Albert turned off the taps and surveyed his work with satisfaction. This was a bath to delight the fussiest connoisseur of baths, a concoction of delicately scented foam that steamed invitingly.
Joie, a.k.a. Life, was curled up on the bathroom floor, still snoring gently, and Albert smiled grimly as he hauled her up by the wrists and dumped her, clothes, beads, and all, into the massive tub.
She came up spluttering, grimy white hair plastered to her face, her golden eyes round as saucers.
"What'd ye have to go an' do that for?" she demanded, coughing.
Albert folded his arms. "Trust me, you needed it," he said. "There's towels and soap and a dressing gown—I strongly recommend you make use of all three." He turned and marched off, shutting the door and laughing quietly to himself.
He picked up his tea tray from the hall table and carried it into Death's study, still chuckling to himself. Death looked up from his massive book.
ALBERT, WAS THAT REALLY NECESSARY? he asked, sounding somewhat pained.
"'Course it was," Albert retorted, setting down the tray. "I'm not about to be killed by the Stench of Life."
Death considered this. POINT TAKEN, he said. HAS SUSAN ARRIVED YET?
Albert shook his head. "Not yet. You know those two—either distracted by eyeballs or cheese, you mark my words." He turned and hobbled off, muttering.
Death paused thoughtfully. It wasn't like either the raven or the rat to delay when he gave them a message, nor was it like Susan to refuse a summons. He stood, setting the book aside, and stalked over to his long mirror. He laid one bony hand on the frame and peered intently into it.
SHOW ME, he commanded.
———
The first thing Susan was aware of was a thumping pain in her head, and the second was that up to now she hadn't been aware of anything, which could hardly be right. She was lying on something soft, which did nothing to ease the fearful crick in her neck, and she brought a hand up to her head and groaned, wondering if it was about to split open.
Her eyes opened slowly, and immediately wished they hadn't—they were confronted by a mismatched pair that stared intently down into them, scant inches away.
She let out a very un-Susan-like shriek, and reacted the way anyone would have in a situation like that, which was to hit the owner of the eyes around the head and send him flying. She scrambled upright, cracking her head on a bedpost, and swore.
Teatime, apparently not at all put off by her greeting, bounced onto the foot of the bed and stood balancing like a dancer, beaming happily at her. Susan, through a haze of white agony, stared at him blankly—this couldn't be real; she of all people knew that the dead could not return, and last she had seen him Teatime had been very, very dead.
"I...er...you...you're dead," she said, the one and only thing she was sure of at the moment. "You can't be here, you're dead, I killed you, for bugger's sake..."
Teatime simply continued beaming at her. "Oh, I have some new friends who decided to fix that for me," he said. "I'm so happy you're awake, Susan...we're going to have such fun together." He hopped off the footboard and bounced into sitting position directly before her, his mismatched eyes wide in his boyish face.
Susan stared at him, her mind still temporarily unable to process any of this, and she did the one and only thing she was capable of doing—she slapped him again. Hard.
He blinked. "Was that really necessary?" he asked, one hand straying to his reddening cheek. "Come now, that's no way to treat your future husband."
Susan had already drawn her hand back for another blow, but it stopped mid-swing, her eyes widening to roughly the size of dinner plates. WHAT? she demanded, the eldritch voice of Death coming out without her even trying.
Teatime's grin widened. "That's the thing, see," he said, his slightly manic good cheer seeming to surround him like an aura. "These new friends of mine, they've made me a king, and everyone knows a king needs a queen, which is where you come in."
Susan, having absolutely no idea how to respond to such an extraordinary pronouncement, opted for letting her hand continue its swing and slapping him yet again.
"Why me?" she demanded. Some of her self-possession was returning, and with it came a healthy dose of good old Susan Sto-Helit temper.
Teatime waved a hand. "You're the only girl I know I haven't killed," he said, as if it should be obvious.
"How romantic," Susan muttered dryly, slapping him on sheer principal.
"Besides," he continued, ignoring both mutter and slap, "it's a perfect match, don't you think? King of the world and granddaughter of Death? Just think of the children."
Susan did. The thought made her slightly ill.
Teatime bounced to his feet before she could think up a suitably crushing response. "Of course you'll want to freshen up a bit, I suppose," he said. He'd read a great deal on the personal habits of queens, and it never would have occurred to him that just because he'd decided to make Susan one meant she possessed all the habitual attributes. "There's a lav and clothes and all that—I had my court advisor see to it. Till dinner, then." And with that he was gone, not bothering to lock the door behind him.
