The Unexpected 4

Disclaimer: as before, Terry Pratchett owns Discworld, lock, stock and crossbow bolt.  And may it long become him.

            A thin drizzling rain had begun to fall over the city as two Palace guards lugged the corpse of the messenger out into the courtyard.  The body was heavier than it looked, and neither of them was particularly thrilled about the concept of touching it, not if whatever the man had died of was catching. They were both trying not to breathe.

            "'s a long way to Small Gods," said one of them, through the scarf he'd tied over his face. "'n it's raining."

            "And I bet you anything that ole bastard took 'is shovel 'ome," said his colleague.  "'Ow're we supposed to dig a grave wivout no shovel?"

            "Can't be done, I reckon," said the first guard. The greasy rain cut visibility down to ten or eleven feet. He looked around, put down his end of their burden. The rain intensified; there was no one in the streets this late on a filthy night, not even seamstresses. "No one'd know."

            "There's that ole well. Down on Nine-stone Alley by Marrow Lane. No one ever uses it."

            "That goes out to the river, dunnit?"

            His companion shrugged. The shrug said everything that needed to be said: it's dark, it's cold, it's raining, this poor dead bastard isn't going to care where he ends up, and I for one want to get back to the Bunch of Grapes before last call.  They picked up the swathed form of the body and hurried off down a narrow alleyway, still trying not to inhale.

            Up in the living room of Dunmanifestin, the Lady grins an unpleasant grin.  Fate sighs. "You always did like the hand of Nemesis, didn't you?"

            "You wrong me," says the Lady, still grinning like a snake.  "I am merely injecting a little of myself into the situation."

            Om clenches his fists. He, perhaps more than any of them, is aware of the brilliant and fast-burning lives of the people who worship them, and senses things spinning out of control.

            The gods watch as, far below, the tiny figures of the palace guards carry the body of the messenger to an old, broken-down wellhead, and heave it over the parapet.  There is utter silence in heaven as they wait for the splash.

            In the depths of the Lady's green eyes, contagion spreads.

            By the time dawn came over the spires and towers of the city, Sam Vimes had been awake for more than thirty hours. Despite the fatigue and the headache that filled his skull with a deep, glassy pain, he found he was almost enjoying himself. He had something to do.

            He lit another cigar and blew out a thin plume of smoke, looking down the street. Since the Patrician had given the order to shut down the city, they'd mobilized both Night and Day watches, he'd had another opportunity to punch Mayonnaise Quirke directly in the mouth (and passed it up, although not without a stab of regret), every gate leading into and out of the city was blocked, and they were beginning to get the first of the angry mobs. He leaned against the Watch House wall, waiting for Carrot to join him; they were on the way to report to the Patrician.

            Audax came out of the Watch House, tossing her truncheon absently, and threw him a salute. "Morning, sir."

            Vimes nodded to her, smoking.  "You got thrown in at the deep end," he said, with a quick look at her face.  She didn't look panicked, nor did she look like she was getting ready to turn around, climb over the gates, and march straight back to Genua. She was rolling a cigarette, and doing a much neater job of it than Nobby would have.

            "You're saying this doesn't happen all the time?" she asked, with a wry smile.  "Hell, I might get bored."

            Oh, girl, thought Vimes, don't get cocky. Don't get cocky with Ankh-Morpork, she'll chew you up and spit you out like she's done to hundreds of other bright young kids…. Aloud he said, "I'm sure we can keep you entertained, Lance-Constable."

            "Sir, what do we know about this plague?"

            Vimes blinked, drew on his cigar. "Not really enough. It kills lots of people very fast."

            "I gathered that," she said. "What about methods of transmission? Waterborne? Airborne?"

            Vimes shrugged. "All of the above, I think. It's almost useless trying to stop it spreading in the city, I think; as long as it's in, it's going wherever it wants. Even if we could get all the people to behave and stay where they're supposed to be, there's no way we can stop the mice and rats moving about, or the dogs, or the things that live on the river." He waved his hand at the hastily-erected signs explaining the shutdown. "This wasn't my idea. It's stupid. But I suppose we've got to do something."

            "Fair enough," said Audax. "But I'd suggest that we do something about water. Genua had a habit of developing waterborne plagues, and the only way we could slow it down was to shut down the public fountains and pumps and bring water in from outside."

            "We can't do that," said Vimes automatically. "The whole city's in deadlock. No one gets in, no one gets out."

            Audax looked at him, through a veil of smoke. "Nobody?"

            Vimes had a sudden premonition of doom. "What are you trying to say, Lance-Constable?"

