by The Wit
‘Honestly, Salzella .. . what is the difference between opera and madness?’
‘Is this a trick question?’
*
The Opera House was that most efficiently multifunctional of building designs. It was a cube. But the architect had suddenly realized late in the day that there ought to be some sort of decoration, and had shoved it on hurriedly, in a riot of friezes, pillars, corybants and curly bits. Gargoyles had colonized the higher reaches. The effect, seen from the front, was of a huge wall of tortured stone.
Round the back, of course, there was the usual drab mess of windows, pipes and damp stone walls. One of the rules of a certain type of public architecture is that it only happens at the front.
*
‘Well, basically there are two sorts of opera,’ said Nanny, who also had the true witch’s ability to be confidently expert on the basis of no experience whatsoever. ‘There’s your heavy opera, where basically people sing foreign and it goes like “Oh oh oh, I am dyin’, oh, I am dyin’, oh, oh, oh, that’s what I’m doin’”, and there’s your light opera, where they sing in foreign and it basically goes “Beer! Beer! Beer! Beer! I like to drink lots of beer!”, although sometimes they drink champagne instead. That’s basically all of opera, reely’
*
Someone tapped Granny Weatherwax on her shoulder. ‘Madam, kindly remove your hat.’
Nanny Ogg choked on her peppermint.
Granny Weatherwax turned to the red-faced gentleman behind her. ‘You do know what a woman in a pointy hat is, don’t you?’ she said.
‘Yes, madam. A woman in a pointy hat is sitting in front of me.’
*
People didn’t take any notice of little old ladies who looked as though they fitted in, and Nanny Ogg could fit in faster than a dead chicken in a maggot factory.
Nanny had a mind like a buzzsaw behind a face like an elderly apple.
This was Ankh-Morpork’s most prestigious dress shop, and one way of telling was the apparent absence of anything so crass as merchandise. The occasional carefully placed piece of expensive material merely hinted at the possibilities available.
This was not a shop where things were bought. This was an emporium where you had a cup of coffee and a chat. Possibly, as a result of that muted conversation, four or five yards of exquisite fabric would change ownership in some ethereal way, and yet nothing so crass as trade would have taken place.
There was a crash from the direction of the kitchen,
although it was really more of a crashendo—the long-drawn-out clatter that begins when a pile of plates begins to slip, continues when someone tries to grab at them, develops a desperate counter-theme when the person realizes they don’t have three hands, and ends with the roinroin-roin of the one miraculously intact plate spinning round and round on the floor.
‘Everyone acts as if it’s only the music that matters! The plots don’t make sense! Half the stories rely on people not recognizing their servants or wives because they’ve got a tiny mask on! Large ladies play the part of consumptive girls! No one can act properly! There should be a sign on the door saying “Leave your common sense here”! If it wasn’t for the music the whole thing would be ridiculous!’
*
‘Madam has marvellous hair,’ said the hairdresser. ‘What is the secret?’
‘You’ve got to make sure there’s no newts in the water,’ said Granny.
*
The hulking figure seated at the organ turned around and gave her a friendly grin, which was much wider than the average grin. Its owner was covered in red hair and, while shortchanged in the leg department, had obviously been first in the queue when the arm counter opened. And had also been given a special free offer of lip.
*
Nanny didn’t so much enter places as insinuate herself; she had unconsciously taken a natural talent for liking people and developed it into an occult science.
*
‘And what can I get you, officers?’ she said.
‘Officers? Us? What makes you think we’re watchmen?’
‘He’s got a helmet on,’ Nanny pointed out.
‘Milit’ry chic,’ Nobby said. ‘It’s just a fashion accessory. Actually, we are gentlemen of means and have nothing to do with the City Watch whatsoever.’
‘Well, gentlemen, would you like some wine?’
‘Not while we on duty, t’anks,’ said the troll.
*
Granny Weatherwax could be nasty, but then nastiness was always in the window: you were aware that it might turn up on the menu. Sharpness from Nanny Ogg, though, was like being bitten by a big friendly dog. It was all the worse for being unexpected.
