Attention all fans of Terry Pratchett, fanfiction authors and readers alike -
... what you are about to read is a meager attempt at capturing the essence of a Discworld novel. There is no possible way that I, the way I am now, could ever get close to reconstructing the incredibly devious cleverness of an authentic Discworld novel or story. Nevertheless, I put effort into this. I have been writing it, off and on, for over two years, and it's still not done. All I'm getting out of this is any comments and reviews those who read it have to offer. Because, hey... everyone's gotta' start somewhere.
At any rate, this is my trip. Enjoy.
Chapter 1 - Sed Quis Custodiet Ipsos Custodes?
In an astonishingly timed coincidence, two watch commanders lit their cigars at the exact same moment.
One was Commander Sam Vimes of the Ankh-Morpork watch, who inhaled thirstily, extinguishing his match with an expert snap of the wrist. The smoke wafted through his office, hovering near the yellowed ceiling with a mind of its own, cramming itself into cracks in the aged plaster.
The other... was Commander Teren Carlin of the Al Khali watch, who inhaled, choked, spat, and promptly threw up.
Ahhh... the first cigar. Truly a magical experience.
It was February in Al Khali, and heat oozed lazily off of the cobble streets. The woman removed her sunglasses carefully, squinting in the desert glare, her pale skin splashed a delicate salmon-pink from the sun. Her auriental attendant twittered nervously at her side.
Their guide adjusted his turban, ill at ease. The women had arrived at the inn just this morning, with little luggage and less warning... but a lot of cash. That's what mattered, after all. But really... did it matter enough for this?
The woman looked down her nose at him. "Is this it?" she snapped shortly, biting off the words viciously. She seemed to end every sentence with a silent "you insolent pig".
"This is it, m'm, the Shifa Monument," he said, grinning loosely and gesturing semi-grandly at the small statue behind him. "Er... you were expecting something... more?"
She sniffed, and the sound grated against the husk of his brittle dignity. "It seems rather QUAINT, don't you think?" you insolent pig.
"It WAS created fifteen hundred years ago, m'm, in the Great Bronze Shortage of the Al-Hamil dynasty," he said, beginning to sweat in spite of himself.
The woman sniffed again, and began circling the statue slowly, as though on parade. The guide and the woman's attendant exchanged looks. The guide got the best of it, since the attendant was prettier and anxiously apologetic. The woman finished her rounds and glared, sideways, at her guide. "Is it PURE bronze?" you insolent pig.
"The records don't say, m'm," he said. "And the caretakers won't allow anyone to take it for testing."
"Hmph. I see." you insolent pig.
"Ah, if I may inquire," piped up the attendant, a pretty auriental girl with a round, uncertainly hopeful face, "what, exactly, is the story behind the Shifa Monument?"
The guide opened his mouth, but the woman cut him off. "Fine, but keep it short." you insolent pig.
He cleared his throat nervously. "Er," he started again. "The Shifa Monument glorifies the escapades of the legendary hero Shifa the Magnificent, who wrenched control of the desert from the vengeful and ugly goddess Barrieh, granting man power over his own... er... destiny." He slowed as he saw the woman glaring venomously at him.
"...Um," he said.
"Granting MAN power?" she said, her voice hard. "Vengeful? Ugly? Since WHEN is a goddess ill-fit for a position of authority, especially over" -she spat the word- "MEN?" (you insolent pig.)
"It's just a legend, m'm," he stuttered.
The woman looked as though she would have preferred castrating him over talking to him. "Just a legend?" she almost hissed, only her strict sense of propriety keeping her from snarling. "Legends have power, young man. They have LIFE. No legend is JUST a legend. It's like saying a sword is JUST a sword, or a bomb is JUST a bomb. Can your feeble, testosterone-charged prune of brain comprehend what I'm saying, you insolent pig?"
The guide's mouth hung open. He closed it. "Legends are dangerous, m'm?" he squeaked, unconsciously holding his hands carefully folded in front of... himself.
"Exactly," she said calmly, as though rewarding a particularly slow student. "Most legends are. This one in particular. Now..." She smiled brightly. "Shall we go?"
"Er."
"Oh, dear," Captain Carrot said, his voice ringing with shocked disappointment. "They painted all over it."
"Hey, he's got a mustache," Sergeant Angua said, staring interestedly at the statue. "A blue one."
"Poor Mister Vimes," Carrot sighed.
"Er, yeah," Angua said. She cleared her throat. "You think we should... er... cover it up?"
