It contained the hoho, which was like a haha only deeper. A haha is a concealed ditch and wall designed to allow landowners to look out across rolling vistas without getting cattle and inconvenient poor people wandering across the lawns. Under Bloody Stupid’s errant pencil it was dug fifty feet deep and had claimed three gardeners already.
The maze was so small that people got lost looking for it.
But the Patrician rather liked the gardens, in a quiet kind of way. He had certain views about the mentality of most of mankind, and the gardens made him feel fully justified.
Piles of paper were stacked on the lawn around the chair. Clerks renewed them or took them away periodically. They were different clerks. All sorts and types of information flowed into the Palace, but there was only one place where it all came together, very much like strands of gossamer coming together in the centre of a web.
A great many rulers, good and bad and quite often dead, know what happened; a rare few actually manage, by dint of much effort, to know what’s happening. Lord Vetinari considered both types to lack ambition.
‘Yes, Dr Cruces,’ he said, without looking up.
How the hell does he do it? Cruces wondered. I know I didn’t make any noise . . .
‘Ah, Havelock—’ he began.
‘You have something to tell me, doctor?’
‘It’s been . . . mislaid.’
‘Yes. And no doubt you are anxiously seeking it. Very well. Good day.’
The Patrician hadn’t moved his head the whole time. He hadn’t even bothered to ask what It was. He bloody well knows, thought Cruces. How is it you can never tell him anything he doesn’t know?
Lord Vetinari put down a piece of paper on one of the piles, and picked up another.
‘You are still here, Dr Cruces.’
‘I can assure you, m’Lord, that—’
‘I’m sure you can. I’m sure you can. There is one question that intrigues me, however.’
‘M’Lord?’
‘Why was it in your Guild House to be stolen? I had been given to understand it had been destroyed. I’m quite sure I gave orders.’
This was the question the Assassin had been hoping would not be asked. But the Patrician was good at that game.
‘Er. We – that is, my predecessor – thought it should serve as a warning and an example.’
The Patrician looked up and smiled brightly.
‘Capital!’ he said. ‘I have always had a great belief in the effectiveness of examples. So I am sure you’ll be able to sort this out with minimum inconvenience all round.’
‘Certainly, m’Lord,’ said the Assassin, glumly. ‘But—’
Noon began.
Noon in Ankh-Morpork took some time, since twelve o’clock was established by consensus. Generally, the first bell to start was that one in the Teachers’ Guild, in response to the universal prayers of its members. Then the water clock on the Temple of Small Gods would trigger the big bronze gong. The black bell in the Temple of Fate struck once, unexpectedly, but by then the silver pedal-driven carillon in the Fools’ Guild would be tinkling, the gongs, bells and chimes of all the Guilds and temples would be in full swing, and it was impossible to tell them apart, except for the tongueless and magical octiron bell of Old Tom in the Unseen University clock tower, whose twelve measured silences temporarily overruled the din.
And finally, several strokes behind all the others, was the bell of the Assassins’ Guild, which was always last.
Beside the Patrician, the ornamental sundial chimed twice and fell over.
‘You were saying?’ said the Patrician mildly.
‘Captain Vimes,’ said Dr Cruces. ‘He’s taking an interest.’
‘Dear me. But it is his job.’
‘Really? I must demand that you call him off!’
The words echoed around the garden. Several pigeons flew away.
‘Demand?’ said the Patrician, sweetly.
Dr Cruces backed and filled desperately. ‘He is a servant after all,’ he said. ‘I see no reason why he should be allowed to involve himself in affairs that don’t concern him.’
‘I rather believe he thinks he’s a servant of the law,’ said the Patrician.
‘He’s a jack-in-office and an insolent upstart!’
‘Dear me. I did not appreciate your strength of feeling. But since you demand it, I will bring him to heel without delay.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t mention it. Do not let me keep you.’
Dr Cruces wandered off in the direction of the Patrician’s idle gesture.
Lord Vetinari bent over his paperwork again, and did not even look up when there was a distant, muffled cry. Instead, he reached down and rang a small silver bell.
A clerk hurried up.
