Perpetrator's Note: Again, apologies for the slowness of the update—Real Life has this nasty habit of intruding on my writing time. I must say, this story is getting even weirder and more improbable than even I had intended, but what the hell, I'm having fun with it.
——
To Susan's considerable amazement, Teatime actually had more than passable table manners. He knew which fork to use when, he did not slurp his soup, and though he looked incredibly tempted to steal the cream off the top of the eclairs, he somehow restrained himself. Mercifully he did not try over-hard to engage her in conversation, being too absorbed in consuming all the various delicacies his vampiric chef had created.
Susan could see why he was too distracted to talk—wherever he'd found his chef, the man was a genius, particularly with pastries and puddings. They managed to get through the meat, soup, and salad and onto the pudding with barely a word, before Susan gradually began to twig to the fact that something was going vaguely wrong.
Small beads of sweat had broken out on Teatime's forehead, and his face was turning a rather interesting shade of crimson. He downed several hasty swallows from his water glass, clearly struggling valiantly to keep going as usual, a struggle he eventually lost by up-ending the glass over his head. Though it was filled with ice-cubes, it hissed and steamed as soon as it touched his skin, and Susan paused with her fork halfway to her mouth, eying him suspiciously.
"...Are you alright?" she asked, trying to ignore the inner dancing demon that was shrieking 'poison! hooray!'.
Teatime swallowed again, tugging at the high collar of his dress shirt. "...Of course," he said, pouring himself another glass of water. No sooner had he put his hand on the pitcher than its contents came to a slow rolling boil, and both his real and artificial eyes bugged out slightly.
Now, Teatime, though mad as a hatter, was far from stupid. He had made an extensive study of poisons during his time at the Assassin's Guild, and he didn't know of any poison that could make a man feel like...this. This was an entirely alien experience, and while it wasn't exactly unpleasant it was certainly...overpowering, to the point of driving him half distracted. He shifted uncomfortably in his cushy armchair, reaching for a decanter of wine—
—which also boiled at his touch, but then went the additional mile of catching fire. He yelped and dropped it, cast a bewildered, agonized look at Susan, decided better of it, and hotfooted it from the room as fast as his (slightly smoking) shoes would carry him. After a moment there came a distant splash and sizzle, followed by an audible sigh of relief, as he had clearly plunged into the ornamental pond in the menagerie.
Susan blinked, watching the door for a long minute in case he decided to come back, and then shrugged and daintily finished the rest of her pudding. She wasn't sure what all that was about, but she'd be damned if she'd let a meal like this go to waste.
Something very large and apparently very fragile crashed to the ground in the main hall, making Susan jump and drop her fork. The crash was immediately followed by a decidedly female shriek, and then several pairs of running feet.
"Oh, what now?" Susan wondered aloud. She cast around the room for some kind of weapon, settled on the heavy brass fireplace poker, and easing the door open she stuck her head out into the hallway.
What met her eyes was chaos, pure and simple. She hadn't realized how many people were in this castle until she saw half of them tearing about like decapitated chickens, most, she noticed, with smoke trailing from their shoes. Teatime apparently wasn't the only one to have taken a dip in the carp pond, either; guards, seamstresses, and even the stodgy old butler were all dripping and steaming, and still they moved in an odd, jerking dance, as though their knickers were filled with insects.
Susan blinked again, lowering the poker and stepping fully out of the door. A seamstress—and yes, Susan would bet money that she was that kind of seamstress—went tearing past her, ripping at the complicated fastenings of her sodden dress and paying not the least attention to where she was going, until she reached the head of the main staircase and went careening over it, crashing into several maids, the butler, and a groom on the way down. They all wound up at the foot of the staircase in a tangled, groaning heap, and Susan stared, wondering if everyone but she had gone off their nut.
"It would appear that sanity has taken a brief holiday."
Susan jumped, automatically raising the poker as she turned, but it was only Vetinari, who (quite thankfully) looked as sane as she felt. "I don't suppose you would have any idea what is behind this?" he asked, folding his arms.
She shook her head. "Not unless it was something they ate," she said, ducking as a glass flew over her head and smashed on the far wall. "I guess we couldn't make use of this mess and escape, could we?"
Vetinari shook his head. "Unfortunately, the zombies are still at their assigned posts, so I fear escape would be ill-advised." He glanced over the railing and down into the main hall, where everyone seemed to be fighting for places within the ornamental pond, which was steaming like a hot spring on a cold day. He shook his head grimly and turned back to Susan.
"I don't suppose you'd care for a game of chess, until everyone regains their sanity?" he said.