Carrot looked up at the statue. It was a rather good likeness, actually, excluding the hastily painted vandalism scattered unevenly across the metal surface. The last Commander Stoneface of the Ankh-Morpork Night Watch, while he had been graced with reasonably attractive features, had been noticeably lacking any large blobs of red paint across his chest, unnaturally colored facial hair, or surprisingly small reproductive organs.
"I'm sure we can find a tarp or something," he said weakly, nervously glancing at Angua to see her reaction to the inopportune scribbling across the statue's pelvic region.
"You know," she said distractedly, a bemused look on her face, "he's quite a bit smaller than y-"
"Yes. A tarp. Just the thing," Carrot said, turning quickly and marching off with ears aflame. Angua grinned and followed close behind.
Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson of the Ankh-Morpork watch, the ever bashful, the ever optimistic, the ever mad sexy, proceeded quickly along the worn cobblestones, half-heartedly but unsuccessfully attempting to stay ahead of his smaller and lither partner, Sergeant Angua von Uberwald. The two had a much-whispered about Understanding: the sort of Understanding where each has a spare key to the other's home, toothbrushes are unpreventably shared, and both often come to work at the same time, sometimes accidentally wearing one another's clothing.
Yes. THAT kind of Understanding.
Angua fell gently into step beside her superior officer, trying not to grin too much as the man's neck burned red. "Where are we going to find a tarp?" she asked, wisely choosing to place the question of genital size on a back burner for the time being.
"I'm sure there's an upstanding tarp entrepreneur around here somewhere," Carrot said. "It's a pity Mr. Hack moved to Quirm after the rubber partridge incident... he sold these great big ones."
"Great big what?" Angua asked, still slightly engrossed in the dirtier aspects of her mind.
"Tarps," Carrot said, oblivious to the woman's blithe inference. "Always offered a discount, too, even though he had a wife and three children to feed."
"But you never took it."
"Truly the salt of the earth, that man."
Angua sighed. Carrot, lovely and caring as he was, never really seemed to listen to her. Well, okay, it might just be because she often talked about things he didn't understand (like penis envy), but it still got on her nerves every once in a while. "Look, we could just get a couple of street kids to wash it off for tuppence," she said. "It would be more convenient. Quicker, too. Betcha' Mister Vimes just wants it gone. That sort of thing has been popping up all over the city; 'Gurrlf Rool, Buoyf Drule'. I suppose it was only a matter of time before they got around to the statues."
"We can't destroy evidence!" Carrot said, shocked. "That's against the law!"
"Yes," Angua said, musing wistfully about a cup of tea and a romance novel after a short day on patrol, "and you know all about the law."
"As is every citizen's duty," Carrot said.
"Right. How about citizenette?"
"What?"
"Never mind. Let's go find a big... tarp."
It was February in Al-Khali, and everything was quiet. The merchants were still in bed, the women were inside, the camel-drivers and peddlers and D'regs and Royal Stewards and tourists and card-sharps and little men with carts selling dubious foodstuffs that usually populated (or, as the case may be, infested) the marketplace were nowhere to be seen in the crystalline morning light. The sun had only been up for around ten minutes, and the air was merely unpleasantly warm. There wasn't a sound to be heard, except the soft murmur of cica-
"I could murder a curry right about now."
There wasn't a SOUND to be HEARD, except the-
"Just half an hour, offendi."
I said, there WASN'T a SOUND to be HEARD, except-
"Ah, bugger. I thought it was closer than that."
Oh, screw it.
Two Al-Khali watchmen were the sole inhabitants of the pre-Market Day square. They walked with the tired but happy knowledge that the work day (or night, rather) was nearly over, soon they could go to bed, and that it was entirely in their rights to ignore absolutely anything short of a debilitating natural disaster until they were off duty and off the hook.
"So no coffee, then," grumbled the younger of the two. He pushed his turban up his forehead irritably.
"Not until we're done, offendi," replied the older one.
"You don't have to call me offendi, sarge."
"And you shouldn't call me sarge, offendi."
The younger one shut up, and contented himself with glaring sulkily around at his surroundings. His sullen expression was gradually replaced by one of confusion and mild surprise. "Hey sar- Sergeant," he said, his voice coming from a distance. "Where are we?"
"The Alcove of Shifa the Magnificent, offendi. You should know this."
"Yeah... only... where's the monument?"
They stopped. There wasn't a sound to be heard, except the soft murmur of cicadas in the trees.
"Oh, bugger," said the older Watchman.
"The Commander is going to go SPARE," the Lance-Constable whined, taking off his turban and twisting it in his hands. "SPARE."
To Be Continued