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. *
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 -‘
________________________________________________________________
* 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”.
??? ~ained away under Windle Poons’ dread-
??? g,’ said Windle. He turned and started to
??? into the mist.‘Very, very boring. Very
??? d.’
??? Colon was left alone. He lit a fresh ?cigarette with a ? trembling hand, and started to walk hur- ~edly towards the Watch headquarters.
‘That face, ‘ he told himself.‘And those eyes … just whatsisname … who’s that bloody dwarf who runs the delicatessen on Cable Street …’
‘Sargeant!’
Colon froze. Then he looked down. A face was starring up at him from ground level. When he’d got a grip ?on? himself, he made out the sharp features of his old ?Qd? Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler, the Discworld’s ?Buling?, 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 money-making shemes were always let down by some small but vital ?w?, 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.
Windle Poons removed the knife.
‘Could have killed me,’ he muttered, tossing it away.
In the cellar, Sergeant Colon picked up one of the objects that lay in huge drifts on the floor.
‘There must be thousands of ‘em,’ said Throat, behind him.‘What I want to know is, who put them there?’ *
_______________________________________________________________
* Although not common on the Discworld there are, indeed, such things as anti-crimes, in accordance with the fundamental law that everything in the multiverse has an opposite. They are, obviously, rare. Merely giving someone something is not the opposite of robbery; to be an antierime, it has to be done in such a way as to cause outrage ?Pn~Uor? humiliation to the victim. So there is breaking-and-decorating, proffering-with-embarrassment (as in most retirement presentations) and whitemailing (as in threatening to reveal to his enemies a mobster’s secret donations, for example, to charity). Anti-crimes have never really caught on.
Sergeant Colon turned the object round and round in his hands.
‘Never seen one of these before, ‘ he said. He gave a shake. His face lit up.‘Pretty, ain’t they?’
‘The door was locked and everything,’ said Throat ‘And I ‘m paid up with the Thieves’ Guild.’
Colon shook the thing again.
‘ Nice,’ he said.
‘Fred?’
Colon, fascinated, watched the little snowflakes far inside the tiny glass globe.‘Hmm?’
‘What am I supposed to do?’
‘Dunno. I suppose they’re yours, Throat. Can imagine why anyone’d want to get rid of ‘em, though.
He turned towards the door. Throat stepped into his path.
‘Then that’ll be twelve pence, ‘ he said smoothly.
‘What for?
‘For the one you just put in your pocket, Fred.’
Colon fished the globe out of his pocket.
‘Come on!’ he protested.‘You just found them ?heh? They didn’t cost you a penny!’
‘Yes, but there’s storage … packing … handling . .
‘Tuppence, ‘ said Colon desperately.
‘Tenpence.’
‘Threepence.’
‘Sevenpence – and that’s cutting my own throat ??? mark you.’
‘Done,’ said the sergeant, reluctantly. He gave the globe another shake.
‘Nice, ain’t they?’ he said.
‘Worth every penny,’ said Dibbler. He rubbed his hands together hopefully.‘Should sell like hot cake’ he said, picking up a handful and shoving them into box.
He locked the door behind them when they left.
In the darkness something went plop.
Ankh-Morpork has always had a fine tradition of welcoming people of all races, colours and shapes, if they have money to spend and a return ticket.
According to the Guild of Merchants ‘ famous publication, Welkome to Ankh-Morporke, Citie of One Thousand Surprises, `you the visitor will be asurred of a Warm Wellcome in the countless Ins and hostelries of this Ancient Citie, where many specialise in catering for the taste of guest from distant part. So if you a Manne, Trolle, Dwarfe, Goblin or Gnomm, Ankh-Morpork will raise your Glass convivial and say: Cheer! Here looking, you Kid! Up, You Bottom!’
Windle Poons didn’t know where undead went for a good time. All he knew, and he knew it for a certainty, was that if they could have a good time anywhere then they could probably have it in Ankh-Morpork.