[A/N: I did it! With this chapter, my uploaded word count has just exceeded 100,000 words! Release the doves! Fire the confetti cannons! Damn the torpedoes! Thank you all for sticking with me through all this. I have had a blast both writing for you, reading your reviews, and chatting with you via IM (yes even you Mikell). Cheers!]

Chapter 45 - An Excess of Three Gallons

"Are we still dead?" Mister Sharps blinked at the apparition before him. "You are not beautiful. We do not like the afterlife."

The figure came into focus, synapses began firing more efficiently, shaking off the sugar-turbocharged fog. The baker, memory said. The baker spoke. "You're not dead. And I'm definitely not a spirit of the afterworld."

"How do you feel?" Mister Sharps turned his head slightly, to see the Renegade sitting on the other side of him. He was lying on the cot. He did not remember getting into the cot. He remembered standing, and eating… and…

"We feel… alive." He took further stock of his well-being. "Our mouth tells us it wishes to repeat what it did previously." Sharps looked at Myria with both awe and horror. "Is this what the Renegade experienced?"

"I believe it was very similar."

Sharps shook his head, and the room threatened to spin. "We are not sure we would risk this a second time."

"Give it a bit," Jonathon said. "Here." He set the tin on the table, next to the newt's tank. "I'll leave these for you, in case you change your mind."

Sharps sat up, and was surprised when Myria assisted him. "They are not poisoned?"

"No. They are not poisoned."

"And the crickets? You will leave those for our newt?"

Jonathon smiled. "Yes. That I can do. Don't know how long they'll live in that box though."

Sharps eyed the tin of waferbread. "You will promise us something?"

Jonathon looked wary, but Myria didn't hesitate. "Of course!"

"If they are poisoned, and I am killed… you will take care of our newt?"

"Look, they aren't-"

"Yes. Yes I will. I promise."

"Good. We do not trust the human. But we trust the Renegade."

"Thank you."

Great.

"There is another thing."

"Another gift?"

"Of a sort. We will attempt to convince the commander to let you leave. We will obtain alternate residence for you. If we do, will you promise not to flee?"

Jonathon's face tightened, but he held his tongue. We will have a conversation after this.

"You will have us removed from this cage?"

"I will try."

"If we can leave this place, we will promise. We will do whatever you tell us to do."

"You want to do what?"

"We wish to obtain lodgings for Mister Sharps outside the watchhouse. It is not good for him here."

Commander Vimes regarded Myria carefully for a few seconds, then turned his gaze on Jonathon. "And you agreed to this?"

"Frankly, commander, I'm not happy about the idea. But I do feel bad for the… well man for lack of a better word.

Vimes snorted. "Well, mister baker, you are smarter than you look, then." He drummed his fingers on the desk. "LeJean, I'm in a bind here, something that seems to happen repeatedly when you are involved. This," he waved his hands to encompass the entire building, "is a place for coppers and criminals. And Mister-Whatever-He's-Calling-Himself-This-Week is at this moment, neither. What he is, however, is five gallons of crazy in a two-gallon bucket."

"That is an excess of three gallons."

"Amazing powers of mathematics. And that extra crazy, which you just pointed out, just spills out everywhere. Gets on anyone that happens to be nearby. Tracks into the carpets. Bugger to get it out. You see what I am saying?"

Myria had been listening intently. She was sure each of the words made sense, and suspected the commander was attempting to make a significant point. Unfortunately it was unsuccessful. "I do not."

The baker, on the other hand, was nodding his head vigorously.

"What I'm saying LeJean, is that I'm not happy with the idea of setting someone like him loose in my city."

"And what of me?" She murmured. "Have I not proven myself dangerous, yet you allow me my freedom."

Vimes sighed. "You LeJean, are probationary, in my opinion." He fiddled with his cigar case, and took note of how all the blood had drained from the baker's face. Maybe I should throw the poor boy a bone. "Dangerous? We're all dangerous, LeJean. Being alive makes a person dangerous to himself and others. What you aren't, is crazy. That makes a difference."