Susan stared for several moments, attempting to collect her scattered wits, before giving a grim shake of her head and rising. "Bugger this," she muttered, heading for the nearest wall—
—which she bounced right off of, just as if...well, just as if she were normal.
"Oh, you can't do that," Teatime called through the door, as she rubbed her forehead and cursed. "The last thing I needed was you out wandering around, so I had my friends make a few...modifications. I really suggest you don't try to escape, Susan—you're supposed to be here, you know."
Susan, a lump already forming on her forehead, did not answer, but scowled at the door so fiercely it was a wonder it didn't burst into flames from sheer embarrassment. She didn't know what in the name of all the gods was behind this, but she'd be damned if she was going to go along with it. After all, she thought, still muttering to herself, she'd killed him once—it couldn't be that hard to do it again, could it?
———
Vimes, having chosen a small squad to accompany him on their rescue mission, was still left with the problem of the rat and the raven. He'd sent Nobby to inform the wizards that a few Watchmen would indeed be accompanying them on their trip to the Ramtops, and Nobby had quickly returned with not only the Archchancellor in tow, but what seemed like half his staff. Vimes, who had at the moment been trying to shake the rat out of his left boot, was distractedly introduced to the Dean, the Bursar, a young wizard named Stibbons (who apparently had no title) and his assistant, Big Mad Drongo, and an orangutan that was apparently the Librarian. Vimes, being a sensible human being, had up until now had as little to do with the wizards of Unseen University as possible, but even the most bizarre rumors he had heard didn't do this lot justice.
"When would you, er, like to leave?" he asked, swatting at the Death of Rats with an old feather duster.
"As soon as possible, my good man," Ridcully answered, eying the rat speculatively. "I say, where did you find that...thing?"
"Fourth Airborne arrested it this morning," Vimes said grimly, making a snatch for the little cowled figure and missing. "Damned if I know what to do with it—it doesn't seem to want to leave."
"That's because it knows it's for it, if the master finds out," the raven said, pecking hopefully at a bowl of chestnuts. "Not supposed to let ourselves get arrested, we aren't."
Vimes stopped in mid-grab, his brain digesting that one. He opened his mouth and then shut it again, deciding he really, really didn't want to ask.
"Well," he said at last, "I hardly need the two of you around here. Supposing I just let you off with a warning, eh?"
The raven shook his head. "No good—the master finds out about a warning, and we're both gated for goodness knows how long. Not a good thing for the rat population, if you take my meaning."
Vimes did. He didn't want to, but he did. "Well then...oh, bloody hell, just get out of here and don't do it again, all right?"
OH, I ASSURE YOU, THEY WON'T.
Big Mad Drongo dropped his staff. Ponder Stibbons choked. And Vimes, who suddenly felt as though his stomach had made an emergency exit via his feet, slowly turned.
It is true that most humans cannot see Death, as they cannot see the Death of Rats, because their minds simply will not allow them to see anything they do not believe should exist. However, as has been stated before, the men (and women, and dwarfs, and etc.) of the Watch came up against things that should not exist on an almost daily basis. So it was that Vimes saw Death exactly as he was, a black-clad, scythe-bearing, seven-foot skeleton, who was currently leaning against the wall with folded arms, regarding rat and raven with an expression that would have made an iceberg freeze to death.
SQUEAK, the Death of Rats uttered, and dove behind Ridcully.
"With you there, mate," said the raven, and dove behind the rat.
Silence fell, lasting for several excruciating minutes, until Vimes cleared his throat.
"Erm, hello, your lordship," he said, nodding his head. "I say, none of us has an appointment with you, do we? Only it's a bit of rotten timing—"
Death held up a hand. NO, I HAVE NO...APPOINTMENTS, AS SUCH. HOWEVER, IF I UNDERSTAND CORRECTLY, YOU ARE ALL BOUND FOR THE KINGDOM OF LANCRE, ARE YOU NOT?
"Uh, well, yes, actually. How did you—"
THAT IS NOT IMPORTANT. WHAT IS IMPORTANT IS THAT YOU GET THERE AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE.