She looked around at the mayhem, absently sticking out the poker and tripping Teatime as he ran past. "I don't see why not," she said, shaking her head. "At this rate they'll have torn the castle down by midnight."
Vetinari offered her a small smirk and his arm, which she took, still retaining hold of the poker in her free hand. Together they proceeded through the mayhem, intermittently ducking as something (or someone) went sailing past. Occasionally Susan would have to make use of her poker, or Vetinari of his walking stick, but they eventually made it back to Vetinari's rooms, where they shut and securely bolted the door.
Now, Vetinari was no fool. He had a feeling that he knew quite well what the source of this seeming madness was—it had, after all, been printed in his own city, and he had for years kept tabs on virtually everything the Engraver's Guild turned out. He therefore knew that the effects would only be temporary, but it would probably be best to be well out of the way until they wore off. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised that it wasn't affecting Susan—she was, barring himself, the most self-possessed person he had ever met, and people like that tended to overpower outside influences without even thinking about it.
"I'd say we have about two hours before that wears off," he said, carefully arranging the chessboard. "Do have a seat."
Susan sat, and, to a background soundtrack of shrieks and the tinkle of breaking glass, they played chess and discussed possible methods of escape, dismissing this or that one as the pieces slowly fell.
"I believe we may have a rescue squad," Vetinari said, and Susan frowned as he took her knight. "I could not say just who they are, but there seem to be quite a few of them out there." He jerked his head at the window, through which Susan could see a multitude of campfires winking in the distance. "I am, however, willing to lay money that at least one of them is Commander Vimes."
"He'd come all the way out here?" Susan asked, felling two pawns in one swoop.
"Oh, yes. To him it's a straightforward case of theft, and, to quote him, 'once a copper, always a copper'. He won't treat it like a kidnapping; to him it's simply a matter of retrieving stolen goods." One of her bishops fell to his rook, and she scowled, sending several pawns after it.
"Is he any good at retrieving stolen goods?"
Vetinari considered this. "Vimes usually finds a way," he said. "It might involve several explosions and annoying all who encounter him past the point of sanity, but he finds a way." He paused thoughtfully, and would have said more, save that at that moment someone knocked smartly on the door.
———
Death hummed to himself as he spread butter over a frying pan. The first course of his culinary experiment had been a great success, even with Albert, who normally avoided anything that wasn't fried in six layers of grease. They were all just finishing up now, except for Nanny Ogg, who was unconscious and snoring like thunder. The pudding was cooking nicely, as was the sauce, and all around him people were talking and eating and enjoying themselves.
It would be useless to ask where Death had gotten all the ingredients for his dishes—he was Death; if he wanted it, he got it, with the minimum amount of fuss. He was just pouring batter into the skillet when there came a tremendous crash from the direction of the castle, which made everyone jump and which caused him to drop pan and batter into the fire.
DAMN, he muttered. SO MUCH FOR THE BLINTZES.
"What in hell was that?" Ridcully demanded, pausing in the act of licking his plate.
"Dunno, but it sounded big." Nobby set aside his pad of paper and took a small, filthy telescope, of the sort usually used by sailors, from a pocket. He put it to one eye, adjusted it this way and that, finally remembered to take off the lens cover, and pointed it in the direction of the Great Hall.
"It...looks like they're all going swimming," he said uncertainly, squinting into the tube.
"What?" Vimes demanded.
"They're...in some kind of indoor pond...and it's steaming."
"Steaming?"
"Uh-huh...oh, a seamstress just went bowling down the main staircase—"
"Give that here." Vimes snatched the telescope from Nobby's hands, tried (and failed) to clean it on the tail of his shirt, and took a look for himself. "...They've all gone mad," he said. He handed the spyglass back to Nobby and tugged on his collar—was it just him, or was it getting warmer?
There came another tinkling crash, and several shrieks. Agnes winced.
"They're killing each other in there!" she said, shocked.
Vimes cast a glance at her. "No, I rather don't think they are."
"Are you sure? Let me see."
Vimes took the telescope from Nobby before Agnes could grab it. "I really don't think that would be a good idea," he said hastily. "It's...not a sight for a lady's eyes."
"Its'—" Agnes stopped, comprehending, and gawped at him. "...Oh," she said in a small voice. "Oh dear."
"Indeed." He handed the glass back to Nobby and shook his head, again tugging at his collar. "I think—wait..."
