A/N: This is, in fact, the sequel to a previously written story called Jolt. Many things happen in Jolt which I'm much too lazy to explain here. If you haven't read that story, I'd advise you do so before reading this on, or you may be attacked by a severe case of confusion. But hey, I'm not the boss of you.

I would like to dedicate this sequel to everyone who cyber-poked me into writing it. Special dedication to Dark-Tari, who gave me a reason to start and to Minimog16, who gave me a reason to finish to the end.

Enjoy!

INFINITY

Like a perfume doth remain

In the folds where it hath lain,

So the thought of you, remaining

Deeply folded in my brain,

Will not leave me.

All things leave me.

You remain.

There is a place, on the Disc, where the gods play games with the lives of men, on a board, which is at one and the same time, a simple playing area and the whole world. Naturally the whole thing smacks of the unrealistic, but what do you expect from Gods whose idea of a culturally uplifting experience is a musical doorbell?

Now, the gods had finished their last game, which had been a rather large war somewhere in BhangBhangduk,, and were searching for a new one.

"What'll we play now?" grumbled Blind Io. He was a thunder God, and his attention span was poor and required constant stimulating. The other gods frantically began their search, because if the thunder god got sulky, then everyone got a piece of it.

"Tempest Wrecked Mariners?" suggested Anoia, Goddess of Things Stuck In Drawers.

"No, that one ends much too quickly," said Om. "What about Mighty Empires?"

"We played that yesterday," whined a minor goddess of plenty.

"How about Floodsh and Droughtsh?" said Offler the Crocodile God quickly, through his fangs.

"No, that's boring. Let's play Mad Kings!" exclaimed a small god, whose head-dress consisted of large rocks and threatened to cause him to topple over.

Then, a tall slim man sat at the table. Fate nodded to the other Gods, who jerked their heads reluctantly. Fate was an unpopular player, because Fate always wins. At least, Fate always wins when people stick to the rules…

"Let us play Star Crossed Lovers," he said pleasantly, his dark empty eyes surveying the now silent room.

"Er. We've lost the rules to that one," Blind Io said hesitantly, after the pause dragged on.

"No matter. I would like to issue a challenge." Fate scanned the room until he found the eyes he was looking for. They were emerald green from edge to edge.

"Lady? Would you care to play?"

As one god, the others drew back. This was an old battle between two ancient enemies, and it had a tendency to get nasty.

"As you wish." She walked forward and took her place on the other side of the board. She was called the Lady, because it is said that if you say her true name out loud, she would instantly depart.

"You will, of course, play your favourite piece?" said Fate pleasantly.

"Of course," she smiled. "Happily we have a ready-made pair of star crossed lovers. I shall play the lovers, and you shall play the forces tearing them apart, yes?"

Fate raised an eyebrow. "You misunderstand Lady," he said. "You shall play your favourite piece, and I shall play mine."

The gods craned to see the figurine that Fate held in his hand. He had never been said to favour a piece, but perhaps he never had to. The Lady stared at it.

"But that means that we will each be playing-"

"A lover. Yes, I feel it adds an extra element to the game, don't you?"

A mutter ran among the assorted gods. This was unheard of.

The Lady paused. She had a bad feeling about where this was going, but she had accepted the challenge. To back down now would be unthinkable. "How do we decide a winner?"

Fate beamed. "Why, the winner is the one whose piece survives of course!"

She closed her eyes and said, almost soundlessly, "Then let us begin."

In the poignant silence, Blind Io spoke up again. Not one to let go of an idea, he exclaimed, "I said we can't find the rules to that one!"

The cold and empty holes that rested in the place of Fate's eyes never left the Lady's face.

"Of course we can't. There aren't any."

Then he threw the dice.

It would be better if this conversation took place at night-time. In fact, it would be better if this conversation took place in a dark secret place, while a storm raged outside and thunder filled the air with the anger of the gods…

But reality doesn't always conform to the expectations of the metaphorical watcher (who is always watching), and this conversation actually took place on a veranda, in the warm summer sunshine, while those who were conversing sipped lemonade. Occasionally a butterfly fluttered past.

No, the weather didn't suit the topics of conversation at all, which went a little something like this:

"I presume everything will be guarded?"

"There will be various locks and other items of a protective nature, yes, though I rather feel that it will present a stimulating exercise for you, rather then any actual difficulty."

The young woman drummed her finger-tips on the ornately carved table. The sunlight shone in her chestnut coloured hair which, despite its intricate up-do, was fighting to be free.

"I assume you'll require me to fulfil a more…traditional role at the same time?"

Vetinari paused in the motion of bringing his glass to his lips, and delicately set it down again. "I would require your presence as the Lady of Winslow Manor and the various titles and responsibilities that come with it."

He looked at his niece, who was pondering the matter deeply. She was, for want of a better term, a wild card. She did what she pleased, when she pleased. Except, of course, when it was her uncle who was asking. She had a soft spot for this man, who was the tyrant of the most powerful city on earth, and her only blind spot in her otherwise accurate view of human nature seemed to be her conclusion that all the rumours she heard about him couldn't possibly be true. Now, she was mulling over his proposition as if she hadn't already agreed in her head when he had requested a favour. Vetinari knew all this, but it was an old and much beloved charade between them, almost as often played as their games of Thud.

"So." She picked up her glass and peered into the depths of the murky lemonade, or perhaps watched the light play across the cut glass. "You want me to appear at this convention as Lady Winslow. You want me to be the diplomat, the socialite and the haughty heiress. However, at the same time, you also wish me to use this as an opportunity to do a little…breaking and entering?"

Vetinari gave a small smile. "I was thinking something more along the lines of accidental shattering and inadvertent wandering."

Byrony smiled. "That sounds very doable."

"Capital!" Vetinari set his lemonade down. "Now, there is also the small matter of the location of the orb, and how you're going to get it."

"Doesn't he already know?" asked Byrony, but her attention was wandering, as it had a tendency of doing. She was following the crazy flight path of a butterfly with her emerald green eyes, and her mouth was most likely on auto-pilot.

Vetinari shook his head. "He hasn't found it yet. If he knew, then all would be lost. However-" He broke off, realising that Byrony was now watching a small bird fly in endless circles. He coughed loudly, and her attention snapped back to him while her face tried to arrange itself into en expression that would convey that she had been listening all the time.

"However," said Vetinari, "I'm quite certain that he's close to discovering its whereabouts. It's of vital importance we reach it before him. The forest is rather large…"

Byrony nodded. "How long have we got?"