Death raised his other hand and at once Binky stood beside him, taking up most of the floorspace in the little office. He nibbled affectionately at Big Mad Drongo's hat, causing the young man to almost wet himself in absolutely exquisite terror. I BELIEVE I MAY BE OF SOME HELP.
Ridcully, who was after all the only one there who had much previous experience with Death, looked at him quizzically. "Why?" he asked. "Not that we're not appreciative, I'm sure, but what's in it for you?"
Death's eyelights flared brighter for a moment, causing all of them to take an unconscious step backwards.
IT IS...PERSONAL, he said. A FAMILY MATTER, YOU MIGHT SAY. I SHALL EXPECT YOUR HELP IN RETURN, MIND YOU.
"If you say so, your lordship," Vimes said, swallowing hard. He knew that logically he had nothing to fear from Death until his time was up, but logic doesn't hold much sway when one is confronted by the Grim Reaper in the, as it were, flesh. "I've chosen a few of the lads to go with me—"
I KNOW, Death said, waving a hand. THEY SHALL COME AS WELL.
Nobody, not even Ridcully, was rightly aware of what came next. Ridcully knew that Death traveled the world on Binky, but it would be madness to assume that nine people, an orangutan, a rat, a raven, and an anthropomorphic personification could all fit onto one horse, however magical it might be. All he knew was that the entire world seemed to dissolve into a brilliant confusion of blue sparks, and the next thing he knew he was standing in the middle of what looked like a small kitchen garden, the high slopes of the Ramtops marching off into the distance all around him. He absently reached out and righted the Bursar, who had somehow landed on his head, and looked around.
Several Watchmen had been transported, in addition to Commander Vimes and the other wizards. Ridcully knew none of them, but if they were any decent example it was no wonder newcomers to Ankh-Morpork seldom took the Watch seriously. Nor were they the only ones—something that might, with a slight stretch of the imagination, have passed for a woman stood not far off, clad in a woolly blue dressing gown that was acres too large with a towel on her head. She was staring vacantly at the cottage beyond the garden, a cottage Ridcully recognized all too well, and which he regarded with an emotion that might have been mild apprehension or stark, staring terror.
It was Esme Weatherwax's cottage, and somebody was home.
———
The Discworld is noted for its magical field. Most worlds have ozone and stratospheres and things of that nature, but the Discworld has magic, or, to be more precise and olde-worlde, Magick. Its inhabitants were so used to it that nine-tenths of them never noticed it was there, but the other tenth, the ones who were for whatever reason naturally attuned to the fluctuations of the magical field, could tell you exactly which butterfly's flapping had caused the typhoon that destroyed half of Fourecks.
Most of them were, as of now, both confused and very, very worried.
War, Famine, and Pestilence hadn't had much to do with one another for eons, up until the most recent mess with the Auditors, but they now sat gathered together around the great table in War's longhouse, sipping cups of tea and doing their best to eat all the concoctions Mrs. War set before them.
"I don't like it," Pestilence said. "There's wrong and there's...wrong, and this is the wrongest wrong I've ever felt. You mark my words, somebody's targeting one of us again."
"What, one of us?" Famine said, looking up from his plate. "You mean, the three of us?"
"No, not us exactly, but...a personification. It feels just like it did when that lunatic went after the Fate sisters."
Pestilence let that sink in. Ages ago there had been three Sisters of Fate, just as there were usually three witches—the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone. Thanks to a crazed Balancing Monk named Long Shoo, who became convinced that the Fates were conspiring to tip over the world, there were now only two, and no personification could think of that incident without cringing. The mess that had followed the demise of the Crone was nearly enough to rival the Glass Clock of Bad Shuschein in grandeur, but unlike the clock it had been up to all the other personifications to fix it. The Mother had gotten her great-granddaughter to pick up the slack eventually, but the ramifications were still being felt—people's fates got cross-wired all the time, with the result that more often than not the princess turned into a frog instead of the other way round, and the swineherd who was heir of the kingdom usually wound up selling meat pies at the corner market.
"Yeah, but who would it be?" demanded War. "Nobody ever goes after us, and we're supposedly the bad guys. I could see somebody wanting to take Death out, but I can't see even a complete loony actually trying it. Most humans think we're invisible."
"Invincible," muttered Pestilence. "Well...maybe it's not a human, eh? Maybe it's them little grey buggers again."
They thought about this for a moment. Had they been more like gods and less like humans, they might have worked it out for themselves, but humanity, when it stumbles across the truth, usually just picks itself up and continues on, and that was what the three now did.