‘What about the show? We can’t just stop! You never stop the show, not even if someone dies!’
‘Oh, we have stopped when people died …’
‘Yes, but only as long as it took to get the body off-stage!’
*
‘Corporal Nobbs has got some papers to prove he’s a human being.’
‘Forged?’
‘I don’t think so.’
† Er. That is to say, they went to bed at the same time as the chickens went to bed, and got up at the same time as the cows got up. Loosely worded sayings can really cause misunderstandings.
HERE’S a werewolf with Pre-Lunar Tension in Ankfe-Morpork. And a dwarf with attitude and a golem who’s begun to think for itself.
But for Commander Vimes, Head of Ankh-Morpork City Watch, that’s only the start…
There’s treason in the air.
A crime has happened.
He’s not only got to find out whodunit, but howdunit too. He’s not even sure what they dum.
But as soon as he knows what the questions are, he’s going to want some answers.
‘Your sedan chair is outside, sir.’
It had been a wedding present from the Patrician. Lord Vetinari knew that Vimes loved walking the streets of the city, and so it was very typical of the man that he presented him with something that did not allow him to do so.
It was waiting outside. The two bearers straightened up expectantly.
Vimes looked at the front man and motioned with a thumb to the chair’s door. ‘Get in,’ he commanded.
‘But sir—’
‘It’s a nice morning,’ said Vimes, taking off his coat. ‘I’ll drive myself
*
Through werewolf eyes the world was different.
For one thing, it was in black-and-white. At least, that small part of it which as a human she’d thought of as ‘vision’ was monochrome - but who cared that vision had to take a back seat when smell drove instead, laughing and sticking its arm out of the window and making rude gestures at all the other senses?
*
She kept telling herself she had it under control and she did, in a way. She prowled the city on moonlit nights and, okay, there was the occasional chicken, but she always remembered where she’d been and went round next day to shove some money under the door.
It was hard to be a vegetarian who had to pick bits of meat out of her teeth in the morning.
It was easy to be a vegetarian by day. It was preventing yourself from becoming a humanitarian at night that took the real effort.
*
Vimes has some problems with his imp-driven personal organizer:
‘Memo: See Corporal Nobbs re timekeeping; also re Earldom.’
‘Got it,’ said the imp. ‘Would you like to be reminded of this at any particular time?’
‘I think I’ll write it in my notebook, if you don’t mind,’ said Vimes.
‘Oh, well, if you prefer, I can recognize handwriting,’ said the imp proudly. ‘I’m quite advanced.’
Vimes pulled out his notebook and held it up. ‘Like this?’ he said.
The imp squinted for a moment. ‘Yep,’ it said. ‘That’s handwriting, sure enough. Curly bits, spiky bits, all joined together. Yep. Handwriting. I’d recognize it anywhere.’
*
/> Mr Raddley drew himself up.
‘We want to take Father Tubelcek away to bury him,’ he said.
Detritus turned to Cheery Littlebottom. ‘You done everyt’ing you need?’
‘I suppose so …’
‘He dead?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘He gonna get any better?’
‘Better than dead? I doubt it.’
‘Okay den you people can take him away’
The Patrician is taken unwell and receives a visit from horse doctor Doughnut Jimmy.
‘Commander Vimes is right. It could be arsenic,’ Cheery said. ‘It looks like arsenic poisoning to me. Look at his colour.’
‘Nasty stuff,’ said Doughnut Jimmy. ‘Has he been eating his bedding?’
‘All the sheets seem to be here, so I suppose the answer is no.’
‘How’s he pissing?’
‘Er. The usual way, I assume.’
‘Walk him round a bit on the loose rein,’ Doughnut said.
The Patrician opened his eyes. ‘You are a doctor, aren’t you?’ he said.
‘Well, yeah … I have a lot of patients,’ he said.
‘Indeed? I have very little,’ said the Patrician.
‘Do you remember your father, Nobby?’