"From today? One month. Plenty of time to organise a gathering of such magnitude."

Byrony looked sceptical. "I'll take your word for it, I'm sure."

"Yes you will," agreed Vetinari, "Because I shall be doing the organising."

Byrony's face scrunched up in distress. "But I like organising parties!"

Vetinari gave her a Look. Byrony's 'parties' usually consisted of carousing, rowdy behaviour and had a tendency to end up several miles from their starting point.

Byrony coughed. "But considering the importance of this gathering, I feel it would be only sensible to let you cover the essentials while I do a little…"

"Inadvertent wandering?" suggested Vetinari with a smile.

Byrony beamed. "I couldn't have put it better myself."

Ankh-Morpork!

Pearl of cities, in that it could be likened to the mucus of a mollusc!

The Big Wahoonie, an ugly and highly explosive vegetable!

City of a thousand faces and not one of them willing to lend you a dollar!

Through this vast and timeless city, a lone, bedraggled, tall and skinny figure trudged in the early hours of the morning, stomping each cobblestone underfoot as if it had done him a personal injury. His hunched shoulders belayed a deep personal angst, which tortured his brain and tore his insides apart.

Well, it was giving him wicked indigestion.

Rincewind the Wizard was not, in fact, undergoing any current distressing experience other then life itself, which can be classified as very distressing indeed. Anyone who was familiar with Rincewind was aware that though he had travelled much of the Disc, and though he had (unwillingly) taken part in many adventures and met lots of new and interesting people (some of which didn't want to kill him at all), he was a man who coveted the quiet life. Currently employed as the Professor of Cruel and Unusual Geography at the Unseen University, he enjoyed the sort of stability that comes naturally when no one else particularly wants the job you have. When he wasn't sitting in a cramped office filled with different shaped rocks and wondering vaguely what he was supposed to be doing, he also worked as the Assistant Librarian, performing such vital tasks as stamping, filing, sorting, stacking and peeling. Peeling the Librarian's bananas, that is, rather then the idea of a book with a removable skin.

The Librarian, who was a fully-grown orang-utan, had been subject to a magical accident once upon a time, and had since resisted all attempts to return him to his original form. He wasn't a bad employer, his only downside being his tendency to fling banana peels at Rincewind when he didn't treat a book to the Librarian's high standards. This happened rarely, as most of the books in the Library were very old and Rincewind treated them with the reverence one generally assigns to an elderly relative who has seen two world wars, one of which wasn't a patch on the other.

Also, mistreating a book meant that it had to be repaired in a form of book surgery, something which Rincewind hated. He fainted at the sight of glue.

Rincewind moodily kicked the ground.

He had it all, everything he had ever wanted.

So why was there something bothering him?

Little did Rincewind know that the something bothering him was, in fact, a tiny part of his memory that his subconscious had walled in self-defence. It was nestled in the inner-crevices of his psyche, giving him the mental equivalent of an annoying itch. The brain is very adept at making do with its surroundings. When a prisoner who has been locked up for thirty years is given a brief sample of freedom, he will naturally revert back to his original routine as soon as the cell bars close in on him once again. The brain makes extraordinary happenings hazy, and covers them in a film of humdrum occurrences to save us from their memory. What Rincewind experienced would have driven him mad had he been forced to pour over the memories, day after day, and his brain quickly began to stamp them down. Now, Rincewind was aware that there was something in his head he wasn't addressing, but he was quite happy the way he was thank you very much. Sometimes, usually around 3a.m, he would fearfully contemplate those memories, though he wouldn't actually remember them, as it were. The strange aches in his chest he seemed to suffer when he mentally poked at the locked box did nothing to encourage a trip down memory lane. Rincewind was well aware that when you stroll down Memory Lane, you sometimes end up getting mugged in Horrific-Realisation Alley. Yes, Rincewind had lovely, sturdy mental blockades erected all around those memories.

Unfortunately, in approximately six hours, they're all about to be knocked down.

This might even be a good thing.

Somewhere in Istanzia, where most of this tale will be taking place, Byrony arrived at her childhood home for the first time in almost five years. Perhaps now would be a very good time to explain Byrony's situation. Lady Byrony Winslow was the eighth first born daughter in a line of first born daughters. This makes her the discs only known enchantress. She was a catalyst for magic, absorbing it and pumping it out again in multiple quantities. As a result, whenever she stayed in one area for a long period of time, the area in question began to develop magical flares, in which bursts of raw magic flourished and caused havoc. Magical swords melted, demons appeared and evaporated randomly and occasionally, things exploded. Because of this unusual quirk in her genetic make-up, Byrony was forced to constantly travel the Disc, never staying in one place for too long. A pair of Vetinari's dark clerks, Clancy and William, whose job generally consisted of keeping their charge out of trouble, accompanied her.

They had their work cut for them. Byrony was magnetically drawn to trouble, and rather interestingly classed it as 'fun'. As she travelled the disc, she constantly became enveloped into strange adventures that really had nothing to do with her in the first place. It was like she had an internal compass that pointed her in their direction

Bloody dump, she thought fondly as she gazed up at the impressive structure that was Winslow Manor. It was one of the largest manors on the disc and it was just perfect to accommodate the various nobles, emperors, kings, nobles, dukes, duchesses, queens, princes, princesses, barons, empresses…

I really hope it's clean, she thought. And if it's not clean, then at least make it the kind of dirty that can be attributed to years of expensive furniture not being cleaned due to retaining its original...dirt.

Of course, it would be mostly clean, because of all the servants still living there. Byrony was the last in the line of Winslows, and she rarely visited the old place. The servants however, remained at Winslow Manor, ready at a moment's notice to welcome her home. In the absence of any discernible authority figures, they had more or less turned the whole Manor, which was quite big indeed, into a sort of indoor city.

After one hour Byrony was sitting at a table in the Great Hall, her head in her hands as the Head Butler listed of the staff's complaints. One month previously, Vetinari had sent a team to the Manor, to begin preparations for the party they were going to hold there.

Well, perhaps party was too small a word. They were attempting to gather all the gentry of the disc together for one fun-filled fortnight in an attempt to strengthen foreign relations. Anyone who was anyone in the world of titles and royalty was coming, and the Manor need a complete overhaul to make ensure that all parts were habitable once more. This was not going down well with the staff, many of whom considered the guest rooms to be their bedrooms.

