Dear reader, I realise I have been a very naughty girl and failed to update for a few months. Sorry. Allow me to bring you up to speed with a quick summary: following the death of Lord Vetinari, a new Patrician was voted for. The favourite – Laetissimus Greenferry - failed to get the spot and, through the intervention of Head Assassin G, the position fell to Gregory Trim, who quickly set about engaging his daughter Ignita to G. The new ruler then lost his marbles and, in a fit of paranoia, temporarily forgot to breathe. He was found by G and Drumknott and left in the charge of Stampede De Worde, an unfortunate journalist. Ignita is being haunted by Vetinari and is about to make a speech to the assembled mob.

Phew. Sorry about that. On with the story! Oh, and big thumbs-up to Virtuella, who got me writing again. =) Hip hip hooray! I’m a little rusty so please let me know what you think.

Chapter Eight: Political Convention

Just what I need – Internal dialogue – No sarcasm spared – “To the University!” – The Machine For Playing Music Stored On Big Black Dinner Plate Things

“Can you hear that?”

“No.”

“Exactly.” G paused for dramatic effect. “And do you know why?”

“Er . . . because there’s nothing to hear?”

“Exactly.”

With a non-committal shrug, Drumknott replied: “Or it could be the sound of you trying very hard not to hear what the rest of us are jolly lucky we can’t hear, sir.”

“That was amazingly astute of you.” G turned to what remained of the City Watch. “I don’t suppose any of you have got anything better to do, so I suggest you all go home to your families and tell them that the Apocalypse has come. That way, they won’t be too shocked when they find out the truth.”

Angua, who was now stood in a corner wrapped in a towel, saluted smartly. “Permission to stay, Commander Carrot.”

“Permission granted, Captain Angua. Permission granted everyone.” Carrot put on his heroic face and went into ‘Mister Vimes Always Says’ mode. “We’re in this for the City, sir. Not the people. Not the Patrician. Just the City.”

With a groan, G headed for the door. “Great. Just what I need. A patriot.”

--

Stampede stood awestruck at the base of the magnificent Palace steps. He stared up at the girl there, seeming to glitter in the fading light. She’d somehow managed to procure a lectern from somewhere and was leaning on it like she was giving a pep talk. No. Better. A speech.

This was what it had all been leading to. This was it, he told himself, as the girl – what was her name again? Irene? Isabella? – drew herself up. His real chance to prove himself a journalist, a Seeker of Truth. His parents’ son. Stampede found happy tears come into his eyes at the thought of the headlines, and his name underneath. Oh, joyous day!

Now . . . if only he could remember her name . . .

--

“My name is Ignita Trim.”

Where the hell did this lectern come from?

“I have very little to say to you, and even less time in which to say it.”

It was necessary. You expected it. They expected it. Who are you to question political convention?

“When you look at me, you see a girl, no doubt, and I commend you for your powers of observation.”

Er, me?

“However, allow me to ask you this.”

Will I never catch you out?

“If I were in army uniform, would I be a silly girl or a revolutionary icon?” (1)

I sincerely hope not.

“If I were in the uniform of the Watch, would I be a silly girl or a heavily armed city official?”

Making an impromptu speech on which your life, future and potential career depends is one thing. Making it to Ankh-Morpork is quite another. Let’s not go into making that speech during an internal squabble with a dead politician.

Ignita’s words were not loud, but they yelled. They were not fierce, but they fought furiously into the mind of a city. At last. Free. The words had fulfilled their purpose. “Your enemy is not change. Your enemy is convention. Your enemy is stupidity. I will fight it with you. I will lead you now.”

Really, they were only words – clever, exciting words, but empty words nonetheless. They were just the sizzle, not the sausage – but what sizzle! And you all know all about million-to-one-chances by now, of course.

Therefore you won’t be at all surprised to hear that the desperate words pulled exactly the right lever in one head. That was all it took for one person – history, of course, has forgotten the name of Ingrid Pratt – to begin to clap. Hesitantly at first, like a sheep cautiously putting forward its radical ideas for a new system of leadership within the flock, but it was enough and soon everyone was crawling all over the bandwagon. The music of appreciation roared in her head. There were ugly discords of booing, of course, and secretly Ignita knew they were only applauding because everyone else was, but still. She was flying on wings of pride.

Oh, yes. And she had spotted Mister Newspaper down there, scribbling away in his notebook. That felt good.

Invisible, Vetinari stepped out of her and surveyed the cheering mass of people, but the power didn’t vanish; it wasn’t his anymore. He turned to face Ignita and a twisted smile stalked across his invisible face. “It feels good.”

Stop reading my mind.

“Stop being hypocritical. You have done it, for now, but something tells me this is not over by any means.”

The girl waved an incredulous arm over the city – her city. It was enough of a question in itself.

Vetinari shrugged. “Just a hunch. Maybe you should ask him.”

She didn’t need to turn around to know who was standing behind her, but she did anyway, which was just as well as it meant that the arrow Casuistry Carthridge shot at that moment missed her completely.

“Commander Carrot,” said Ignita imperiously as the watchman approached.