"And yet… Sir Samuel, you cannot keep Mister Sharps here." She straightened in her chair, reaching a decision. "Thus far, I am the only one he has threatened. I will not proffer charges. As he has committed no other offense, it is against the law for you to detain him in this manner."

Vimes hands went still, and he spoke very carefully. "And I suppose, were I to consult with Carrot regarding this, he would back you up on that?"

"I believe he would. But even if he would not, I am quite well represented by my advocate."

Vimes rubbed his jaw and pushed his chair back. Coming around the desk, he regarded Myria carefully. "You've come a long way since the last time we talked."

"I have been forced to become stronger, Sir Samuel, by events."

"Yes. I suppose you have." He pulled out a cigar from the case, realized he hadn't any matches, and walked back to retrieve them from the desk drawer. Jonathon and Myria both waited quietly as he light the cigar and drew in a few mouthfuls of smoke. I do not enjoy this smoking practice, Myria thought, but I will not say this just now.

Finally Vimes poked the cigar in Myria's direction, punctuating his words. "You want to quote the law at me? That's fine. Just remember, LeJean, the law applies to everyone. Everyone. No matter what they come from, or what kind of tricks they might have up their sleeves. Am I understood?

"Yes Sir Samuel."

"Good. Let me think about what we can do about Mister Whatzit. I'll send word to you at the bakery tomorrow. Fair enough?"

"This is quite fair, Sir Samuel. You will notify Mister Sharps as well? He awaits an answer also. I would assume he is most eager."

"That I don't doubt."

"Well Carrot, what do you think about all this?" Vimes asked after he had given his captain a rough summary of the conversation.

"They're right Commander. We can't just lock people up in jail because they might hurt themselves or someone else. There has to be a crime first."

"That's what I thought."

"But… section 85 stroke D subsection 15 does state, sir, that in the event a person is considered a risk to themselves, they may be held under the care of a physicker for observation, sir."

"Physicker, eh?" Vimes drummed his fingers on the desk for a moment, then pulled out a notepad and began scratching out a message. "Have this sent over to Sybil. Maybe we do have a way out of this after all."

"Yessir."

Cheery was waiting for Jonathon and Myria near the entrance. "You met with Commander Vimes. How did it go?"

"He said he would consider our request to move Mister Sharps."

"That's good, right?"

"It is a promising beginning." Myria looked hopeful. Jonathon, on the other hand, was very quiet and most definitely not smiling.

"Right… right." Cheery coughed. "Well I have some good news."

"Oh?"

"Right. I talked to Corporal Nobbs. He gave the name of someone who he said was perfect for the job.[1]

"This is good news. When can we meet this person."

"Nobby says if we head over to," she consulted her notes, "Marulf's Authentic Curries right now, we should be able to meet him immediately. Do you want to go?"

They hailed a coach and gave him the name of the establishment. He just shook his head and suggested they try another coach. The second had heard of it, but wanted extra.

"Are you sure about this?"

"Well, it's not the best neighborhood, that's for sure, but Nobby insisted there wasn't anyone better."

The coach left the Isle of Gods and crossed over the Brass Bridge into Morpork, turning south to follow the path of the river into the area called "The Shades". Myria shivered as the neighborhoods became more and more rough looking.[2]

"How did Mister Nobbs know about this man?"

"He didn't say, only that we should mention he sent us."

Finally the coachman stopped in front of a surprisingly neat and tidy café, nestled between an abandoned storefront and some sort of secondhand shop. The windows were clear, and the tables in front wiped clean. Several of the tables were occupied, and the smell of strong spices scented the air.

They asked the coachman to wait for them, and he absolutely refused. "Not a good neighborhood, miss. Begging your pardon. If I lingered more'n five minutes, they'd have the wheels off the coach and the shoes off the horses." And off he went.

"This doesn't bode well." Jonathon ventured, winning the award for understatement of the year.