"So, the stable crew are fighting with the groundskeepers."

"Yes, m'lady."

"And the laundry room workers wo'nt have anything to do with the…the…"

"Outer-patrolmen, m'lady."

"Right. Tell me again why we have to chop down the doors to the Emerald green drawing room?" Byrony asked, her eyes taking on a glazed look.

"All the cooking team have barred themselves in, m'lady," said the Head Butler.

"And they did that…why?"

"They refuse to share sleeping quarters with the games-men, m'lady."

"Ah yes, and if this letter is accurate, they have taken a dislike to the games-men on account of-" She held up the letter. "Yes, here it is. 'On account of what they said about our Sharon last Hogswatch.' I see."

Byrony sat back in her chair and sighed. She really wasn't good at this lording thing. She had always tried to call in on everyone at least once a year, and had never seen any harm in the servants taking up quarters in the guest-rooms. In fact, she rather liked that the old place was so full of life and from what she remembered, she rather suspected her parents would have found the whole thing hilarious. But perhaps if she had been a bit more of a lord she wouldn't feel like she was now evicting the people who considered her family.

She sighed again. The problem was that all the different sections of the household staff were practically all related, and jobs now ran in families. The games-men were not all men, and the culinary-staff was all one extended family, presided over the head-chef, who happened to be most of the culinary staff's grandfather.

At least the maids are still all girls, she thought to herself, though she could have sworn she saw a young man in a frilly apron happily wielding a feather duster…

"Right," she said finally. "We must sort this out. A firm hand is what's needed. Er-do you think a firm hand is needed?"

"A firm hand indeed, m'lady."

"Right," she continued confidently. She stood and began to walk out of the room, pursued by the Head Butler. "I need to explain the situation and I'm sure they'll comply."

"Well, of course, If you say they must move to the servants quarters they will comply immediately, m'lady. You are Lady Winslow."

Byrony shook her head. Another reason she could never lord over her staff. They were loyal to a fault. She had left them alone in a giant manor filled with silverware, paintings and priceless furniture and she was fairly sure that the only thieving done would be by ol' Bess Jenkins, who raided the formidable liqueur cabinet in the kitchen to feed her hawks. Byrony never asked why the hawks needed alcohol, because she was faintly suspicious the old woman was waiting for someone to ask so she could cackle "To give them strong spirits!"

"They come under your authority and your authority only," continued the Head Butler. "They are rather insulted that the cleaning and catering team from Ankh-Morpork was sent -"

"That was a misunderstanding, not a reflection on the staff's abilities," said Byrony desperately.

"Just as you say, m'lady," continued the Head Butler smoothly. "However, they were willing to put up with them until they began ordering the household staff around."

"Well, we can't have that," murmured Byrony. They were now walking through a grand hall, surrounded by the staff, who were industriously polishing the various sculptures, paintings and priceless vases that lined the walls. She was only half listening as she tugged irritably at the sleeves of the dress she wore. Byrony was more at home in serviceable leather trousers and a sword strapped across her back, but though the staff of the manor were well aware of their ladyships idiosyncratic dressing habits, Uncle Vetinari had pointed out that practice makes perfect and who could say that some dignitaries wouldn't be arriving early?

So, she was hot, itchy and irritable. She also kept accidentally stepping on the hem every couple of steps.

"Quite so, m'lady. And may I be so bold as to point out that the Master Rowel really isn't helping the situation."

Her hair was still down though, and falling in messy chestnut waves around her shoulders. By Gods, a girl has limits-

Suddenly, she stopped dead.

"Who?"

It took a while for letters to get as far as the Archchancellor. The post tended to be picked up from the University gates by anyone who happened to be passing, and then left lying on a shelf somewhere or used as pipe lighter or a bookmark or, in the case of the Librarian, as bedding.

This letter, however, is making its way speedily up the Great Hall, thanks to the hurried footsteps of the messenger carrying it. It was official.

It was dinnertime in the University at the moment, and dinnertime for wizards tends to go on for quite some time. Anyone in the presence of a wizard soon realises this, as the average wizard looks like he should have his own orbit. They tend to be spherical, though as mentioned, this is not true in the case of Rincewind the wizard, who is currently sorting some rowdy almanacs into their assigned spaces in the library.

"Sir – you're - this is - for you," gasped the messenger, thrusting the envelope into the ArchChancellors hand.

Ridcully peered at it. "What's this? Looks a bit like a nobby invite."

A couple of ears pricked up at this point. Wizards are generally invited to events like Guild dinners, the reason being that people dislike being turned into small frogs which is what happens when you don't invite a wizard. These dinners generally consist of several courses, with dessert and a cheese board.

Ridcully ripped open then envelope with his spoon and scanned the contents. "All dignitaries…blah, blah, blah…hey, does anyone know where Istanzia is?"

"Country near here, isn't it?" said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. "Over some mountains, or some other geography type thing."

"What? What else do you get in geography?" asked the Chair of Indefinite Studies.

"Oh, polders. Horse-shoe lakes, that type of thing."

"Really? Never knew there was so much of it out there."

"What, geography?"

"Apparently," continued Ridcully loudly, "The Patrician is involved in hosting some sort of party over there, and he's requesting the attendance of a representation of Ankh-Morpork's wizardry component."

He looked up into strained faces. The wizards were torn. It was all very well going on about free food and drink, and both were welcome to be sure, but if there was going to be actual travelling involved…

"It's far too far," said the Dean firmly, a man who made up half the faculty of the Unseen University in sheer girth.

"I agree," said the Senior Wrangler. "I don't like the sound of some of the geography either. Horse-shoe lakes? The very idea!"

Ridcully, however, was still peering at the invitation. "It's being held in Winslow Manor and it's hosted by Lady Winslow. Hmm, name rings a bell there. Anyone know a Winslow? Hey, you lot! Does the name Winslow mean anything to you?"

There was a general murmur of confusion and shrugging of shoulders, until a hand went up. Ponder Stibbons, the youngest member on the faculty and head of the Inadvisably Applied Magic department cleared his throat.

"Er, I think we all know a Byrony Winslow, ArchChancellor."

Ridcully looked down at the invite again. "Good lord, is that her second name? Fancy that."

"And she's invited us to her little party? What a nice young woman. You know, I've always said that she was a valuable ally to the university," said the Senior Wrangler.

"Really?" said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. "Because I recall you writing that petition to have her removed from the city when all those flares -"

"All in the past," said the Senior Wrangler hurriedly. "Think of the future!"

