A/N: And it only gets worse. Flee, people. While you still can. Shorter chapter this time, but what the hell, I'll make up for it with the next one, in which battle will be joined, food will be flung, and all will generally go from bad to worse.
------
Once they were safely into the woods, Granny released Albert's arm and poked him, hard.
"All right, mister, what's this all about?" she demanded. If she was suffering any residual effects from the Cupid's arrow, she sure wasn't showing it, and Albert, for once in his extraordinarily long life, felt just a bit uneasy. He knew she couldn't really hurt him--Life had done something to him, to bring him down here, and from what he understood he wasn't properly alive while he was in the world--but just looking at her gave him a feeling that she could do things to him that would make him wish she could kill him.
"Er, well, I had an idea." He shook the sack, which cursed again. "I figured, since this thing's caused us all so much trouble, we might...turn it loose on our enemies, like."
A slight widening of the eyes was all the response Granny gave. She eyed the sack speculatively, crossing her arms, and Albert reflected that two thousand years of life--most of them spent as Death's manservant--wasn't enough to prepare a person for the sheer force of Granny Weatherwax's sapphire gaze.
"Really," she said, the word scarcely more than a breath. And then she grinned.
Most of the people of Lancre were justifiably terrified of Granny's grin. They had good reason to be--many of them had known her their entire lives, and in reputation she had surpassed even the infamous Black Aliss. If Granny were a volcano, the sight of her smile would be enough to send the villagers scurrying for an appropriate sacrifice--it was a known terror, something to be placated as soon as was humanly possible.
But Albert, who knew very little of Granny, who should have had no reason to find her smile unnerving--Albert, who had faced mages and Sourcerors and things from the Dungeon Dimensions with teeth on their eyelids--found himself involuntarily backing away. He fought the urge to fork the sign of the Evil Eye, something he hadn't done since he was a little boy.
Suddenly, he felt very, very sorry for the poor bastard on the other side.
Granny clapped her hands, and the sound was like the first creaking hinges of the doors that held back Doom.
"Follow me," she said.
------
These last few days had been filled with firsts for Susan. She'd been surprised, and bored, and utterly infuriated, but now, in a most definite first, she was beginning to feel like a pillock.
"Look, this isn't going to work," she said, crossing her arms. "I can't walk through walls here--I've got a lump the size of a teacup on my forehead to prove it. I can't fade, and though I still know where everyone is, I don't see what kind of good that does me."
She sighed, blowing a wisp of frizz out of her face. Failure was not an oft-used word in Susan's personal vocabulary, but she was becoming intimately acquainted with its meaning now.
Vetinari handed her another chunk of wood. "Now, now, practice makes perfect," he said. "The Rhoxi wasn't built in a day, you know."
Susan ground her teeth, shut her eyes, and raised her hand. Being able to wave through solid objects was so commonplace to her that she usually had to concentrate to make certain it didn't happen, but here, try as she would, she couldn't do it. Sure enough, as she brought her hand down, it thunked hard on the wood, which remained obdurately solid.
"AAAARGHH!" she screamed, all her pent-up frustration finally reaching criticality. Her eyes snapped open, and she reached for the wood, intending to hurl it at the wall as she had all its predecessors--
--when, suddenly and quite without warning, it burst into flames.
The cry died in her throat, and her eyes widened to the size of saucers. She snatched her hand away, sucking on a blistered finger, watching with horrified fascination as the flaming thing ate through the desk and landed on the carpet, where it promptly dissolved into ash. The heat it threw off was immense--she could feel the ends of her hair scorching--and just as swiftly as it had started it died, leaving nothing but soot and charred burn-marks in its passage.
"...Buh," she said helplessly, and sat down hard on the ottoman. She knew well what powers were in Death's--and, by association, her--repertoire, and bursting things into flames with her mind wasn't among them. She looked sharply up at Vetinari, still far too floored to produce anything like coherent speech, and saw to her shock that he was smiling, his fingers once again steepled before his face.
"Very good," he said, his tone businesslike, as though spontaneous, rage-induced combustion were a perfectly everyday occurrence. "I think we might be able to do something with that."
Susan swallowed, desperately marshalling her powers of common sense like a beggar gathering rags. "But...but I can't do that," she said at last. "I mean, Granddad can't do that, and I can only do the things he can--can't I? It wouldn't make sense, otherwise."
Vetinari arched an eyebrow. "My dear child, clearly you have not explored the full extent of your own powers. If you wish sense, look at the evidence--the wood is clearly incinerated, and I believe we both know that I am not capable of such an act."
"I wouldn't put money on it," she muttered, shaking her head. Vetinari, probably wisely, elected not to comment.
