‘I don’t think you should put garlic on a good steak,’ said the Dean. ‘Just a little oil and seasoning.’
‘Red pepper is nice,’ said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, happily.
‘Shut up,’ said the Archchancellor.
Plop.
The cupboard door’s hinges finally gave way, spilling its contents into the room.
Sergeant Colon of the Ankh-Morpork City Guard was on duty. He was guarding the Brass Bridge, the main link between Ankh and Morpork. From theft.
When it came to crime prevention, Sergeant Colon found it safest to think big.
There was a school of thought that believed the best way to get recognised as a keen guardian of the law in Ankh-Morpork would be to patrol the streets and alleys, bribe informants, follow suspects and so on.
Sergeant Colon played truant from this particular school. Not, he would hasten to say, because trying to keep down crime in Ankh-Morpork was like trying to keep down salt in the sea and the only recognition any keen guardian of the law was likely to get was the sort that goes, ‘Hey, that body in the gutter, isn’t that old Sergeant Colon?’ but because the modern, go-ahead, intelligent law officer ought to be always one jump ahead of the contemporary criminal. One day someone was bound to try to steal the Brass Bridge, and then they’d find Sergeant Colon right there waiting for them.
In the meantime, it offered a quiet place out of the wind where he could have a relaxing smoke and probably not see anything that would upset him.
He leaned with his elbows on the parapet, wondering vaguely about Life.
A figure stumbled out of the mist. Sergeant Colon recognised the familiar pointy hat of a wizard.
‘Good evening, officer,’ its wearer croaked.
‘Morning, y’honour.’
‘Would you be kind enough to help me up on to the parapet, officer?’
Sergeant Colon hesitated. But the chap was a wizard. A man could get into serious trouble not helping wizards.
‘Trying out some new magic, y’honour?’ he said, brightly, helping the skinny but surprisingly heavy body up on to the crumbling stonework.
‘No.’
Windle Poons stepped off the bridge. There was a squelch.[4]
Sergeant Colon looked down as the waters of the Ankh closed again, slowly.
Those wizards. Always up to something.
He watched for a while. After several minutes there was a disturbance in the scum and debris near the base of one of the pillars of the bridge, where a flight of greasy stairs led down to the water.
A pointy hat appeared.
Sergeant Colon heard the wizard slowly climb the stairs, swearing under his breath.
Windle Poons reached the top of the bridge again. He was soaked.
‘You want to go and get changed,’ Sergeant Colon volunteered. ‘You could catch your death, standing around like that.’
‘Hah!’
‘Get your feet in front of a roaring fire, that’s what I’d do.’
‘Hah!’
Sergeant Colon looked at Windle Poons in his own private puddle.
‘You been trying some special kind of underwater magic, y’honour?’ he ventured.
‘Not exactly, officer.’
‘I’ve always wondered about what it’s like under water,’ said Sergeant Colon, encouragingly. ‘The myst’ries of the deep, strange and wonderful creatures … my mum told me a tale once, about this little boy what turned into a mermaid, well, not a mermaid, and he had all these adventures under the s—’
His voice drained away under Windle Poons’ dreadful stare.
‘It’s boring,’ said Windle. He turned and started to lurch away into the mist. ‘Very, very boring. Very boring indeed.’
Sergeant Colon was left alone. He lit a fresh cigarette with a trembling hand, and started to walk hurriedly towards the Watch headquarters.
‘That face,’ he told himself. ‘And those eyes … just like whatsisname … who’s that bloody dwarf who runs the delicatessen on Cable Street …’
‘Sergeant!’
Colon froze. Then he looked down. A face was staring up at him from ground level. When he’d got a grip on himself, he made out the sharp features of his old friend Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler, the Discworld’s walking, talking argument in favour of the theory that mankind had descended from a species of rodent. C.M.O.T. Dibbler liked to describe himself as a merchant adventurer; everyone else liked to describe him as an itinerant pedlar whose moneymaking schemes were always let down by some small but vital flaw, such as trying to sell things he didn’t own or which didn’t work or, sometimes, didn’t even exist. Fairy gold is well known to evaporate by morning, but it was a reinforced concrete slab by comparison to some of Throat’s merchandise.
He was standing at the bottom of some steps that led down to one of Ankh-Morpork’s countless cellars.
‘Hallo, Throat.’
‘Would you step down here a minute, Fred? I could use a bit of legal aid.’
‘Got a problem, Throat?’
Dibbler scratched his nose.
‘Well, Fred … Is it a crime to be given something? I mean, without you knowing it?’
‘Someone been giving you things, Throat?’
Throat nodded. ‘Dunno. You know I keep merchandise down here?’ he said.
‘Yeah.’
‘You see, I just come down to do a bit of stock-taking, and …’ He waved a hand helplessly. ‘Well … take a look …’
He opened the cellar door.
In the darkness something went plop.
Windle Poons lurched aimlessly along a dark alley in the Shades, arms extended in front of him, hands hanging down at the wrists. He didn’t know why. It just seemed the right way to go about it.
Jumping off a building? No, that wouldn’t work, either. It was hard enough to walk as it was, and two broken legs wouldn’t help. Poison? He imagined it would be like having a very bad stomach ache. Noose? Hanging around would probably be more boring than sitting on the bottom of the river.
He reached a noisome courtyard where several alleys met. Rats scampered away from him. A cat screeched and scurried off over the rooftops.
As he stood wondering where he was, why he was, and what ought to happen next, he felt the point of a knife against his backbone.
‘OK, grandad,’ said a voice behind him, ‘it’s your money or your life.’
In the darkness Windle Poons’ mouth formed a horrible grin.
‘I’m not playing about, old man,’ said the voice.
‘Are you Thieves’ Guild?’ said Windle, without turning around.
‘No, we’re … freelances. Come on, let’s see the colour of your money.’
‘Haven’t got any,’ said Windle. He turned around. There were two more muggers behind him.
‘Ye gods, look at his eyes,’ said one of them.
Windle raised his arms above his head.
‘Ooooooooh,’ he moaned.
The muggers backed away. Unfortunately, there was a wall behind them. They flattened themselves against it.
‘OoooOOOOoooobuggeroffoooOOOooo,’ said Windle, who hadn’t realised that the only way of escape lay through him. He rolled his eyes for better effect.
Maddened by terror, the would-be attackers dived under his arms, but not before one of them had sunk his knife up to the hilt in Windle’s pigeon chest.
He looked down at it.
‘Hey! That was my best robe!’ he said. ‘I wanted to be buried in — will you look at it? You know how difficult it is to darn silk? Come back here this — Look at it, right where it shows—’
He listened. There was no sound but the distant and retreating scurry of footsteps.
4
It is true that the undead cannot cross running water. However, the naturally turbid river Ankh, already heavy with the mud of the plains, does not, after having passed through the city (pop. 1, 000,000) necessarily qualify under the term ‘running’ or, for that matter, ‘water’.