"You know, it's not such a little party," said Ridcully thoughtfully. "Invitation says its going to last a good fortnight. And," he looked up at the wizards. "We're all invited."

There was a general outcry. "What? The whole faculty?"

"I shan't go. You can't make me. I'll be killed by a wild polder!"

Ridcully ignored all this, aware that the whole faculty would go. It promised to be a party of some magnitude, and free food and drink for an entire two weeks is more then a wizard can resist, lazy or not.

Instead he was looking at the bottom of the invitation, and the hand written note from the Patrician, requesting the attendance of one very specific staff member.

"Him?" the ArchChancellor said to himself. "Why does he want him?"

She stood outside the study door, inhaling and exhaling slowly. It was best to start out at a neutral anger-level when dealing with Rowel. He seemed to cause levels to rise so very quickly. Raising a clenched fist, she knocked politely on the door refraining from kicking it down in every respect whatsoever.

A voice called out. "Enter."

Enter, thought Byrony as she gritted her teeth into something resembling a smile. He actually says enter. If I kill him now, mankind can only get less anally retentive.

She pressed down on the ornate handle and the door opened with a squeak. Sitting at a desk in the centre of the dark room was a young man who seemed to be concentrating intently on something. The room was dark because the heavy red velvet curtains were pulled closed but the young man had a tall oil lamp lit right beside him, and a pair of large lenses on his face which served to magnify whatever it was that he was focusing on.

"Do excuse me ladyship, I'll be but a moment."

"Hello Rowel. I didn't know you were here."

"Yes, it was to be a surprise."

"It's a lovely surprise," lied Byrony, her bright voice neatly covering her distaste. "I come home and you're here. In my house. You're here in my house."

There was a long and very emphatic pause.

"Rowel?"

"Yes, Ladyship?"

"Why are you here in my house?"

Rowel straightened up a little, enabling Byrony to see the desk in front of him. The last butterflies wings trembled weakly as he pushed the pin through it. He then slammed the glass case it was inside closed, and pushed it away as if there was nothing still alive to be taken into consideration. Byrony looked at the case with a longing to smash it open and to free all the flying pieces of colour inside, but her attention was snapped back to the man in front of her.

"Why, I received an invite to the ball, of course," said Rowel, in his horribly nasal voice, which somehow managed to convey a general vibe of self-satisfaction.

Byrony nodded. "Yes," she said slowly. "But the ball, Rowel, and this is the important bit, the actual ball isn't for quite a while

You obnoxious little git you, she added. As long as she was talking to herself, she might as well vent some feelings.

"My dear cousin," said Rowel politely, as he took off the lenses and replaced his small gold-rimmed spectacles on his nose. "Are we not relatives? Didn't your father, may he rest in peace, grant me free passage of your land?" He smiled all the time, a horrible little half-smile that hinted that he knew much more then you and incidentally, had just found out that he was actually better then you as well.

"Yes, but that wasn't for you," said Byrony. "That was for your father."

Who happens to be a sweet old man and not a total megalomaniac, you bloody loony.

"I believe it was in the Rowel family name," said Rowel, with a smoothness that reminded you of oil-slicks.

"No, it was for Lord Rowel." Byrony grinned. "You're still Master Rowel, aren't you Nicky? Isn't that right?"

Nicholas Rowel's smile twitched. "You always were a joker, cousin." He put one hand up to his jet-black hair which was slicked back against his skull. "While I was always the one who had to reign in your schemes once they got out of hand."

"Like that time that I let out that bull-"

"Quite."

"And then all those chickens-"

"Indeed."

"Honestly, I was only twelve. I didn't think that manure-"

"Yes."

"I know I was on the bull, but I couldn't control it!"

"As you have previously said."

"I mean, I didn't know you were there, and then all the haystacks-"

"Yes," hissed Rowel through his tight little smile. "I think you've made your point."

"Oh, it was your point," said Byrony cheerfully. "I was just helping it to sink in."

"Thank you, I'm sure."

"Which is what you did into the manure."

Rowel cleared his throat. "I have always felt, however, that despite our differences, we would be very well matched. I came here early, Byrony, with the express intention of," he flashed some eerily white teeth, "Getting to know you better."

You lying little bastard, thought Byrony almost admirably. I'm here to stop you from carrying out your little plan and you're here because you know why I'm here and even though we both know this, you're still going to try and pull that card.

She felt her gorge rise as she contemplated what 'that card' meant. It was perfect really. Rowel knew she was trying to stop him, so he was going to stick to her like glue under the guise of the protective suitor. It made total sense because, though Byrony was loathe to admit it, from a social point of view they really were a perfect match. The Winslows and the Rowels were two of the Disc's oldest and wealthiest families, the Winslows being the more elite of the two. Her father and Lord Rowel had been fast friends, and Byrony had no doubt that if her parents had been very different people (i.e not dead ones) with old-fashioned views, she would have been dragged kicking and screaming down the aisle a long time ago.

"How is Lord Rowel?" she asked suddenly. He was such a sweet man, where did his son come from?

Rowel twitched again. "In very good health, but unable to leave his estate, alas."

"Oh? Why ever not?"

"He's currently bed-ridden."

Byrony frowned. "That doesn't sound like he's in the best of health to me."

"Yes," said Rowel.

Byrony opened her mouth to pursue the matter, but then closed it again. It was common knowledge that Rowel wanted to inherit the lordship more then he favoured his family. Perhaps when he said 'bed-ridden', he didn't mean 'by choice'.

"Well," she said finally. "Welcome to Winslow Manor." She turned and made for the door, resolutely not looking at the glass-cases that lined the walls.

"I look forward to making it my home," said Rowel, and after a beat that was just a little too long, he added, "For the duration of my stay, of course."

Unfortunately, all Byrony's diplomatic reserves for the day had been used up.

She slammed the door.

Rincewind stood before the faculty. He had spent many a day as a student in such a position, generally on the days that he managed to achieve a high mark in his exams simply by guessing the answers. But he wasn't being interrogated now, oh no. Now it seemed they wanted him to go to some ghastly far-flung location and attend some sort of convention or something.

Right, thought Rincewind bitterly. I'll go, and I'll wander off and there'll be this…cave or something with a little old man and he'll say 'you have been chosen for a great quest of greatness!', and he'd be off again, being chased, shot at and generally wished dead.