A small, balding man with skin the color of coffee-with-milk welcomed them. "Be welcome! What is your pleasure?" He eyed Cheery carefully. "I do not know if we have that which you would find a joy to eat, officer, but you are welcome, all times. We have nothing to hide, hahah."

"Hahah. Thank you. We're actually looking for someone."

The man's face completely shut down. If there was a face that screamed "I done it," this was it.[3]

"We have not seen them," he said.

"But sir, we have not communicated to you who we are looking for."

"We have seen no one."

Myria found herself trying to process this, in light of the fact he was looking at them, and the fact that there were a half dozen patrons seated around them. "But…"

"Look," Cheery interjected, probably saving Myria from a stroke, "no one is in trouble. We are just looking for someone who eats here sometimes. Name's something like Rustum Razza."

"We know of no one by this name. Please, try our curry! It is special today!" The poor man's bald head had suddenly become a magnet for moisture, and it was beginning to run down his forehead, but he was doing his best.

A smooth voice interceded. "Perhaps I can be of assistance in locating the man of which you speak."

They turned to the speaker, a man seated to their left, sipping a cup of either tea or coffee. He looked somewhat like a well-dressed clerk or servant. Only his darker skin and eyes marked him as, perhaps, of Klatchian descent.

"Do you know of Mister Razza?"

"I may." He smiled, showing white and even teeth, in a very disarming manner, showing white and even teeth. "I believe it would depend on what business you seek with him."

"We have a business proposition for him. Er… I was to tell him that Corporal Nobbs of the Watch suggested him."

"Ah Corporal Nobbs. Quite an interesting man. Yes I believe I can perhaps assist you."

"Thank you. Then you do know Mister Razza?"

"Intimately." He picked up his cup, and took a long sip. There was a long silence, at the end of which the waiter laughed nervously. Realization dawned slowly.

"Oh you meant Sayad Rhezah. I did not understand of course." The waiter coughed. "I will bring more tea."

Cheery introduced them briefly, then Myria attempted to initiate negotiations. "Do you prefer to be addressed as Mister or Sayad?"

He waved his hand. "You may call me either, anissa, though it appears Constable Nobbs mangled my name quite thoroughly. It is Roustam Rhezah." He bowed from a seated position, managing to make it graceful and not at all insulting, which was quite a feat.

"My apologies. Am I correct in believing you are from Klatch?"

"Ah. You are observant, anissa."

Cheery, noting his slight stature and clerical appearance, piped up. "You're not exactly what we expected."

"Oh? Perhaps you would prefer if I wrapped this tablecloth around my head and ordered sheep's eyeballs?"

"I didn't mean…"

"It is nothing, offendi. I am used to presumption. As it is said, 'I am not fresh from the desert with camel dung between my toes.'"

Jonathon thought about this. "Is it really?"

"Oh yes. Frequently." Rhezah smiled again, but there was no humor in it. "Now, you said that you had a business arrangement you wished to discuss with me."

There was a bit of bustle, with the waiter bringing hot, sweet tea and bidding each of them be seated. Myria left hers untouched, but found the aroma quite pleasant.

"As I was saying. A business arrangement."

"Correct, Mister Rhezah. I find myself in need of a trustworthy individual to guard my person. Constable Nobbs indicated to us that you would be perfect for the task."

"Ah yes. Constable Nobbs. I nearly took his hands when he attempted to lay them on my most recent client. It turned out to be a simple misunderstanding thankfully. It would have been most embarrassing had this occurred. An incident might have ensued, one might even say. Apparently he was impressed."

"You nearly… took his hands? Took them where?"

"Off. I believe I made an impression."

Cheery frowned at the thought. I'll have to have a discussion with Corporal Nobbs about his definition of perfect, later.

"This appears to be true," Myria continued. "Do you have interest in hearing our proposition?"

"I'm always willing to listen."

"But what about your current… client did you call him?"

"Unfortunately, offendi, I find myself between clients. Hence my copious free time spent here. They really do have most excellent curry."