The great front doors opened, spilling something—or someone—out into the night. Whoever it was shut the door conscientiously behind him, and hurried off across the fields at a brisk trot. As the figure drew nearer it revealed itself to be—
"Carrot?" Vimes said weakly, staring. "What in hell are you doing here? And how did you get here so fast?"
Carrot saluted smartly. As usual, his breastplate and helmet gleamed, and though he'd been running he wasn't even sweating.
"Sorry to bother you, sir. I've just gotten the wages chitty signed, sir, and I must say, it's a jolly good siege you've got going here."
Everybody stared at him. Vimes felt his jaw drop.
"You...what?" he demanded, certain, even after all his experience with Carrot, that he hadn't heard correctly.
"The wages chitty."
Vimes stared at him. "Wait...wait...you came out here all the way from bloody Ankh-Morpork, you came five hundred bloody miles in one day, you broke into the castle, you found the Patrician, and all you did was get the wages chitty signed?"
Carrot nodded, and Angua covered her face with her hands. "That's right, sir. And I brought you some reinforcements—they should be here any minute."
There are some situations in which hand meeting forehead is the only proper response, and Vimes did so now. He should have, after all his experience with Carrot, known better than to be surprised by anything the man did, but...but...
But if it had been him, he'd have done it on purpose, broken into enemy territory just to prove that he could—he'd have been an obnoxious little swat, to tell the truth, doing his best to show up the officers...but in Carrot's eyes there was nothing more or less than innocent, guileless earnestness, and he was forced to admit that, really, Carrot actually meant what he said.
"I need a drink," he groaned. "Wait, wait, even...how did you even get here? Ankh-Morpork's five hundred miles away, it should have taken you days..."
"Oh, I had some help, sir—the reinforcements, like I told you. Look, here they come."
Through his haze of disbelief Vimes managed to register that Carrot was looking skyward, and so perforce did he, squinting into the starry darkness. Something big, something much too big (and too loud) to be a bird was approaching, something mammoth and wooden and creaking with a pair of blades whirring above it. The wind the thing produced as it approached nearly knocked Vimes off his feet, scattering the embers of their campfires, and once it landed it emitted, much like a clown car, Sergeant Detritus, Corporal Littlebottom, Reg Shoe, Buggy Swires, and a host of others Vimes didn't recognize—some appeared to be wizards, some appeared to be palace guards, and at least one appeared to be Foul Ole Ron. They were all followed by a somewhat frail-looking man of indeterminate age, with long greying hair and beard, wearing a faded red robe spotted with acid-burns and an expression of near terminal good-natured distractedness.
"Captain...who are these people?" Vimes asked, as they marched (or tripped, or swore) their way across the grassy hummocks.
"Well, sir, when I went up to the palace to see about the wages chitty, I ran into this nice gentleman here—" he pointed at the greying geezer "—who told me he might be able to help rescue the Patrician. So we got together a few recruits, and...here we are."
Vimes stared at the man. There was something vaguely familiar about him, though for the life of him Vimes couldn't figure out—
"Oh, gods," he groaned. "Leonard of Quirm? But...but he's been missing for ages! I thought he was dead."
The elderly chap blinked at him. "Dead? Oh, good heavens, no. I've just been...away from the world, for a bit, you know how it is. Working." He rubbed his thin hands together and regarded the castle. "And I really think I might be able to do something about that."
"Well, it's more than any of use can say so far," Vimes snorted, and swallowed hard. He really was feeling unaccountably warm, for such a cool night—sweat had broken out on his temples, and his clothing was feeling inexplicably tight...
Carrot looked at him. "Are you all right, sir? Your face is a little...red..."
Vimes shook himself. "Of course...er...I think I'll just...go for a walk..." And without waiting for a response he was off into the woods as fast as his feet could carry him, hoping desperately that there was some sort of stream or pond or even puddle nearby.
A short while later found him in what was little more than a mud-puddle with pretensions, its murky waters steaming gently, a look of complete bliss on his face. It would have been quite a lot better if he hadn't been followed by, in order, Colon, Ridcully, Albert, and a very cross-looking Agnes, who sat in a corner all her own and silently dared anyone to comment. Several far-off shrieks and once brief, brilliant gout of flame hinted that others were faring no better than they, and Vimes wondered idly what the hell was going on. Angua had been spotted earlier, hurrying past dragging Carrot by the collar, but at least she'd had the decency to get out of earshot before...doing whatever she was going to do.
"Well," he muttered, as Bilious, his sandals smoking, went hurtling past, "this just keeps getting better and better, doesn't it?"