"Maybe Death knows," Famine said. "Could always ask him."
"Oh, are we going visiting, then?" piped in Mrs. War, plunking down a plate of eggs and ham. "Just let me get my good hat, there's some good lads. And don't forget your scarf, dear, it's a bit nippy outside."
The three eyed one another, but did not speak. For them paying a visit to Death had been merely a hypothetical musing, but there was no gainsaying Mrs. War, and who knew, maybe the old boy would actually know something.
"Well, let's find him, then," said War, wrapping his scarf around his neck. He didn't notice the looks the other two gave him, nor if he had would he have understood that it just wasn't right to see the personification of conflict and strife wearing something made of wooly lavender.
"Nothing's what it used to be, that's what," mused Pestilence, as Mrs. War, in a hat almost large enough to qualify for its own postcode, came out leading their horses. They mounted up and cantered off, in search of nobody quite knew what.
———
The door of Granny Weatherwax's cottage burst open, emitting not only Granny but Nanny, Agnes, and a very disheveled Magrat, who was trying futilely to convince a flock of starlings that her hair would not make an ideal nest.
"'Ere, you lot, out of my garden!" Granny snapped, brandishing her broom at them. "That's my potatoes you're standin' in, and just look at those carrots..."
Ridcully guiltily stepped out of the way, eying Granny closely—she certainly didn't look as though she'd gone and pulled a Black Aliss, but then with Granny looks didn't mean much. Still, he was somewhat comforted by the presence of the other witches—if they were still putting up with her, she probably wasn't being any nastier than usual.
Granny's eyes took in the small mob that stood crowded on her front lawn. "I'm thinkin' I know why you're here," she said, crossing her arms. "It's that business up north, ain't it?"
Vimes blinked. He wasn't a well-traveled man, but thanks to Sybil he was a well-read one, and he knew enough to recognize a witch when he saw one. They had a few even in Ankh-Morpork, and it was best to show them some respect, if you valued all your limbs.
"Morning, Mistress," he said, removing his hat. "I don't know much about the business up north, but I do know that somebody's kidnapped our Patrician and taken him to the Ramtops, so I'm assuming we're on the same page."
Granny's eyes traveled to Death, who stood with one hand on Binky's bridle. "He's not all they've kidnapped," she muttered. "I'm takin' it that's why you're here?"
OF COURSE.
"And you lot," she said, looking to the wizards, "you'd've felt it, same as we did. Whatever it is, it's wrong, and you know it."
Ridcully didn't know what to say, but Ponder and the Librarian nodded.
"Ook," said the Librarian, helpfully.
"But what about that one?" Granny pointed to Life, who was apparently holding a conversation with one of the lawn gnomes.
"I was wondering that myself," said Ridcully. "I don't suppose she's one of yours?" he said to Vimes.
Death sighed. NO, he said. THAT, I AM AFRAID, IS LIFE. WAS LIFE. IS SUPPOSED TO BE LIFE. SHE'S NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE, HOWEVER.
Life looked up at him and grinned. "Boogaloo," she said, and fell over.
A small silence followed.
"That's Life?" Ponder demanded, incredulity plastered over his face like a custard pie. "She's...er...not what I expected."
YOU COULD SAY THAT AGAIN, muttered Death. JOIE, WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE? he demanded. I TOLD YOU TO STAY WITH ALBERT.
"I did," she said, picking at her big toe. "He's over there." She pointed to a slumped, shabby figure that was currently snoring under a fir tree. What looked for all the world like an impromptu lifetimer hung around his neck on a chain, filled with sand that sat stationary in the top bulb. "'m s'posed to be here, not there. Anyway, he's here."
WHO'S HERE?
"My...exper'ment. Gotta keep an eye on him, I do."
Death shook his head, deciding he really didn't want to ask.
WELL THEN, he said, looking around. I DON'T SUPPOSE ANYBODY KNOWS WHAT'S GOING ON HERE, DO THEY?
The wizards and Granny all opened their mouths at once, but nobody got a chance to speak—hoofbeats sounded in the distance, quite a lot of them, and the little crowed turned to behold a veritable army thundering towards the, coming straight out of the clouds.