“Ma’am,” Carrot replied, courteously taking her wrist. “You are under arrest, Ma’am, for Conspiracy Against the Patrician, Directly Disobeying the Patrician, and Knowingly and Wilfully Causing a Bloody Racket, under Clause iv, Paragraph Six-”

“Oh, for gods’ sakes, man, she’s with me,” said another voice, and G appeared, looking thoroughly flustered but also rather smug. As Carrot eyed Ignita suspiciously, the Assassin went on, “I heard you making your speech and decided you might need a little help.” He gave her a winning smile. Sadly, Ignita Trim was handing out no prizes.

“Hmph.” Help was not something that appealed to her, especially not when it was coming from a load of none-too bright watchmen and a far-too-bright Assassin. “Well, I’m doing just fine on my own, thanks,” she declared. “And for your information, this-”

“Look out!”

Ignita looked out just in time to see G flying towards her. They hit the ground and rolled as something small and sharp whistled past where she’d just been standing, and made a tiny ping noise as it bounced off Detritus.

“What the he . . . ck was that?”

The troll picked up the little dart, but it snapped in his huge fingers. “Someone threw a needle at youse, miss,” he announced, mystified. “You want me find them and break them neck?”

“N-no, Sergeant, thanks all the same,” called G. He scratched his head.

“What?” asked Ignita, sparing no sarcasm. “Are you wondering who in the world could possibly want to kill me? Or you, I suppose.”

“Nope. I’m thinking that you really owe me a favour now.”

“Oh, that’s a joke. I see. Of course, you are really searching for the solution as to how such a would-be assassin escaped your expert assessment of the area.” With one final wave to the excited throng at the base of the steps and a nod in the direction of Mister De Worde Junior (2), Ignita marched inside, the City Watch forming a protective, if bemused, cocoon around her. “I suggest you get on it right away, G.”

He gulped. “Yes, dear.”

--

Casuistry swore and ducked out of sight. He must be losing his touch – either that, or the stress of the assignment was getting to him. Yes, it must be that. Deral wasn’t as dumb as he seemed, though that wasn’t saying much, and the whole thing was rather silly anyway.

He looked round. There was a sound like ‘ook,’ closely followed by a crunch. Over the noise of the crowd, who were by now humhch (3), it should have been totally inaudible, but then there was someone with uniquely good hearing listening for it. His head snapped up.

From his rooftop, the librarian bared his teeth and gave G a little wave. The Assassin waved back; not in a oh-look-who-it-is-I-hope-he’s-not-coming-over kind of way, but in a what-the-hells-are-you-doing-up-there-you-bloody-great-ape kind of way. “You know something I don’t,” G said, although he had no expectation of the Librarian being able to hear him. “To the University!”

He missed a step and landed on Stampede.

--

Slithering along a badly-lit passage in the underbelly of the building, Igorina held her breath and prayed that he was still here, somewhere. No-one ever cleans this place, she assumed. And is that . . . music?

There was no mistaking it. A jaunty sort of tune that had no right to be playing in a spooky, dank corridor. It made Igorina think of candyfloss and dead goldfish. She licked her lips hungrily and followed the sound towards a point in the wall that, if she remembered correctly, was not in fact a wall but a hidden door. She knocked politely.

“Mister Da Quirm?”

There was no reply, but the fairground music relentlessly continued its painful cycle. Pushing the door open, Igorina looked anxiously inside.

“Salve,” said Leonard Da Quirm, without looking up.

“E . . .” replied Igorina. “Mister Da Quirm?”

“Ita vero?”

“Um, yes. You don’t know me, Mister Da Quirm, sir, but my brother Igor used to work for you sometimes – do you remember?”

“Hmmmmm . . ?”

Leonard Da Quirm was not a very together person. Never having been a particularly together person at the best of times, he was now officially divorced. But that hadn’t stopped him inventing the wonderful ‘Machine For Playing Music Stored On Big Black Dinner Plate Things.’ Recently, however, there hadn’t been any deliveries of wood or food or anything. Leonard didn’t think it very sensible to read to much into these things, but it was starting to nag at him in a vague sort of way that maybe there wasn’t going to be enough food and maybe it was time he started to do something about it. Naturally, these thoughts had been dismissed at once, but he couldn’t deny that he was starting to feel rather peckish. “Morporkian . . ?”

“If you could, Mister Da Quirm.”

“Eh. Yes, alright. You are . . . no, don’t tell me, let me guess . . .”

“Igorina, sir.”

“I told you to let me guess! Hercle!” He adjusted the lever for his Machine For Playing Music Stored On Big Black Dinner Plate Things and didn’t look at her again. Igorina felt very undervalued indeed so she picked up a hammer and set off again towards the ground floor of the Palace.

(1) It’s amazing who people are willing to hero-worship. Despite considerable protest from the ladies in question, there were by now plenty of young Morporkians with pin-ups of the so-called ‘monstrous regiment’ in their bedrooms. It would be funny if it wasn’t so damn tragic.

(2) Who sadly didn’t see this, as he was being hugged by his mother.

(3) There is no precise English translation. It means something like excitement, confusion, overcrowding, the aftermath of an adrenaline rush and hunger all rolled into one. The closest approximation is, oddly enough, ‘city’.