——
Death was intensely puzzled. Granted, his meal had been interrupted halfway through the penultimate course, but even in its incomplete state he did not think it was supposed to make people react like this. Nearly the entire camp had gone streaking off in various directions (in Nanny Ogg's case, quite literally streaking—even were he able to forget like a mortal, THAT was an image that would have been forever seared into the very bedrock of his hindbrain), leaving only himself, Life, and the Bursar, the latter two of whom appeared to be occupied in chasing imaginary butterflies.
STRANGE, he mused. BUT THEN, PERHAPS THIS IS ALL A PART OF IT. Death had as much understanding of romance as a chicken has of nuclear physics, but he was pretty certain this wasn't how it went. And speaking of chickens—
"Know I get into how castle to," said the Bursar, abruptly abandoning the chimerical papilios and collapsing beside the fire like a marionette with cut strings.
Death peered at him, trying to line the words up into something resembling coherence, but before he could do so Life had plopped down on the other side of the fire, happily chewing on a speckled red mushroom. "How?" she asked, her pop-eyes round and faintly bloodshot.
"Chickens," the Bursar said promptly, beaming proudly. "Fire to set them, catapult then wall them over."
Silence.
WAIT, said Death, somewhat adrift on the dragon-filled expanse of the Bursar's mental sea, YOU WANT TO SET FIRE TO CHICKENS, AND HURL THEM OVER THE CASTLE WALLS?
"It's an ancient Agatean trick," the Bursar said, managing a cohesive sentence by pure accident.
IT WOULD TAKE A MADMAN TO THINK FLAMING POULTRY AS A WEAPON WAS A GOOD IDEA, Death thought, shaking his head.
"It's ruddy brilliant," said Life, grinning.
Death smacked his forehead, making his skull echo.
——
Some time later most of the camp had wandered back to the fires, dripping and still occasionally throwing sparks. Vimes called them all together, bound and determined to accomplish at least something of vague importance. This wasn't likely, considering how many people had imbibed Nanny's 'special green herbal drink' during dinner, and those that were still upright were staring rather vacantly at things only they could see. Even the personifications were having a rough go of it—Nanny's liquor could intoxicate a statue at fifty paces, and the fumes alone were enough to make most normal people tipsy.
Of the witches, only Granny Weatherwax was even conscious, but she was sitting ramrod-straight on a log by their fire, glaring at everyone as though daring them to comment. Agnes and Magrat were snoring in a genteel sort of way, and Nanny, even through her sleep, was mumbling bits of the Hedgehog song. Nobby would probably have been somewhere near her, save that he was out stone cold and pinned firmly under Vimes's boot. Carrot and Angua sat beside him, both looking distinctly rumpled (and quite sheepish), not meeting anyone's eyes save each other's.
A fire over, Famine was sitting and giggling drunkenly, Pestilence was rocking and looking distinctly green, and War, to whom the word 'drunk' was a mystery, was still happily quaffing what everyone devoutly hoped was ale. Mrs. War was fussing at him, but in a perfunctory sort of way, as if this was what was expected of her and she was damn well going to do it. Destiny was sound asleep, and Fate, oblivious to the attentions being foisted on her by Bilious (whose robe was still smoking faintly) was swaying and drooling slightly. Lobsang was stumbling about, launched on a drunken tirade that was much too slurred for anyone to understand, occasionally tripping and continuing his monologue from the ground.
Vimes sighed. Of all the motley horde, perhaps five people were paying him any attention at all—Leonard of Quirm, Death, Detritus, and Cheery. Foul Ole Ron (why had they brought him along?) rarely paid attention to anything, drunk or sober, so that wasn't much loss, but he was going to be hard put to do anything with the rest of this lot. Really, it was almost enough to make him fall off the wagon himself, it was so depressing. How were they supposed to do anything against that castle, when they couldn't even collectively pay attention for more than two minutes?
"I say," said the Dean, who had come with Leonard in his flying-contraption, "this herbal drink is rather good...pour me another mug, Bursar, there's a good man."
"Whoops, Mr. Jelly," the Bursar said happily, obliging. He stepped over the prone Ponder Stibbons, in whose alcohol-ridden head visions of quantum thingummies danced like sugar plum fairies.
Life giggled at that, absently patting Rincewind on the head. By some miracle the wizard was only mildly intoxicated, and even through his fuzzy haze he recognized that the safest place to be was wherever she was, proceeding on the dim logic that it was pretty hard to die while sitting next to the personification of Life. He grinned at her and offered her another mushroom, which she speared on the end of someone's sword and proceeded to attempt to roast. Of course it promptly burst into flames, which sent both of them into gales of laughter.