"Er. No. No thanks," he said. The faculty began that disgruntled muttering you hear when you're around a group of rather large gentlemen for any length of time. After all, Rincewind was passing up on the opportunity of a lifetime! Didn't he realise he it was a miracle that he was being invited at all? He wasn't even a proper faculty member, and he was far too thin and scruffy.

"Well now, that's perfectly acceptable," said Ridcully loudly. "The man doesn't want to go, do you Rincething?"

"Wind. No I don't. I'll just stay here thanks, if it's all the same. You know, I'll guard the books and sort my rocks and…things."

"That's fine! Fine!" said Ridcully hurriedly. "No problems there! When a man has his mind made up, there's no going back, am I right chaps?" He turned and looked at the faculty, who murmured their half-hearted agreement. "And if a man doesn't feel the need to mingle with the upper echelons of society, then no reason on the Disc can persuade him otherwise."

"That's right" said Rincewind nervously, glancing at the door. "So if you don't mind I'll just be-"

"I mean, what's the big deal about these upper echelons anyway?"

Rincewind began to edge away. "Yes my feelings exac-"

"Like the Patrician, Dukes, diplomats, princes. Who needs them?"

"I'll just go and--"

"And they only get invited because they're all related, it's ridiculous."

"Is that right? I'll just get the…get the…" Rincewind now had his hand firmly closed around the door handle. The wizards were watching him like they expected him to perform some kind of trick. A few were watching Ridcully with bemused expressions on their faces.

"Even THE PATRICIAN is going, or so I hear."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, don't say I said so, but I hear tell that THE PATRICIAN received an invite because a FAMILY MEMBER is hosting the gathering."

"Er-"

"But you couldn't pay me to go, oh no!"

"Oh no?"

"I say, even though THE PATRICIAN is going to be there because SOME MEMBER OF HIS FAMILY is hosting, I still wouldn't…be…"

Ridcully stared at Rincewind, who was standing there, totally bewildered.

"You…er…still don't want to go?"

Rincewind thought back on the various points that the ArchChancellor had just made. None of them had been particularly persuasive.

"Er. No. No I don't."

Ridcully gave up his mangled attempt at subtlety. "Vetinari's niece is hosting the event, you damn fool! Byrony!"

At that point, the rest of the world ceased to exist for Rincewind. All he was aware of was a distinct ringing in his ears.

"Well, you were her guide around the city once, weren't you? Weren't you? Rincewind? I say, is he quite all right there?"

The Lecturer in Recent Runes sidled up to Rincewind, who had turned an interesting shade of grey. An experimental hand was waved in front of his face, but Rincewind was, for all practical purposes, no longer in the room. He had been catapulted back into the past, thanks to the repressed memories, which had come swarming back to him as soon as the key word had been said.

Byrony.

Her every word, every move, every smile, every frown and every touch had been seared into his brain. He could remember every detail, every minute, every second.

No wonder I blocked it, he thought frantically. I'd have gone mad!

But another, deeper and less accessed part of him said: No wonder I blocked it. Look at what I lost.

So, this was how, two weeks later on a fine, if rather chilly spring morning, Rincewind found himself amongst the wizards waiting outside the gates of the University. The wizards were not exactly in a good mood as the journey required an early start and for a wizard, morning generally began around noon-ish. There was much shuffling, grumbling and rubbing of sleep out of eyes. Rincewind was staring ponderously off into the cold blue of the morning sky. He was wondering if he was mad.

What was he doing? Was he mad?

Er. Well, he was making a journey he didn't want to make to go somewhere he didn't want to go to do a lot of things he didn't want to do, all on the basis of a few memories which were coming out of a head which was, let's face it, not the most reliable.

Yep, he decided wearily. Totally barking. Maybe I can get a seat beside the bursar and we can compare hallucinations.

"When are the damn coaches going to get here?" grumbled the Dean. "I can't feel m'feet!"

Ridcully, who was sorting his hunting gear now that he was aware of the polders, waved him into silence. (Mustrum Ridcully did a lot for rare species. For one thing, he kept them rare). For the ArchChancellor, morning began at least an hour before whatever time it was that you got up at, and he liked to let people know that. The Dean's incessant whining was beginning to get on his nerves.

"It'll be here soon, I said. And it's not coaches, its coach. Singular"

The Senior Wrangler came to attention, causing the Lecturer in Recent Runes (who had been dozing on his shoulder) to fall over.

"ArchChancellor, I must protest!" he protested. "You don't expect to fit the entire faculty into one coach, do you? Er," he looked at Ricully. "Do you?

Ridcully was famed for his cost saving measures in the University. It was widely known that he wouldn't replace a writing pad until it had been completely filled in on both sides of every page, and the only way to get a new pencil was if you produced the stub of the old one.

"Of course I don't," he said.

The wizards slumped in relief.

"I just told Glod from Glod's coaches that we'd test one of his new ideas for a cheaper coach fare."

The wizards stood bolt upright once more.

"And, er, what new idea would this?" inquired Ponder Stibbons nervously. He was holding a velvet case in his hands. Rincewind eyed it suspiciously. He didn't trust Stibbons, who was too clever by half and went around talking about quarks. Rincewind felt that if Ponder wanted to talk about ducks, then there were plenty of people in the city who would oblige him, but a university was no place for wildlife!

"Oh, it's this new idea of his," continued the ArchChancellor airily. "Its sort of a big coach, doncherknow. A big coach," he explained enthusiastically. "So a lot of people can travel at once. Makes tickets cheaper too," he said firmly, indicating that that was The End Of It.

"Fine," said the Dean sulkily. "That means we're all going to be stuck in a coach together for three days. We'll miss the opening ball at this rate."

"I explained to Glod about that, he said not to worry, he'd take care of it. A fine ma- dwarf, if I ever met one."

Take care of it? Rincewind didn't like the sound of that. He'd met Glod, a dwarf hell-bent on setting up his own coaching service. He was a dwarf who wasn't averse to stealing a horse, stripping it down for parts, painting it a different colour and selling it on.

Rincewind pushed the thought from his mind, and turned back to where Ponder Stibbons was standing with the velvet case. He was holding it very tightly, as if it was valuable.

"What's in there?" enquired Rincewind, not really wanting to know, just wishing to alleviate the terrible boredom.

"Oh, er-" Ponder hugged the case a little tighter. "Well, I suppose I can tell you. I finished Byr- Lady Winslow's modulator!" He pushed his glasses further up his nose and continued excitedly. "I told the Patrician, and I think we've been invited to the ball as a ruse so I can give it to her!"