"That therefore leaves only one other option--you. Pyrokinesis is not unheard of, and while it is usually the province of witches, it does not surprise me to find the ability in you. Magic is all connected, and while Death may operate by some other means, you are, as you yourself have put it, 'mostly human'. Humans use magic. It's a relatively simple equation, really."
Susan, still not fully convinced, bit her lip. "...Do you think I could do it to Teatime?" she asked, a sudden unholy glint in her eyes. Vetinari smiled dryly.
"Possibly, but I would not attempt it just yet. I gave Carrot a message to send back to Ankh-Morpork, and I am hopeful that its recipient will make haste to answer it. Until then, I suggest we all remain as inconspicuous as possible."
Susan snorted. "Where's the fun in that?" she muttered, and winced--clearly, all her time as a teacher was rubbing off on her, and not in a good way. Vetinari raised his eyebrows.
"Sorry," she said. "I'm just not used to sitting around this much...I want to do something."
In the distance, there came a sound that distinctly resembled a "WAAAAAAAAAAAAARK!"
CRUNCH
"...If I'm not very much mistaken, I think that you will be able to, quite shortly." Vetinari tilted his head to one side, listening intently, and smiled. "Just in time for sunset. How...symbolic."
It would be. More so than even Vetinari had any idea.
------
It was mid-afternoon in Ankh-Morpork, and Moist von Lipwig was sorting mail. He didn't normally do it--as head of the Post Office, he was usually busy with other things--but he liked to get into the main offices occasionally, just to show an interest. Besides, with the Patrician missing, half the city had gone mad, and sorting mail was a dull but soothing activity.
He was halfway through the last sack when he became aware of a distant roaring, growing steadily louder. Cursing under his breath, he abandoned his task and hurried up the stairs to the main floor, wondering what in hell had gone wrong now. The entire building was shaking, the windows rattling in time to the steady thud-thud that sounded overhead, and when he crested the stairs he found that both employees and customers had dove under whatever cover they could find.
"It's an earthquake!" Groat hissed, clinging to a table leg.
"It can't be an earthquake--we're on loam." Adora Belle von Lipwig, nee Dearhart, had nearly swallowed her cigarette at the start of the tremors. "Moist, I think we're being bombed."
It wasn't a bomb, however; nor was it an earthquake. The roaring peaked, something thudded onto the roof, and then the noise quickly faded into a series of dull whap-whaps that trailed into silence.
"What in hell's name is going on here?" Moist demanded, as the main doors swung open. "Hey, I'm trying to run a government institution here, pal!"
The man who had entered was unknown to him--his age was indeterminate, but he looked like the brighter class of alchemist, the sort that singes the eyebrows without losing them entirely.
"Oh, I do apologize." The eccentric gentleman rummaged in the pockets of his frayed robe, and eventually produced a somewhat crumpled envelope. "Lord Vetinari asked Carrot to ask me to ask you to deliver this to the reporters of the Ankh-Morpork Times, if you would be so good."
Moist stared. His life as a criminal had brought him into contact with all sorts of loonies, but, with dawning horror, he realized that this one was more than just a loony. He'd never actually seen Leonard of Quirm, but he'd heard stories, and this man's air of barmy gentility seemed to fit perfectly with what he'd heard.
"Oh, gods," he groaned, taking the envelope. "I don't believe this." Ignoring Leonard's protest, he broke the seal and unfolded the parchment within. It said, in a perfect copperplate that could only be Vetinari's,
Mr. von Lipwig,
Knowing you as I do, I trust you are reading this, despite the fact that it was not addressed to you. Amusing as the current situation undoubtedly is (to certain parties, at least), this is not a joke, and I must ask you to forward the rest of this correspondence to Mr. DeWorde at the Times. Since the current state of affairs within the city has undoubtedly left you with little with which to occupy yourself, I might suggest that you accompany Mr. da Quirm to the newspaper offices, and thence to my current location.
Also enclosed is the wages chitty for the City Watch--please forward it to Constable Dorfl, who is, unless I am very much mistaken, the only Watchman left in the city who can be trusted with it.
I have but one more request, and that is that you send Ms. Dearhart-von Lipwig to deliver the second item in Mr. da Quirm's keeping--I believe her presence will be necessary, particularly once its recipient has read it.
sincerely,
Havelock Vetinari (Patrician)
Moist groaned. He knew damn well what Vetinari meant when he 'suggested' something; if he didn't go with this Leonard, he'd live to regret it when Vetinari returned. Or, more accurately, he wouldn't live, which was worse.