Death scowled at them, insomuch as a skull can scowl. His grip tightened on his scythe.
ALBERT, WHAT DO YOU CALL IT WHEN THE ATTENTION ONE PERSON PAYS ANOTHER MAKES YOU WANT TO BEAT THAT PERSON TO A BLOODY PULP?
"Jealousy, master." Albert was hunched over, smoking a foul role-up and doing his best to ignore the rest of the camp. Needless to say, it was a losing battle.
IT'S NOT PLEASANT, IS IT?
"Generally not, master."
WELL, WHAT DOES ONE DO ABOUT IT?
"I usually beat them to a bloody pulp, master."
Death considered this a moment. RIGHT, he said, taking out Rincewind's lifetimer. Because it looked like something made by an insane glassblower with a bad case of the hiccups, he hadn't the faintest idea when the man was due to die, but given the circumstances he felt he could probably just wait for an opportune moment to...make an educated guess. He scowled at Rincewind, who, intercepting the scowl, went pale and hid behind a log.
Vimes, his nerves at last stretched to the breaking point, gave up trying to politely gather everyone's attention. He cupped his hands to his mouth and bellowed, his voice echoing through all the little valleys that surrounded them.
"IF EVERYBODY DOESN'T SHUT UP RIGHT NOW, I WILL PERSONALLY EAT ALL YOUR LIVERS!"
Silence.
"Well, buggrit," said Foul Ole Ron at last. "Could've just asked."
"Yeah," said the Dean. "No need to get violent, man."
A vein throbbed in Vimes's forehead, suggesting just how violent he'd like to be at that moment, and even the Dean, who was as perceptive as half a brick, was wise enough to subside. "Look," he said, in a voice of deadly patience, "as much...fun...as this has all been, if we don't come up with a plan of attack, we're never going to see the inside of that castle, and everyone we came to rescue are going to stay stuck in there until Doomsday. I don't know just what we're up against, but whoever they are, they seem to be a sight better organized than we are, and if we don't do something about it, they're going to eat us for lunch."
"Is it just me, or does he have rather a fixation with cannibalism?" hissed the Chair of Indefinite Studies, in a stage whisper that could have carried half a mile.
Vimes took a deep breath, valiantly attempting to ignore this. "Now," he said, "does anyone have any ideas? Anyone at all?"
Life, now on the upswing of her mushroom-induced psychosis, dreamily raised a hand.
"Yes?" Vimes said warily, knowing that nothing good could come from this.
"Chickens," she said promptly. "Light them on fire, an' hurl 'em over the castle walls."
Vimes stared at her. "Chickens," he echoed, realizing he should have known it would be something like this. "And what, exactly, do you suggest we hurl them with?"
Leonard looked up from his sketching. "Actually, I designed a device some time ago that just might do the trick," he said excitedly. "It's a high-powered catapult capable of launching objects up to seventy miles."
"What a waste of a good dinner!" the Dean said hotly, but nobody heard him in the general babble that broke out.
"You know, that could work..."
"But what about trajectories?"
"Oh, you just allow for wind variance, air pressure, that sort of thing...with the right calculations, you could get a chicken through even a small opening."
"But wouldn't the flames make air resistance?"
"Good point...I'll have to work it out."
Vimes stared. His eyes actually bulged out of his head. "I don't believe this," he said. "You're all actually considering this, aren't you? You're actually going to light a bunch of chickens on fire and throw them at the castle like...like weapons, and you expect it will do any good? Where," he asked, his voice going slightly shrill with incipient hysteria, "are you going to get the chickens?"
"Gytha's got some," said Granny. "There's plenty about in Lancre." She did not actually think the chickens would accomplish a damn thing, but they would provide a welcome distraction, in which something real could be attempted without fear of observation.
Vimes threw up his hands. "I give up," he said. "I give up! You're all bound and determined to do this like pillocks, so have. Bloody. Fun. I QUIT!" He stomped off through the grass, stopping only long enough to grab a half-full bottle from the surprised Dean, who made a face at his retreating back.
Silence fell again, for a very long moment.
"Unbalanced, that man," Ridcully said at last. "So what about this chicken-flinging machine?"
——
Heehee! The madness continues. Next chapter will see all-out war launched, with help from Cupid, the Nac mac Feegle, and several members of the Silver Horde. Vimes gets utterly trashed, Teatime again attempts to be romantic, Susan and Vetinari scheme, and quite a lot of people take out frustrated jealousy in...interesting...ways. Be afraid. Be very, very afraid.