A little more then a year ago, Byrony had visited Ankh-Morpork, and had hired Rincewind as her guide. Her presence had caused magical flares all over the city, and she had eventually been kidnapped by a religious maniac who believed she was to be the cause of the end of the disc. He had planned to use Curwen's Modulator to suck up the magic in her body until she was dead, and then let it explode. He didn't succeed, obviously. Vetinari had then presented Ponder with the task of moderating the modulator so it only sucked up the flares that Byrony gave off, as opposed to all the magic in her body.

"May I see it?" asked Rincewind icily. He had his own deep, secret idea as to why the faculty had been invited, one which he wouldn't have voiced even if threatened with a big stick, and didn't like Stibbons take on events one tiny bit.

Oh ,it's a ruse, eh? he thought furiously. It's a ruse for you to meet Byrony, is it? And I heard that little slip with her name! Don't think I didn't!

Ponder clicked open the case, and revealed its contents to Rincewind. Inside was a smaller version of the original modulator, which had been a cube about the size of a clenched fist. It was, like the original, plated with gold but Rincewind couldn't help noticing that it looked a lot prettier then the modulator in his memory.

"Are those…engravings?"

"Well, yes but–"

"Why are there little multicoloured stones on the sides?"

"I just–"

"That looks like a gold chain to me," said Rincewind accusingly.

"Girls like that sort of thing," said Ponder defensively. He closed the case. "Now she can wear it as a necklace."

"You needn't have, I'm sure," sniffed Rincewind.

"I wanted to," said Ponder.

The two wizards glared at each other. Battle-lines had been drawn.

"Ah," said Ridcully brightly. "I think I hear the coach coming!"

It certainly was coming. Rincewind turned away from his new worst enemy just in time to see it skid around a corner on two wheels. He whimpered a little.

"My word, it is quite big, isn't it?" said Recent Runes.

"Fast too," noted Senior Wrangler approvingly. "I'm guessing Glod fed something to those horses."

Ridcully clapped his hands together. "Big and fast, eh? Just what we wanted!"

They watched as it barrelled down the street, coming closer and closer.

"Er, yes. Very fast," said the Senior Wrangler, who sounded a lot less approving and a lot more uncertain.

They stood watching the large unwieldy coach as it advanced. The rumbling of the wheels was a lot closer now, and there didn't seem to be a driver…

"Should we move?" volunteered Rincewind.

The wizards threw themselves to either side of the great gates of the university just as the coach seemed to attempt to stop. The horses leg's reared and locked and the entire structure spun 360 degrees, while making a high pitched squealing sound. At last, it came to a halt, and the wizards got up, brushed themselves down and tried to pretend the last thirty seconds hadn't happened.

"I don't believe it!" thundered Ridcully, as they made their way over to where the coach had stopped. "No driver! We all could have been killed!"

"Or only some of us, perhaps," said the Chair of Indefinite studies longingly.

Ridcully rapped the side of the coach with his staff, and they all jumped when a seemingly incongruous pile of rags on the drivers seat sat up and said "'Ello, Boss!"

"Who are you?" demanded the ArchChancellor.

"'Ang on, I got's it ere," the pile grew arms which began to pat its sides down until it produced a small set of cards. Two beady eyes peered at said cards intently.

"Wel-come to…yer coaching…hexperience," it read laboriously. "I am yer driver Insert Name Here." The face frowned. "Wassit talkin' about?" it complained. "That aint my name. It shouldn't try to tell me my name. I knows my name. I can even write it!" it said proudly.

"Well," it amended. "A bit."

"You're our driver?" said Ridcully incredulously.

"I'm yer driver all right. Glod said you wanna get somewhere fast. Well, there aint no other driver in this city faster'n Hinkle.

"Hinkle?"

"Thass my name," explained the pile of rags. "I can write it. These 'orses ave been fed on my secret mixture too, so's they run faster. This journey normally takes three days, right? Right? I can 'ave you there in six hours! All thanks to my secret mixture."

"What's in it?" asked Ponder.

The pile of rags drew itself up to its full height, which was about quarter of an inch taller then it's original one. "That," it said haughtily. "Is a secret. Thass why I called it a secret recipe. So people know." He peered at the wizards below, somehow managing to convey in his mere expression that he expected educated gentlemen like themselves to not ask such stupid questions.

"Well?" he asked irritably. "Are yer gettin' on or what?"

It appeared they were. They mutely filed into the coach, and as soon as the last foot had lifted off the ground, Hinkle had cracked the whip and they were away. It was a very large coach, big enough for a sort of a rickety table in the middle.

"Curious fellow," said Ridcully weakly, as the coach shuddered away, already picking up an unholy speed as its driver cackled away to himself.

"We're all going to die," said the Dean firmly.

"Now, now," said Ridcully, as Rincewind privately agreed with the Dean. "Let's keep spirits up! We should use this trip as an opportunity to develop inter-faculty relations."

"To what?" asked Recent Runes, who looked alarmed.

"Get to know one another better," translated the Senior Wrangler.

"Oh. Oh good. I thought- well, er. Never mind."

"And how do you propose we do that?" asked the Chair.

"We'll play a game," replied Ridcully triumphantly. "I asked Stibbons to knock one up for the very purpose. Come on lad, what did you come up with?"

"Well, you didn't give me much time sir, so it's rather lucky I had an idea already that I was hoping to develop." There was a flurry of robes as Ponder sorted through his carry on bag. Rincewind sighed. He wondered how the cleaning staff of the University was dealing with the Luggage. No doubt it would make him pay when he returned, but he had elected to leave it behind, for obvious reasons. Aside from the fact that it wouldn't fit on the luggage rack, there was also the way the other wizards went into mild hysterics whenever it was near.

"Aha!" With a flourish, Ponder pulled out a cardboard box, with bright and cheery letters painted on the front. The wizards leaned forward.

"Exclusive Possession?"

The soldier trudged through the empty swamp.

No need to give him a name, he won't be with us for long…But know this:

He didn't want to be here. It was an order, and You Had To Follow Orders.

He was cold, and tired. According to certain people he was one of the best, but he was sick and tired of what he was doing, and all he wanted to do know was go home to a blazing fire and hold his wife tighter then he had ever held her before…

His boots rose and fell with sticky shlooping noises, and he swore as he struggled comically to free one boot while balancing precariously on one leg. (This always happens. There's probably a rule or something about it.) The fog hung low and heavy on the water in the distance. As the soldier made his way to it, he became increasingly aware that he was going to have to look for it in a lake.