——
Even The Mended Drum tended to experience a lull in the mornings, due mainly to the fact that most of its regulars were still too sick to think about drinking again. Being the Mended Drum, it saw all types of customers, and so it was that the bartender didn't look twice when a small, fat cherub with ridiculously undersized wings fluttered in, set down an unlikely-looking bow and quiver of arrows, and ordered half a pint of scumble. Hibiscus poured without comment and left the creature to drown its sorrows as best it could, being very careful not to touch the arrows. They had hearts instead of points, and Hibiscus trusted hearts about as much as he trusted Chrysoprase the troll.
The cherub was depressed. Here it was, St. Wossname's Day, and hardly anybody had remembered. Scarce a box of chocolates had been bought, nary a card, and as for heart-shaped balloons—
He sighed, downing half the scumble at one go and emitting a very un-cherubic belch. People just didn't appreciate romance any more, that was what. He might as well be a postman, for all anybody cared about his work—nobody knew how hard it was, making sure he shot the right people, at the right time, in the right place. It was no joke, being a Cupid, but nobody realized that; nobody understood just what would happen if he got it even the slightest bit wrong. People didn't want the attentions of Cupids anymore—they were too busy going on about Free Will and all that rot.
He burped again. May as well retire, he thought. Give it up, go out with a bang, earn his gold watch—
Wait. An idea was forming in his tiny little brain, an idea borne of frustration and alcohol and chemicals no living being should ever, ever imbibe. He'd show them, he thought, tipping back the last of his drink and immediately ordering another. Oh, yes indeed he would. Being what he was, he knew where everybody was at all times, and there was a fair gathering going on up in the Ramtops...
It was perfect. It was more than perfect, it was divine, the sort of opportunity one dreamed about but seldom actually experienced. He would go to the Ramtops, and then, and then—
—and then he would show them what St. Wossname's Day was really about.
———
The sleepy kingdom of Lancre had never seen such an uproar.
News of Pestilence, War, and Famine's journey had gotten around, mainly because just about everybody like them was thinking along the same lines. As a result nearly every anthropomorphic personification on the whole of the Disc had converged on Granny Weatherwax's backyard , their horses snorting and stamping and tearing up the lawn, while the wizards and the Watchmen fought to avoid being trampled.
Vimes drew his squad aside, letting everybody else get on with it—he didn't hold with messing about in the affairs of magical people (or personifications, if it came to that), if only because those who did often ended up in some other form than their natural. He didn't know what they were all on about, but his mission was clear: they had to first locate the Patrician, and then rescue him. Whatever anybody else wanted to do was their own damn business.
He surveyed his crew with some inner misgivings. He'd chosen Nobby, Colon, and Angua to accompany him—the former two because he didn't dare leave them behind in the city, and Angua because he felt she might actually be useful. He'd wanted to bring Carrot along as well, but somebody had to be left in charge of the Watch in his absence, and Carrot was the only one he could think of who wouldn't let the power go to his head, or let those who wanted the power put anything sharp and pointy in the rest of him. They were currently sitting on a swinging bench in what remained of the flower garden, watching the rest of the milling crowd with undeniable interest—most of them had seen Death at one point or another, but the rest of this lot were strangers, and looking at them made Death seem almost normal.
Death himself was currently surrounded by War, Famine, Pestilence, the two Fate Sisters and their apprentice, Chaos, Destiny (a cousin of the Fates), Lobsang, and a score or so others that even he was having a hard time identifying. Justice, blind as a bat, was wiffling around here and there and occasionally crashing into trees, and Life was perched on the top of Granny's chimney, peppering them with rotten potatoes whenever she felt they needed it.
There was a reason that anthropomorphic personifications seldom gathered together, and this was a prime example of it. Whenever more than four of them were in the same spot, they inevitably fell to bickering, as the nature of their jobs meant that someone was always buggering up somebody else's work. There was among them a kind of power hierarchy, based both on how much people believed in them and how much the work they did affected the world, but nobody wanted to admit that—in each of their minds they were supreme, their work was the most important, and everybody else was just in the way.
The only one exempt from this rule was Death himself. This wasn't because he tried, it was just because, in the end, he undid all their work—everything died eventually, even, sometimes, a personification, if the world at large had no more use for it. He was oldest, and as a result he was the only one who got anything even remotely resembling respect.