            "Nothing, sir. Only that every city as big and as old as Ankh-Morpork has to have some secret entrances and exits." She paused. "Sir, I might suggest that you get your wife and child out of the city as soon as you can."

            Vimes stared at her.

            She stared back.  He was struck, again, by how odd she looked: the pointed teeth weren't in evidence, but the combination of lank pale hair and poison-green eyes made her look rather like something out of the horror-books that sold for a few pennies on the streetcorners. Something about her reminded him of Angua, not in a good way.

            "What do you know, Lance-Constable?" he demanded, his voice edged with steel.

            She seemed to wilt slightly. "Nothing more than you do, sir. Just that this could get very nasty very fast, and if there's a time for vulnerable people to get out, this is it."

            "We'll see," said Vimes. "In the meantime, run down to Mossy Lawn's place and tell him to get his medical expertise up here on the double." Something was kicking his brain.  Something about water...

            "Go on," he added, when she'd shown no signs of moving. "That's an order."

            Audax threw a smart salute and trotted off out of the Watch House yard.  He watched until she disappeared, then redirected his attention to the frontrunners of the current mob, who had come into the yard rather diffidently, flaming torches and pitchforks at the ready. A slow smile spread across his face. This was something he knew how to deal with.

            Dr. Lawn was expecting a summons from the Watch, and had dismissed his current patient rather hurriedly in order to pack up what he thought he might need. He didn't expect a knock on his door from a rather thin young woman in rusty chainmail.

            "Yes?" he inquired.

            "Lance-Constable Audax, Night Watch," said the woman, flashing him a badge. "Mister Vimes sent me. He wants you up at the Treacle Mine house as soon as you can get there."

            Lawn stared at her for a moment. She sighed.

            "Look," she said, "I don't know how good Mister Vimes is at dealing with contagion, but I'm told this thing kills within hours, if you're lucky. I asked around; the two Palace guards who got rid of the infected messenger's body aren't showing symptoms yet. I'm thinking it's probably not airborne, cause if it was, we'd all be dead by now. I...the Watch...needs your help."

            Lawn shook himself, turned back to his worktable and finished packing up his bag. "What do you know about this?"

            "What I've been told. There's a plague spreading across the cities of the Plains, and some absolute dimwit sent a messenger already infected with it into Ankh-Morpork. From what I can gather he died shortly after holding audience with the Patrician."

            Lawn cursed. "No reports  of the Patrician falling ill?"

            "Not that I've heard. Looks like it's really not got us yet, but it's waiting. I want to find the body of the messenger and do some tests."

            He frowned at her. "You're a Lance-Constable in the Watch. What do you know about medical tests?"

            "Mostly poisoning," she admitted. "But I've got some specially ground lenses that give me a closer look at things we couldn't see otherwise."

            "Lenses," said Lawn. "Lenses. Leonard." He made a decision. "Go back to the Watch House. Tell them I'm coming. And give me your badge."

            "What?"

            "Give me your badge. I have to get to the Palace, and I have to get access to bits of it I can't get access to as a doctor."

            "Well, shit," said Audax, and reached out for a thin flat silver plate Lawn mostly used for weighing things. She took out a penknife, flipped out a pointed instrument he thought was probably used for getting things out of horses' hooves, and scratched a fair facsimile of the Ankh-Morpork crest on it, plus the number 1771. "Here," she said, holding it out to him. "I can't remember the oath, but here's a shilling, I'm swearing you in."

            Lawn took the makeshift badge and touched the shilling before Audax drew it back and tucked it into her money-bag. "From what I gather," she said, "that number will get you into the Patrician's Palace. They give you any trouble, tell them it was a stupid Lance-Constable who put you up to it. But go."

            Lawn tucked the badge into his pocket, shouldered his bag, and went.

            Early morning in the Unseen Universities dormitories was indistinguishable from midnight. Generations of hung-over students had charmed the windows to remain black until at least ten in the morning. Mirill perched on the edge of his bed, head in his hands, and ran through all the possibilities in his mind.

            "What is it?" asked Radu sleepily, rolling over. "Your eyes are positively glowing."

            "It's happening," said Mirill. "Something awful is happening. I can feel it. Can't you?"

            Radu paused, shutting his faintly lambent red eyes and thinking. "Feels like a thunderstorm's on it's way."

            "Exactly. Only it's my dream, Radu, it's happening, it's coming to pass. I can feel it. Someone's died, and it has something to do with that damned pump."

            Radu let out an exasperated noise. "Take a powder and go back to sleep, you paranoid idiot. People die in this city all the time, typically in the Shades. It's normal. I'm supernatural, I'd know if something was really wrong."

In this, he was, amusingly enough, dead wrong.