Cheery and Jonathon traded glances. "Former client," Jonathon said. "What happened to them?"

"Oh, I am afraid he passed to the gates of paradise in a most unforeseeable manner." He smiled. "You wonder if it was due to my lack of effort. No, offendi, my prior client died of… let us call it excess. The wealthy of Klatch have certain… reputations, and often have several wives. Unfortunately one of my client's many cousins wagered that he could not avail himself of each of his wives' skills in a single day. It seems the strain was too much for him."

"Oh. That's…"

"It is said, that it was the fourth and fifth at the same time that was the cause of his demise."

Cheery at this point was completely lost. Jonathon thought he had a very good idea, though. "I'm not sure-"

"I was surprised, to be frank. Wives in our country tend to be very jealous of their husbands' attentions. It is rare that two would tolerate being in the same room under those circumstances, much less cooperating."

Jonathon's face had now reached a shade of red that normally would require several hours under a Klatchian sun to achieve. "I think we've heard more than enough."

"Oh? They say it was likely the chocolate soufflé. The fifth wife claims the fourth added too much goat's butter."

"Wait. What?"

Roustam raised an eyebrow. "My apologies, offendi, we were of course speaking of how his wives demonstrated their skills in each preparing a dish for him. Were you thinking of some other activity?" He took a long sip of his tea. "In Klatch, wives are very well known for their culinary arts. Why else would our princes be so impressively proportioned?"

"Impressively… proportioned." Jonathon found his mind wandering down unpleasant avenues, considered what the topic of conversation purported to be, and managed to recalibrate his brain. "Right. Impressively proportioned. As in heavy. From eating. The food. Right. That is exactly what I was thinking."

"But Jonathon. Clearly you were-"

"No need to go into that now, Myria."

Cheery eyed Roustam, whose face was carefully blank. Someone is taking the piss, she thought. And he is very good at it.

"As I was saying," Roustam continued, "being already in Ankh Morpork and considering the cost of returning to Klatch, I find myself between clients at this time, and forced to prostitute myself out to the barbarians."

Myria blinked, but Jonathon knew an insult when he heard one. "Now just wait a minute," Jonathon began.

"Of course, until then, I would be pleased to settle for someone of such obvious culture and intelligence as the lady."

Definitely taking the piss.

Jonathon stopped, and took a deep breath. "Mister Rhezah, if you're half as good with bodyguarding as you are with making me feel stupid, you must be very impressive."

"I do my best, offendi. Perhaps you would like a demonstration, and then we can discuss my rates."

"Good. Where at?"

Roustam waved the waiter over. Achmed, would you please tell Marulf we request the use of the rear yard?"

"Of course, Sayad."

Upon reaching the rear yard by way of the kitchens, which Jonathon and Myria both found very fascinating, Roustam motioned to Cheery. "Constable Littlebottom, if you would be so kind as to stand over there? Thank you. Anissa if you would stand here?" He pointed to a spot near the fencing. "Very good. And offendi, if you would stand over here." He walked over, indicating a spot about thirty feet from where Myria was standing. "Excellent." Casting about, he gathered a handful of finger-thick fallen branches and began breaking them into shorter lengths.

"Mister Rhezah," Jonathon asked carefully, not sure he wanted to start another round of watch me insult you and act completely innocent. "You keep calling me offendi. What does that mean, exactly?"

"Ah, it is merely a quirk of our culture. You see, Klatchians are known for being a highly offensive people. We, of course, are the offenders. Therefore you are the offendi. Is it not amusing?"

Jonathon narrowed his eyes. "Yeah, it is not amusing."

"Then we are of like mind. Now, please take one of those sticks, and throw it at your lady friend."

"I'm not sure about this."

Myria smiled at his hesitance. "Jonathon, what is the worst that can happen? A few bruised ribs perhaps?"