Nanny, practical soul that she was, did not know nor care where all these people had come from—she just knew they were all probably going to want to eat, so she'd summoned a veritable phalanx of daughters-in-law and set them to cooking for the mob, supervising from a rocking chair with a pipe in her mouth and Greebo in her lap. Magrat, as queen, felt it her duty to welcome all these strange people, but even a witch has a limit to how much sheer absurdity she can deal with, and she and Agnes now sat not far from the Watchmen, wondering idly if things could get any more chaotic. Only Granny dared actually approach the mob, on the sheer principal that this was her land and her cottage, and if Destiny didn't get her bloody boots out of the pea-patch she was going to get a right hard wallop with the poker. She'd already chased Binky out of the garden three times, endured him drooling on her ear, and finally said that if they were going to stand about and gab all day they could ruddy well do it somewhere else.
All the personifications turned to her, shocked at her audacity, but one look at Granny Weatherwax was enough to convince most of them to keep their mouths shut. Only Life, still perched atop the chimney, responded, though her response consisted of knocking Granny's hat off with a ballistic potato and then falling off the chimney in a fit of off-key giggling.
Death took the opportunity presented by the momentary silence to finally get a word in edgewise.
SHE HAS A POINT, he said. IN CASE YOU HAVEN'T NOTICED, WE HAVE A BIT OF A PROBLEM HERE, AND IF YOU'LL ALL KEEP QUIET FOR FIVE MINUTES, I THINK I KNOW WHAT IT MIGHT BE.
They looked at him expectantly, even Life, who had gone cross-eyed.
I TRUST YOU ALL KNOW THAT ONE OF US HAS BEEN MISSING FOR QUITE SOME TIME, he said, stalking across the garden and putting his foot right in the biggest pansy, earning himself a withering glare from Granny. LIFE WANDERED OFF TWO THOUSAND YEARS AGO, AND NOBODY KNEW WHERE. UNTIL NOW.
He hauled Joie/Life to her feet, steadying her as she threatened to tip over backwards again. Her protuberant eyes regarded the crowd with their usual slightly unfocused squint, and she let out a small, almost ladylike burp in greeting. She'd lost her hair towel somewhere along the way, and the wild white mass of her hair stood around her face in a hopeless (but fortunately now clean) tangle.
Pestilence coughed. "You've got to be kidding," he said. "Her?"
HER, Death confirmed, grabbing the back of Joie's dressing-gown as she tried to wander off in pursuit of a passing butterfly. I FOUND HER IN ANKH-MORPORK, AND I BELIEVE SHE MAY BE THE ONE WHATEVER IS UP HERE IS TARGETING.
They stared. Death sighed.
I HAVE SEEN IT. THE AUDITORS HAVE FOUND ONE MAD ENOUGH TO ATTEMPT TO KILL LIFE, AND HAVE SET HIM UP WITH THE POWERS TO DO SO. He paused. THEY HAVE ALSO GIVEN HIM MY GRANDDAUGHTER.
Lobsang choked, his face going quite white. "What?" he demanded. Sparks flew from his fingertips as he clenched his hands, causing all and sundry to look at him curiously.
If Death could have raised an eyebrow, he would have. INDEED, he said. STRICTLY SPEAKING SUSAN MOST LIKELY DOES NOT NEED MY HELP, BUT THAT IS NOT THE POINT. I HAVE A CERTAIN...FAMILIAL OBLIGATION TO RESCUE HER, WHETHER SHE NEEDS IT OR NOT. AFTER ALL, he mused, I CERTAINLY OWE HER ONE.
Lobsang drew a slow, deep breath, obviously willing the human part of himself into the background. "Where is she?" he asked, not bothering to prevaricate.
Death looked around at all of them, and extended a hand. FOLLOW ME, he said.
———
He was almost there. Cupids, strictly speaking, didn't have all the powers normally granted an anthropomorphic personification, but they could bend Time enough to get wherever they wanted to go in a hurry. He was somewhat hampered by the sheer amount of alcohol he had consumed, and almost impaled himself on a semaphore tower, but he was determined that this was one St. Wossname's Day that nobody would ever forget.
———
The castle was typical for the Ramtops, at least from the outside—it was a vast, sprawling thing that looked as though it had grown out of the mountains themselves. Guards, mostly zombies, patrolled the walls, and even the personifications took care to remain out of arrow-range.
IT'S IN THERE, Death said. WHATEVER IT IS. SO IS SUSAN, AND SO, I BELIEVE, IS YOUR PATRICIAN. He nodded to Vimes and his squadron, who were regarding the castle with a bemused expression that said as clearly as words, "Oh, hell no."