‘Old Sconner, sir? Not much, sir. Never used to see him much except when the milit’ry police used to come for to drag him outa the attic’
Vimes waved a hand vaguely. ‘He didn’t … leave you anything? Or anything?’
‘Coupla scars, sir. And this trick elbow of mine. It aches sometimes, when the weather changes. And this, o’ course …’ The corporal pulled out a leather thong that hung around his neck. There was a gold ring on it.
‘He left it to me when he was on his deathbed,’ said Nobby. ‘Well, when I say “left it” …’
‘Did he say anything?’
‘Well, yeah, he did say “Give it back, you little bugger!”, sir.’
*
Cheery is new to the Watch and has gone out on an official visit with Angua.
‘You can knock.’
‘Me? They won’t take any notice of me!’ said Cheery.
You show them your badge and tell them you’re the Watch.’
‘They’ll ignore me! They’ll laugh at me!’
‘You’re going to have to do it sooner or later. Go on.’
The door was opened by a stout man … A dwarf voice in the region of his navel said, ‘We’re the Watch, right? Oh, yes! And if you don’t let us in we’ll have your guts for starters!’
‘Good try’ murmured Angua.
*
‘I’ve got a lot to learn, I can see,’ said Cheery. ‘I never thought you had to
carry bits of blanket, for a start!’
‘It’s special equipment if you’re dealing with the undead.’
‘Well, I knew about garlic and vampires. Anything holy works on vampires. What else works on werewolves?’
‘A gin and tonic’s always welcome,’ said Angua distantly.
*
The tincture of night began to suffuse the soup of the afternoon.
Lord Vetinari considered the sentence, and found it good. He liked ‘tincture’ particularly. Tincture. Tincture. It was a distinguished word, and pleasantly countered by the flatness of ‘soup’. The soup of the afternoon. Yes. In which may well be found the croutons of teatime.
*
‘I have to admit,’ said Mrs Palm, ‘that under Vetinari it has certainly been safer to walk the streets—’
‘You should know, madam,’ said Mr Sock. Mrs Palm gave him an icy look. There were a few sniggers.
‘I meant that a modest payment to the Thieves’ Guild is all that is required for perfect safety’ she finished.
‘And, indeed, a man may visit a house of ill—’
‘Negotiable hospitality’ said Mrs Palm quickly.
‘Indeed, and be quite confident of not waking up stripped stark naked and beaten black and blue,’ said Sock.
‘Unless his tastes run that way’ said Mrs Palm. ‘We aim to give satisfaction. Very accurately, if required.’
‘Life has certainly been more reliable under Vetinari,’ said Mr Potts of the Bakers’ Guild.
‘He does have all street-theatre players and mime artists thrown into the scorpion pit,’ said Mr Boggis of the Thieves’ Guild.
‘True. But let’s not forget that he has his bad points too.’
‘What’s this?’
‘A Klatchian Hots without anchovies,’ said Vimes, lifting the cover. ‘We got it from Ron’s Pizza Hovel round the corner.’
‘Has someone already eaten this, Vimes?’
‘No, sir. That’s just how they chop up the food.’
‘Oh, I see. I thought perhaps the food-tasters were getting over-enthusiastic,’ said the Patrician. ‘My word. What a treat I have to look forward to.’
‘I think he’s got a sort of soft spot for the Patrician, in his way. He once said that if anyone was going to kill Vetinari he’d like it to be him.’
*
‘I’ve been running around looking for damn Clues instead of just thinking for five minutes!’ said Vimes. ‘What is it I’m always telling you?’
‘Never trust anybody, sir?’
‘No, not that.’
‘Everyone’s guilty of something, sir?’
‘Not that, either.’
‘Just because someone’s a member of an ethnic minority doesn’t mean they’re not a nasty small-minded little jerk, sir?’
‘N— When did I say that?’
‘Last week, sir. After we’d had that visit from the Campaign for Equal Heights, sir.’
*
Angua thinks Carrot is about to propose.