An actual lake.

This was the end, it really was. Pulling his heavy bones, he waded through the fog until he was knee high and surveyed the area. A regular individual would perhaps have given up at this point, given the magnitude of the lake and the size of the item that was to be located, but this was not a regular individual.

He continued to wade out, extracting various items of mean metallic leanness as he did so.

Smiling grimly to himself, he prepared to search-

Something closed around his ankle and pulled.

He was yanked under the surface of the water without a ripple.

There weren't even any bubbles.

He didn't come back up.

"It's your roll, ArchChancellor," said Ponder.

"Hold it, hold it a minute before he rolls. It says here I'm on Treacle Mine road."

"Well?"

"Well, I was in the Dolly Sisters a minute ago. It's a good forty minute walk to Treacle Mine road, whatever way you look at it."

Ponder pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, Dean. It's hypothetical."

"It is?"

"Yes."

"Well then I shan't touch any more of the pieces!"

"No," said Ponder desperately, "It's not a disease, it means that–"

"Stibbons," said the ArchChancellor with a calculating look in his eye. "What do I need to buy these large houses?"

"Uh…You need four small houses on every lot of the same colour, ArchChancellor."

"What? Whatever for? I don't want to be bothered with the great unwashed. And I happen to like having enough room for all my hunting gear, thank you. Give me some of the big houses, there's a good lad."

Ponder tried to regain control of the game. "No sir, you see the rules clearly state-"

"I say," said the Lecturer in Recent Runes irritably. "Are we playing or not?"

The carriage shook, and there was a flurry of money, red green and yellow bills blowing in every direction.

"Ook!"

"Rincewrench! Close that window man! It won't? Then put the Bursar in front of it."

"Er. The Bursar is playing, ArchChancellor," said the Chair of Indefinite Studies reproachfully.

"So?" said Ridcully irritably. He had been this close to swiping one of the big houses when Stibbons had been looking the other way. "Man can play standing up, can't he? Rincething! It's your roll!"

Rincewind rolled. The faculty leaned over the board.

"Four, eh?" said Ridcully. "Now where does that put you? That doesn't put you on Turnwise Alley, does it? That doesn't mean you have to pay me, let's see, three hundred and fifty dollars by any chance?"

With bad grace, Rincewind irritably tossed the money at him. "Good, good," said Ridcully happily. "Wonderful doing business with you!"

"Can I put houses here?" asked the Senior Wrangler.

"No," said Ponder wearily. "That's the Post Office. You can't build there."

"Ah," said the Senior Wrangler with a sly look. "It just so happens though, that I know this chap on the City Board of Planning Permission, so I could give him a quick call-"

"No."

"Ook?"

"Bursar, where's your piece?"

"Here it is!" said the Bursar cheerfully.

"In your mouth. Excellent."

Rincewind watched the game, fascinated. In the olden days, wizards had struggled for power, until they realised that checking your porridge every morning was no way to live, and that it was more fun to cut your enemies dead with a look then to actually cut them dead. They gossiped and spread malicious rumours about one another, and called it inter-faculty relations. Now it looked like Stibbons had created game that combined a wizard's love for the culmination of power while stabbing their colleagues in the back – metaphorically of course.

Now if they could just get a grasp of the rules…

"Count me over eleven places, Librarian."

"Ook."

"No, that's not my piece, that's my house."

"Ook!"

"He says they're the same colour."

"What's this little house doing on the Watchhouse space? I thought we couldn't put houses on those spaces! Stibbon's you said we couldn't put houses on those spaces!"

"Uh, Bursar, I don't think those the dice that you're shaking."

"Oh, leave him. What's the difference? Ah, Bursar, I see you've rolled…an acorn. Good chap."

"What?"

"Your roll Librarian."

Using an arm shake that only a prehensile creature could manage, the Librarian threw the die onto the board with a neat flick.

"Amazin'," said the ArchChancellor happily. "We've been playin' this game of Stibbons's for over four hours and the Librarian has managed to land on Tin Lid Alley almost every time. His one and only property."

"Ook."

"He says it's all in the wrist," volunteered Rincewind.

"Runes, it's your roll." The Lecturer in Recent Runes rolled.

"What's this? An Opportunity card?"

"What's it say? What's it say?"

"You Have Been Appointed Chairman of The Board: Pay Every Player – bugger!"

"Who put a big house on The Palace? You can't put a house on The Palace!" Sulkily, the Dean took back the house.

"Ah, Stibbons seems to have landed on one of my vast holdings," said Ridcully, who had managed to snaffle a large house at last. "I'd say you owe me – oh, two hundred dollars should cover it."

In the corner of the large carriage, Rincewind curled up, and pulled his hat over his eyes; they wouldn't miss him. The squabbling of the wizard's died away as he retreated into his head. His heavy lids closed, and he surrendered to darkness filled with only one face…

"Quick," whispered the Dean. "Take his money!"

Yes, thought Rincewind sourly. That sounded about right.

Some distance away, Byrony stood in front of a full-length mirror. She looked at herself critically, though it wasn't to check how attractive her clothing appeared. She was clad fully in black, and her hair was pulled back into a plait. She was wearing interesting boots, which came to her knee and had an assortment of metal hooks on the tips. Around her waist was a sturdy belt, which was lined with small secret-looking silver things and slung over her shoulder was a length of very thin, dark coloured rope.

Nervously, she glanced at the clock. Timing was crucial, and she couldn't be seen dressed like this. As far as any of the guests knew, she was simply the young Lady Winslow, holding this delightful gathering to bring unity to the disc once more. Only a Winslow could pull off a party of such magnitude!

That image might be spoiled slightly by the array of lock-picks she was slotting into her belt. Downstairs, a diversion was about to take place, involving champagne, fireworks and doves that would ensure her absence would go unnoticed, and that no one would be looking at the wall she was about to climb down, or the fifth storey window that she was about to break into.

Walking over to the window, she saw that there were still guests on the grounds, enjoying the golden evening sunlight.

She watched as the social niceties were played out below her, with men kissing the hands of the ladies and the ladies playfully tapping the arms of the men with their fans. She rolled her eyes – she found the antics of the upper class vaguely nauseating.

Yes, all right, she was one, sort of…but only by birth.

Come on, come on, she thought impatiently. How long does it take to pretend that it's good taste to bring your mistress and your wife along?

