The battered old breastplate wouldn’t do, would it…Not for His Grace the Duke of Ankh, Commander of the City Watch, Sir Samuel Vimes. Sam Vimes stared at it blankly, and then remembered. Willikins had prepared the official uniform for today. And then he carried the sprig of lilac carefully back up to his dressing room. He stood for a moment, staring at nothing. He reached up, and his hand trembled as he grasped a bloom and gently broke the stem. And every year they came back, sharp and sparkling, and stabbed him in the heart. He just put the memories away, like old silverware that you didn’t want to tarnish. Off the register? Was he allowed to appeal? Perhaps they thought-ĭamn! Damn! Damn! Every year he forgot. But when I get back to the house I’ll tell the butler to come down here with a ladder. I’d be jolly grateful if you could pull me out, sir, said Jocasta. The Assassins understood the political game in the city better than anyone, and if they took you off the register it was because they felt your departure would not only spoil the game but also smash the board… Off the register, eh? The only other person not on it anymore, it was rumored, was Lord Vetinari, the Patrician. They had strict rules, which they followed quite honorably, and this was fine by Vimes, who, in certain practical areas, had no rules whatsoever. It showed that he was annoying the rich and arrogant people who ought to be annoyed.īesides, the Assassins’ Guild was easy to outwit. He really wanted to discourage this sort of thing but…they’d put him off the register? It wasn’t that he’d liked being shot at by hooded figures in the temporary employ of his many and varied enemies, but he’d always looked at it as some kind of vote of confidence. Lucky for me that I fell into this one, eh, sir? I certainly never expected the tiles on the shed to shift like that, sir.Īnd quite a few of the traps drop you into something deadly, said Vimes. Some of them are pretty cunning, even if I say so myself." "And so you’d be amazed at the booby traps there are around the place, Vimes went on. As you might expect, I take a dim view of this.Įasy to see why, sir, said Jocasta, in the voice of one who knows that their only hope of escaping from their present predicament is reliant on the goodwill of another person, who has no pressing reason to have any. You see, Miss Wiggs, quite a few of your chums have tried to kill me at home in recent years. Of course, sir, said Jocasta, looking rather hurt. No, sir! It’s an exercise! I don’t even have any crossbow bolts! I just had to find a spot where I could get you in my sights and then report back! So…she sent you to kill me, then? he said. She was, he’d heard, very hot on practical lessons.
Vimes tried to recall Miss Alice Band, one of the Assassins’ Guild’s stricter teachers. But she did say I was getting overconfident and would benefit from some advanced field work.Īh. Have you been rude to Miss Band lately? Upset her in any way?" I say, these bricks really are jolly tricky, aren’t they? Miss Band sent me as an exercise, said Jocasta. Vimes knew this, because he’d spent several hours one afternoon carefully arranging that this should be so. Her patient struggles had brought her to the edge of the pit, and now she was finding that the brickwork was in very good repair, quite slippery, and offered no handholds. They’re not accepting contracts on you at present.Ĭouldn’t say, sir, said Miss Wiggs.
The Guild council put it in abeyance, sir, said the patient swimmer. Not a contract, sir, said Jocasta, still paddling.Ĭome now, Miss Wiggs. You’re a bit young to be sent on this contract, aren’t you? said Vimes. He asked to be remembered to you, said Jocasta. It wasn’t entirely unexpected-the Assassins’ Guild was aware that women were at least equal to their brothers when it came to inventive killing-but it nevertheless changed the situation somewhat. The voice was higher pitched than Vimes expected and he realized that, most unusually, the young man in the pit was in fact a young woman. Good morning, Your Grace, said the industrious treadler. The fall from the shed roof had broken the crust. It probably wouldn’t be a good idea to employ a naked flame any nearer to the pit. Vimes stood back a little way and lit a cigar. And in the old cesspit behind the gardener’s shed, a young man was treading water. The sky was hazy though, and thunderheads on the horizon threatened rain later. Birds sang in the trees, bees buzzed in the blossom. Then he put his jacket on and strolled out into the wonderful late spring morning.
Sam Vimes sighed when he heard the scream, but he finished shaving before he did anything about it.
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