‘Hello, Angua!’ said Carrot cheerfully. ‘I was just coming to see you.’
He took off his helmet, and smoothed back his hair. ‘Er …’ he began.
‘I know what you’re going to ask,’ said Angua.
‘You do?’
‘I know you’ve been thinking about it. You knew I was wondering about going.’
‘It was obvious, was it?’
‘And the answer’s no. I wish it could be yes.’
Carrot looked astonished. ‘It never occurred to me that you’d say no,’ he said. ‘I mean, why should you?’
‘Good grief, you amaze me,’ she said. ‘You really do.’
‘I thought it’d be something you’d want to do,’ said Carrot. He sighed. ‘Oh, well… it doesn’t matter, really’
Angua felt that a leg had been kicked away. ‘It doesn’t matter?’ she said.
‘I mean, yes, it’d have been nice, but I won’t lose any sleep over it.’
You won’t?’
‘Well, no. Obviously not. You’ve got other things you want to do. That’s fine. I just thought you might enjoy it. I’ll do it by myself
‘What? How can…?’ Angua stopped. ‘What are you talking about, Carrot?’
‘The Dwarf Bread Museum. I promised Mr Hopkinson’s sister that I’d tidy it up. I just thought it might cheer you up, but I appreciate that bread isn’t everyone’s cup of tea.’
Detritus was particularly good when it came to asking questions. He had three basic ones. They were the direct (‘Did you do it?’), the persistent (‘Are you sure it wasn’t you what done it?’) and the subtle (‘It was you what done it, wasn’t it?’). Although they were not the most cunning questions ever devised, Detritus’s talent was to go on patiently asking them for hours on end, until he got the right answer, which was generally something like: Yes! Yes! I did it! I did it!
Now please tell me what it was I did!’
It is a pervasive and beguiling myth that the people who design instruments of death end up being killed by them. There is almost no foundation in fact. Colonel Shrapnel wasn’t blown up, M. Guillotin died with his head on, Colonel Gatling wasn’t shot. If it hadn’t been for the murder of cosh and blackjack maker Sir William Blunt-Instrument in an alleywa
y, the rumour would never have got started.
The Ankh-Morpork view of crime and punishment
was that the penalty for the first offence should prevent the possibility of a second offence.
IT’S the night before Hogswatch. And it’s too quiet.
Where is the big jolly fat man? Why is Death creeping down chimneys and trying to say Ho Ho Ho? The darkest night of the year is getting a lot darker…
Susan the gothic governess has got to sort it out by morning, otherwise there won’t be a morning. Ever again…
The 20th Discworld novel is a festive feast of darkness and Death (but with jolly robins and tinsel too).
As they say: You’d better watch out…
Everything starts somewhere, although many physicists disagree.
*
The senior wizards of Unseen University stood and looked at the door.
There was no doubt that whoever had shut it wanted it to stay shut. Dozens of nails secured it to the door frame. Planks had been nailed right across. And finally it had, up until this morning, been hidden by a bookcase that had been put in front of it.
‘And there’s the sign, Ridcully’ said the Dean. ‘You have read it, I assume. You know? The sign which says “Do not, under any circumstances, open this door”?’
‘Of course I’ve read it,’ said Ridcully. ‘Why d’yer think I want it opened?’
*
Lord Downey was an assassin. Or, rather, an Assassin. The capital letter was important. It separated those curs who went around murdering people for money from the gentlemen who were occasionally consulted by other gentlemen who wished to have removed, for a consideration, any inconvenient razorblades from the candyfloss of life.
*
The members of the Guild of Assassins considered themselves cultured men who enjoyed good music and food and literature. And they knew the value of human life. To a penny, in many cases.
*
It was a quiet day for Susan, although on the way to the park Gawain trod on a crack in the pavement. On purpose.
‘Gawain?’ she said, eyeing a nervous bear who had suddenly spotted her and was now trying to edge away nonchalantly.
Yes?’
You meant to tread on that crack so that I’d have to thump some poor creature whose only fault is wanting to tear you limb from limb.’