"Fine," he said aloud. "Spike, Vetinari's asked you to deliver this." He found a second, smaller envelope beneath the parchment, which was addressed, again in Vetinari's handwriting, to Mrs. Sybil Ramkin Vimes.
Adora crept out from under the table, dusted herself off, and lit a cigarette. "I don't want to know," she said, looking at the envelope as though it might bite her.
"Trust me, the feeling is mutual." Moist tucked the parchment back into the ruined envelope, and placed it in his pocket. "All right, Mr. da Quirm, I suppose we'd better go. Spike, I'll meet you back here in, oh, an hour, all right?"
"I hope."
------
When Adora von Lipwig reached the house of Sybil Vimes, she found she was not the first caller. The Dean of Unseen University, having been forcibly flung through a patch of rhododendrons by his well-meaning but mathematically challenged colleagues, was sitting in the Mildly Yellow Drawing Room with an icepack on his head and a large mug of brandy. Willikins showed her in and left her, discreetly refilling the Dean's mug.
"Oh," she said. "I'm sorry, Lady Sybil, I didn't realize you had...company." Adora didn't know what in hell the Dean was doing here, but judging from his expression it wasn't on any pleasant errand. "I've just been sent to deliver you this." She handed the envelope over, and for once in her life Adora Belle von Lipwig found herself shrinking back like a timid child.
Sybil Ramkin Vimes had a reputation for being a calm, capable, kindly woman, whose gentility of personality seemed to try to make up for the amount of physical space she occupied. Hardly anybody had seen her angry before, but, Adora realized with utter clarity, what she was witnessing now had slingshot far over the valleys of anger, into the shifting lava flows of Bloody Furious. The effect was rather like poking at a harmless-looking jellyfish, and realizing too late that it wanted to eat your hand off.
Sybil took the letter and read it over, her expression not changing a whit, save to grow even grimmer. "Just as I thought," she said. "Samuel Vimes, you don't know the meaning of the word 'trouble'."
Adora raised her eyebrows, shooting the Dean a look that said quite clearly, Do I even want to ask? The Dean shook his head, quite definitely.
Sybil, who had caught the look, drew a deep breath, nostrils flaring. "Sam has apparently, as the Dean so aptly put it, 'fallen off the wagon'. That must have been after Havelock wrote this letter, in which he states 'your presence would likely be a soothing influence on your husband, whom I predict will shortly crack'. Just once I wish that man would be wrong."
She emitted a noise between a grunt and a snort, setting the letter aside and rallying the fraying edges of her temper, with visible effort. "Thank you, Mrs. von Lipwig. I would appreciate it greatly if you could accompany us back to the Post Office. Apparently there is some sort of conveyance waiting to take me to bludgeon--er, speak to my husband."
"'Us'?" Adora questioned, eying the Dean. No sooner had the word left her mouth than Willikins, who appeared to have been badly savaged by bags of baby paraphernalia, entered. He spat out a rubber duck long enough to announce,
"Young Sam is ready, Madam."
"Oh, good. Come along, then, all of you." Sybil waved her most Duchess-y hand and swept past, Willikins following in her wake like a lugubrious tugboat. The baby himself was strapped into a carrier on the butler's back, alternately yanking at his hair and administering cheerful (and remarkably accurate) kicks to his kidneys. Adora winced.
"Vimes is a dead man," she muttered to the Dean, who was following well behind. The wizard paused, considering, as Sybil issued a stream of orders to the remaining servants.
"No, I don't think he is," he said slowly. "He'll just wish he was."
They followed on again, eventually managing to load themselves aboard the ancestral Ramkin carriage, and drove down to meet their doom.
Someone's doom, at any rate.
------
Meanwhile, back at the castle, Teatime was fairly twitching with excitement.
Teatime had been trained as an Assassin. Not because it was a noble profession; not because his family was wealthy and needed somewhere to fob off an extra son, as so many of the Assassins had initially been. He had been taken in by the Guild as an act of charity, the Guild not realizing at the time that he was responsible for his own dearth of immediate family, and the result had been not un-akin to raising a mongoose near the remains of Chernobyl. Instead of having a detached disregard for the value of human life, Teatime had an extreme attachment to getting rid of it. He was possibly the only Assassin in history to value the act of killing itself more than the money, a trait which made even his fellows uneasy.
Once, while profoundly intoxicated (one of the very few times he had ever been such), Teatime had tried to explain his philosophy. It was probably just as well that he'd tried explaining it to the fruit machine in the Mended Drum, because any remotely rational person who had heard it would likely have fled screaming into the night.