War regarded the castle closely. He'd seen many more impressive, but there was something distinctly unnatural about this one, something that told him assailing it would be a very bad idea. The best idea would be to besiege it, starve them out, and he said so. Granny shook her head.
"I'm not sure we've got time for that," she said, squinting at the distant parapets. "Whatever's goin' on, seems to me it's not goin' to wait around. No, I reckon we've got to use headology on 'em."
"What's that?" War asked, puzzled.
"We make 'em think they're starvin'," she said.
"Oh, I say, jolly good idea," said Famine.
"Yeah, but how do we know they won't start eating one another if we do?" asked Magrat. They all turned and stared at her, which of course caused her to go red as a beet.
"Well, it's just, if they're that bad, it's something they'd do, right?"
"Girl's got a point," Nanny muttered, shaking her head. "I don't half like it."
"Maybe if we dug a tunnel?" Nobby suggested. "You know, come up right under 'em like gophers."
"Wouldn't work," Granny said. "Not without some dwarfs, and they'd make such a racket we'd never get away with it. You can't dig a tunnel in the Ramtops; you've got to blast one."
Death sighed. They'd never get anywhere like this, he thought, but what else was there to do? There had to be some way into that castle, but he knew without even trying that simply attempting to walk in wouldn't work. Technically Death could go anywhere in the world, but he could feel the barrier around this place—it was magic, all right, and more than magic; he knew full well that the only way he would get into that castle was if somebody died.
It was at that thought that something came hurtling over the castle wall, a flail of limbs and a terrified shriek, and landed directly on his head.
———
And he was here. The world spun and dipped fantastically, and everything in his vision was trebled, but he was here, and they were here, and that was all that mattered. They stretched out below him, watching a castle in the distance, perfect sitting ducks. He didn't care about the castle—he'd deal with that later—right now he cared about them.
He unshouldered his bow and nocked an arrow, doing his level best to aim, and fired.
———
Death stood up, shaking his head, and looked down at the thing that had landed on top of him.
It was a person, of sorts, though at the moment it was so tangled in robes that it was hard to tell up from down. It sat up, adjusted its pointy hat, took one good look at him, gave a small "Eeep" of terror, and fell over in a dead faint.
Death prodded him with a toe, regarding him quizzically. He knew who this was—it was that bloody wizard Rincewind, the one who kept miraculously staying alive when by all rights he shouldn't, including right now. Nothing should be able to survive a landing like that, but quite obviously he had. He took out the young man's lifetimer, puzzled, and saw to his considerable confusion that sand was flowing backward through it, up into the top bulb.
"Rincewind!"
Joie, weaving and bobbing drunkenly in what he was learning to be her customary walk, stumbled over and sat down beside the unconscious wizard, patting him on the head as though he were a small puppy. "Oh, good, nothin' broken. Wake up now, there's a good lad."
Death started to say something, but something slammed into his back with a considerable sting. He looked up, just in time to see a veritable hail of arrows come sailing out of the sky, peppering the crowd like, well, pepper. One of them caught Granny Weatherwax in the foot, making her hop and curse, while another impaled Agnes' forehead and promptly disappeared. A third stuck through the top of Nanny Ogg's hat, while a fourth caught Nobby square in the stomach.
"We're being bombed!" cried the Oh God of Hangovers, who had appeared from seemingly nowhere. He dove behind a rock, but not before catching an arrow right in the bum.
There followed a confusion so great that even Chaos couldn't have done a better job. The only person who seemed to keep his head was Vimes, who picked up a rock and launched it at their attacker. It hit him in the head and dropped him like a stone, bow, arrows and all, and he and the other two uninjured Watchmen hurried over to it.
"What in blazes is that?" Colon demanded, eying the cherub as though uncertain it was really there.
"I think it's a Cupid," Angua said, prodding it with her boot. "It is St. Wossname's Day, after all."
"Is it?" said Vimes, giving a guilty start. He hadn't remembered to get Sybil anything, but then, she hadn't gotten him anything, either. Apparently it wasn't a very memorable holiday.
Something clicked in his head. "Wait a minute," he said. "If that's a Cupid, and it's just shot half of us—" He stopped, looking around at all the various people rubbing at their now non-existent wounds. "Oh, bugger."
This, he thought, was not going to end well.