and if a skull could have raised its eyebrows he would have done so.

The woman left off her wiping and giggled, the slightly off-key giggle of someone who's either had too much to drink, or who's been into the magic mushrooms again. Given the woman's appearance, Death rather suspected the latter, and he watched impassively as she sat down in the soapy mess and laughed.

"Wow," she said at last, when her giggles dried up. "It was like...splash, man."

She blinked a pair of bloodshot, peculiarly golden eyes up at him, squinting as she tried vainly to focus on him. "Sorry 'bout that, man. You just...were like, there, and so was the water, and...splash!" She giggled again, almost falling over.

Death continued to stare. WELL, he thought, SHE'S NOT QUITE WHAT I EXPECTED. He knew damn well what he had found, but he still couldn't quite believe it. I mean...honestly.

The woman on the floor was quite small, and so pitifully scrawny she was almost as gaunt as himself. She wore a dress of swirling bright colors, that had clearly been made for a woman a good deal heavier than she, and was loaded down with so many strings of glass beads it was difficult to see where they left off and she began. Her brilliant yellow eyes were round, saucer-like, and slightly protuberant, and her skin and (exceptionally frizzy) hair were both as white as a sheet. Death had seen albinos before, but they never failed to give him the willies—they were too much like the walking dead for his own comfort.

JOIE DEVIVE? he said, stepping forward, and her laughter abruptly ceased.

"Tha's me," she said, struggling to her feet and offering a hand that bore the filthiest fingernails he had ever seen. "No need t' ask who you are, 'm afraid. My time really up already?"

Death blinked. Ordinarily adults could not see him until they were already dead, unless they were magical, and this woman was no witch. NOT...PRECISELY, he said. TELL ME, JOIE DEVIVE, HOW OLD ARE YOU?

She stared at him, a shred of logic piercing even her cheerful stupor. "Shouldn't you know that?" she asked.

I SHOULD, BUT...I DO NOT. YOU ARE...DIFFERENT.

Joie shrugged. "Dunno," she said. "Never can r'member. You wanna sandwich?"

NO THANK YOU. He paused, looked at the lifetimer, and at Joie, and compared the two with what all his instincts were telling him had to be true, however much he didn't want to believe it. I THINK YOU HAD BETTER COME WITH ME.

Joie quirked an eyebrow. "What, you mean, alive? Wha' for?"

Death crossed his arms. EVER HEARD OF LIFE?

"You mean, the wossname, state of being?"

NO. THE PERSON. ANTHROPOMORPHIC PERSONIFICATION, TO BE PRECISE.

She shook her head. "Nuh-uh."

WELL, YOU SHOULD HAVE. YOU'RE IT. NOW FOLLOW ME.

Joie blinked owlishly at him, started to nod, and then fell flat on her face, stone-cold unconscious.

Death sighed. THIS IS GOING TO BE A LONG DAY.

Perpetrator's Note #2:cackle: I realize that's not the best place to leave off, but I wanted to hack it before the chapter got too bloated. Next chapter features the wizards of UU, some very confused Watchmen, the witches' visit to Teatime's kingdom, and what Teatime does about finding a queen. Mayhem, drunkenness, and magic mushrooms abound.