‘Go and fetch the ladder, will you, Drumknott?’ he said. ‘Dr Cruces seems to have fallen in the hoho.’
The back door to the dwarf Bjorn Hammerhock’s workshop lifted off the latch and creaked open. He went to see if there was anyone there, and shivered.
He shut the door.
‘Bit of a chilly breeze,’ he said, to the room’s other occupant. ‘Still, we could do with it.’
The ceiling of the workshop was only about five feet above the floor. That was more than tall enough for a dwarf.
Ow, said a voice that no-one heard.
Hammerhock looked at the thing clamped in the vice, and picked up a screwdriver.
Ow.
‘Amazing,’ he said. ‘I think that moving this tube down the barrel forces the, er, six chambers to slide along, presenting a new one to the, er, firing hole. That seems clear enough. The triggering mechanism is really just a tinderbox device. The spring . . . here . . . has rusted through. I can easily replace that. You know,’ he said, looking up, ‘this is a very interesting device. With the chemicals in the tubes and all. Such a simple idea. Is it a clown thing? Some kind of automatic slap-stick?’
He sorted through a bin of metal offcuts to find a piece of steel, and then selected a file.
‘I’d like to make a few sketches afterwards,’ he said.
About thirty seconds later there was a pop and a cloud of smoke.
Bjorn Hammerhock picked himself up, shaking his head.
‘That was lucky!’ he said. ‘Could have been a nasty accident there.’
He tried to fan some of the smoke away, and then reached for the file again.
His hand went through it.
AHEM.
Bjorn tried again.
The file was as insubstantial as the smoke.
‘What?’
AHEM.
The owner of the strange device was staring in horror at something on the floor. Bjorn followed his gaze.
‘Oh,’ he said. Realization, which had been hovering on the edge of Bjorn’s consciousness, finally dawned. That was the thing about death. When it happened to you, you were among the first to know.
His visitor grabbed the device from the bench and rammed it into a cloth bag. Then he looked around wildly, picked up the corpse of Mr Hammerhock, and dragged it through the door towards the river.
There was a distant splash, or as close to a splash as you could get from the Ankh.
‘Oh dear,’ said Bjorn. ‘And I can’t swim, either.’
THAT WILL NOT, OF COURSE, BE A PROBLEM, said Death.
Bjorn looked at him.
‘You’re a lot shorter than I thought you’d be,’ he said.
THIS IS BECAUSE I’M KNEELING DOWN, MR HAMMER-HOCK.
‘That damn thing killed me!’
YES.
‘That’s the first time anything like that has ever happened to me.’ ,
TO ANYONE. BUT NOT, I SUSPECT, THE LAST TIME.
Death stood up. There was a clicking of knee joints. He no longer cracked his skull on the ceiling. There wasn’t a ceiling any more. The room had gently faded away.
There were such things as dwarf gods. Dwarfs were not a naturally religious species, but in a world where pit props could crack without warning and pockets of fire damp could suddenly explode they’d seen the need for gods as the sort of supernatural equivalent of a hard hat. Besides, when you hit your thumb with an eight-pound hammer it’s nice to be able to blaspheme. It takes a very special and strong-minded kind of atheist to jump up and down with their hand clasped under their other armpit and shout, ‘Oh, random-fluctuations-in-the-space-time-continuum!’ or ‘Aaargh, primitive-and-out-moded-concept on a crutch!’
Bjorn didn’t waste time asking questions. A lot of things become a shade urgent when you’re dead.
‘I believe in reincarnation,’ he said.
I KNOW.
‘I tried to live a good life. Does that help?’
THAT IS NOT UP TO ME. Death coughed. OF COURSE . . . SINCE YOU BELIEVE IN REINCARNATION . . . YOU’LL BE BJORN AGAIN.
He waited.
‘Yes. That’s right,’ said Bjorn. Dwarfs are known for their sense of humour, in a way. People point them out and say: ‘Those little devils haven’t got a sense of humour.’
UM. WAS THERE ANYTHING AMUSING IN THE STATEMENT I JUST MADE?
‘Uh. No. No . . . I don’t think so.’