"Life was meant to be taken, or else why would everything be so damned easy to kill? The world and everything in it are the toys of people like me, if there actually are other people like me. No matter what anyone does with their life, it's all null when they die, so why bother? When we kill we are like gods, only better, because we don't need the belief of anyone but ourselves. Someday," and here he had elbowed the machine conspiratorially, ignoring the twinge in his funnybone, "someday, I'll kill Life itself. Now that would be a contract."
And now, at last, he had the chance to fulfill that drunken vow. His spies had reported that Life was indeed among the personifications laying siege to his castle, and while the wizards were busy bombarding it with chicken-bombs, he was planning. Or at least trying to.
The zombies would be easy enough to direct, to keep the bulk of the enemy too busy to get anywhere near him. The main problem was getting Life somewhere he could off her, without leaving him vulnerable to Death himself. The Auditors had warned him that, since he wasn't actually meant to be alive, if he so much as set foot outside the castle Death could (and probably would) get him. Fortunately for everything on the Disc, Teatime hadn't yet figured out a way around that one, though not for lack of trying.
Most people, if they thought about killing Life at all, would stop to wonder just what that would mean for, say, they themselves. Any rational person (and many irrational) would eventually reach the conclusion that if Life were inhumed, the Assassin responsible would kick the bucket along with everyone else. This little detail had utterly escaped Teatime, who, even having died once, never even considered the possibility that something bad might happen to him.
Had Teatime been left to his own devices, he probably could have inhumed Life with relatively little difficulty--after all, the woman was demonstrably two grapes short of a fruit salad. Fortunately for most of existence he was not; most of the motley crew assembled beyond the castle posed him little threat, but a few were more than formidable opponents. Brilliant though Teatime was, in his own specialized way, he had never come up against anything even remotely like the combined machinations of Albert and Granny Weatherwax. Twisted as his mind was, he had nothing on them, as he was (very shortly) to find out.
------
Evening was fast approaching, by the time Leonard's contraption returned to base camp, and the slanting sunlight revealed time well spent. The curtain-wall was still standing, but only just, and the zombies behind it were growing restive as bomb after bomb flew WAAAAAARK-ing overhead. Bonfires had been built, and the Nac mac Feegle were dancing and chanting some weird, incomprehensible war-song while beating on tiny drums.
Only one creature was missing from this warlike cavalcade, and that was Greebo. He had begged off the festivities earlier, when several of the Feegle decided to try and pull his ears off, and had crept unnoticed into the castle. The zombies, who had little use for cats and certainly didn't see them as a threat, let him in, and he was now wandering about in search of something to eat, rape, fight, or maybe all three.
He wasn't finding much. Oh, there had been a colony of were-rats, but those had provided only passing amusement, and while there was plenty else to eat, he was now in the mood for one of the other two categories--which, he didn't particularly care.
It was in this mood of relative boredom that he came upon Teatime's room. The feverish Assassin was pacing, bouncing from the end of the bed to the table like a dancer, and muttering to himself. Greebo had seen crazy people, but this one definitely took the cake when it came to sheer manic energy. He sat down and curled his tail around his feet, ready to watch the show.
"--have to do it very soon, before those idiots get started. Want to get it out of the way before I have to go and fulfill my contract," Teatime said, and giggled. He was dressed in an Assassin's best--all black silk, with his best enameled knives (used mainly for show, rather than function), his boots polished to a mirror shine. Still no jewelry--an Assassin's training ran deep--but the edges of his clothes were trimmed with a satiny black piping. He should have looked like a twit, but something in his slightly crazed good cheer precluded any indication of twittishness--he looked, as always, like the kind of person who would bite your nose off as casually as saying 'hello'.
"I really wish we had a priest, but as it is, the Privy Councilor will have to do," he muttered, adjusting his collar in the mirror above the fireplace. "I do hope Susan's cooperating with the maid..."
Greebo, disappointed that no noses appeared to be about to part company with their owners, trotted onward. One corridor over produced far better amusement, however--the door was half-cracked, and he peered around it to find a rather fantastic scene.
The Great Hall, done up in an interior decorator's worst nightmare of chintz and chiffon, filled with seats draped in bunting. A tiny, fat cherub, wearing a ferocious scowl, nocking what looked like a whole sheaf of arrows into its bow. Lying on the floor all around it, like the sleeping guards in a fairy story, was what looked like half the palace staff, some still with decorations clutched in limp hands. Each and every one had a serene, dreamy smile on their face, and each and every one also had a pink arrow protruding from some portion of their anatomy.
Greebo grinned. Cats aren't big on symbolism, but a lifetime spent around Nanny Ogg had taught Greebo a few things about the human world. And from what he could see, this was shaping up to be the most entertaining night of his little feline life.