Jonathon snorted. "That was no picnic, Myria. Oh fine." Picking up a stick, he pitched it underhanded in a slow toss. Roustam did not so much as twitch as the stick flew in an arc and plopped to the ground at Myria's feet.

"You didn't even try!" Jonathon accused.

"There was no need. It clearly would not have struck her."

"Jonathon. You must try."

"Why can't we use a dummy?"

Raised eyebrows. "Surely the intelligence of the thrower is not in question. As it is said, a man who seeks fish in a sea of sand shall catch neither fish nor wit?"

"I'm beginning to not like you."

"That is not required. Is this your lover, anissa?

"That's none-"

"We are betrothed." Myria interrupted.

"Thank you. And yes, offendi, if I am to guard the lady, I must know these things. Now let us try again. If you please, another stick."

Jonathon threw a bit harder, and watched in stunned silence as the stick seemed to separate into two pieces, each of which flew off at an angle to the left and right of Myria.

There was a low whistle from Cheery. I never even saw him move, Jonathon thought.

"Again please. With slightly more force."

This time, Jonathon was watching intently as the stick left his hand. There was Myria, her eyes on Jonathon. The stick, flying toward her. A sudden blur and a flash of silver at Roustam's waist, and the stick separated into two pieces, each continuing on at an angle that just missed Myria.

"Again."

And so on. Each time, Jonathon cringed, but gained confidence. When he got to the last stick, he had forgotten himself to the point that he slung it with full force. It was only when it left his fingers that the desire to claw it back made him cringe. He saw Myria standing there, eyes on him, trusting. He remembered another time she had stood this way, and felt sick. Against his will, his eyes closed for a half moment.

And opened to find that, not only had Roustam again sliced the stick in two, but he had placed himself such that any remnants would have struck him instead of Myria.

Jonathon frowned. "If that had been an arrow..."

"While for the sake of my reputation, and for sufficient compensation, I am prepared to use my own fragile vessel to protect my client, I would prefer not to do so. It makes for a very poor retirement outlook. Do you find yourself satisfied?"

Cheery had a look of awe on her face. Myria looked at Jonathon, who nodded. "Mister Rhezah, let us discuss compensation."

Roustam named a figure that made Jonathon's eyes bulge. "That's-"

"I believe that this amount, considering the skill you have demonstrated, is acceptable. Shall we begin our relationship now?"

"Of course. A letter of retainer should be sufficient for the moment. I will have the embassy send the final paperwork to your residence."

"Thank you. I am currently domiciled at La Extravaganzia."

"A hotel? That will not do, it is much too public. You will need to move."

"Yes. I had intended to relocate this week."

"Anissa, you do not understand. There are too many unknown individuals coming and going in a location such as that. You will not return to that location."

"But my possessions are there."

"We will arrange for them to be sent to your new lodgings."

"But I have none!"

"We will arrange that."

Jonathon interjected. "Wait. Just wait. I thought we were hiring a bodyguard. What are you, some kind of butler too?"

"I have provided many services for my clients, including acting as majordomo. Would you like me to set up a male seraglio for the lady?"

Jonathon's eyes went round. He didn't need a Klatchian-Morporkian dictionary to guess what a seraglio was.

Myria saved him from sticking his foot in his mouth. "I do not believe that will be necessary, Mister Rhezah."

"I did not believe so, but one never knows. In my culture, merely to be unmarried, and in the presence of a male could be scandalous. Here, I make allowances and no assumptions." He motioned to all three. "Come, let us finish our tea, and discuss my up-front fee, and you can begin to tell me of your enemies."

[1] Actually what he said was "I'd like to guard her body, har har har." Then he'd gone in to some sort of coughing fit. It'd taken Cheery a good fifteen minutes to get a serious answer out of him, and even then Nobby kept giggling periodically.

[2] Her last experience with travel in The Shades had not gone very well. See "From Dust to Flesh".

[3] As opposed to "Done-It Duncan" whose mouth said "I done it" but whose face said he had about five working synapses and would confess to being your great grandfather and the King of Lancre if pressed.