Suddenly the door opened, and she nearly swallowed her tongue in shock.

"Don't do that," she said, clutching her heart.

"I'd apologise, but we don't have time," said Drumknott quickly. Byrony pinched the bridge of her nose. Oh ye gods…Drumknott, her uncle's uptight secretary, was used to working in the controlled environment of the Palace. Here, surrounded by intrigue and hidden deeds, he was so tense that Byrony fancied you could play his nerves like a violin. "Everything all right?" she asked sweetly.

"No, everything is not all right. Are you ready? Is your equipment ready? Do you know what you're doing?"

"Doing?" asked Byrony with a confused look on her face. "I was going to get a glass of wine–"

"Dressed like that?" said Drumknott in a whispery shriek.

"Would you care to join me?" asked Byrony happily. My, listen to those nerves twang!

"You can't get a glass of wine–"

"Oh? How about port?"

"No!"

"Whiskey?"

"No!"

"Gin?"

"Listen," said Drumknott. "In fifteen minutes you have to drop down the–"

"Rum?"

"Stop that!"

Byrony grinned. Nothing like tweaking a brittle person to ease some of your own tension. She hoisted the rope onto her shoulder, and clipped some clamps onto her belt.

"Drumknott," she said seriously, adjusting her belt while she spoke. "This was nice, but I really don't have time to go for a drink with you, you should know that. Honestly, you must know that in fifteen minutes I have to drop down the wall of the West Wing."

She patted the furious Drumknott on the shoulder. "But maybe another time, okay?"

Then she swept out of the room, into a hallway devoid of prying eyes. Her focus shifted, and she was no longer the girl who had teased the secretary until he had twitched. She was a creature of the other side of the law, a creature of broken glass and night-time deeds.

Now, time to go do lots of things, which were enjoyable, exhilarating and, above all, illegal.

"Of course, when we get there, there's bound to be a welcoming committee of sorts," said the Senior Wrangler importantly. It was four hours later, and there carriage was finally nearing Winslow Manor, which lay almost on the border between Ankh-Morpork and Istanzia, and liable to receive both types of weather norms. The sun was setting, and streams of heavy orange sunlight filled the carriage. The Librarian was dozing on the Luggage rack, and the ArchChancellor was cleaning one of his rifles. The rest of them were contemplating their destination, with the exception of the Bursar, who was contemplating the air three inches to the left of anyone's head.

"Do you think so?" asked Ponder, while gathering up the Exclusive Possession pieces. It was definitely too long, he thought wearily. The Dean had won in the end, and then had been quite put-out to discover that the money they had been playing with was not, in fact, legal tender. He thrown a tantrum and threatened everyone with fire-balls which, in the confined space of the carriage, had nicely singed Rincewind's eyebrows.

"Hah," the Dean said murderously from beneath his hat. "And what would you know of welcoming committees? Does mummy give you one when you go home at Hogswatch, then?"

"Yes," said the Senior Wrangler loudly. "I'm sure we'll be the main attraction there."

"Oh?" The Lecturer in Recent Runes turned away from the window. "Aren't there going to be, well, princes and things?"

"And?"

"Well, I'd assume they'd be the main attraction, really."

"We are the masters of magic, gentlemen!" said the Senior Wrangler importantly. "The same magic that holds the disc together, mind you. Our stature by far outranks that of mere princes and whatnot."

Rincewind rolled his eyes, but his heart was thumping furiously. They were about to arrive, and any minute he was going to see her again. Of course, he thought to himself, I'm just looking forward to seeing an old friend. All this increase of heart rate and rushing of blood to my face has nothing to do with anything. I'm just…motion sick. Yes, that's it! Motion sickness! It explains the nausea too.

Basically, Rincewind had spent the long carriage ride contemplating the world and his place in it. He was a wizard, he decided, and one of the things that wizards most definitely do not do was consort with young women. If Rincewind did consort with a young woman, he would be doing something a wizard would never do. Ergo, he would not be a wizard.

So consorting is out then? asked a little voice.

Consorting is out, thought Rincewind firmly.

Not even a little consort? it wheedled.

Shut up.

"We're here!" cried the Senior Wrangler, as the cart shuddered to a halt. "Everyone get ready for waves of adulation!"

"Oh? Adulation? Actually," said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. "I always thought that was a spice. You know, like Frankincense?"

"Wasn't he that fellow in Uberwald?"

"Enough!" bellowed Ridcully. "If the Senior Wrangler is right, which I rather doubt, then we are about to step out in front of a crowd, gentlemen. Try to look a bit dignified, eh?"

The wizards puffed themselves up. If there's one thing a wizard can do, it's dignified. Soon Rincewind was pressed up against the side of the carriage to escape the rapidly inflating egos.

"All right then," said Ridcully, wrapping his hand around the door-handle. "On three. One…two… three!"

There is a joke, which describes a number of elephant's abilities to fit into a vehicle of much smaller stature then the elephants themselves. Generally, this joke has baffled mankind, and is among many of the unanswerable questions we plague ourselves with. Now, while it would be unfair to compare the wizards to that particular animal, considering that the Dean made up a large part of the body of men, the comparison would definitely shed light upon that age-old question.

They burst out, staggered a little, and then regained their composure magnificently, with much huffing and adjusting of robes. The Librarian clambered out after them, with Ponder and Rincewind carrying the Bursar. (He was going through one of his plank-like stages…in which he was like a plank)

"Behold!" cried the Senior Wrangler. "We, the mages of Ankh-Mor –"

"There's no one here," said Ridcully wearily as he adjusted his hat. "Give it up, there's a good chap."

Ridully spoke the truth. The wide grounds of Winslow manor were impeccably groomed, and dotted with expensive looking, if also rather ugly, garden art. There were little candles dotted on the lawn, which glowed in the light of the sunset and a few peacocks, which were tethered with gold chains, strutted between them. It was beautiful.

It was also deserted.

"Where's the adulation?" asked the Lecturer in Recent Runes. "Do we get it in a bottle, or what?"

"Try to keep up, Runes."

If one looked within the large windows of the front of the manor, there seemed to be a party in full swing. The crowd was enjoying Byrony's distraction immensely, some aided by the large amount of alcohol available.

"Is that the ball?" asked Ponder interestedly.

"No," said Rincewind importantly. "That won't start until midnight." He should know. He had spent hours poring over the invite. "I expect that's just the upper-classes living normally that is. I expect that's what they do in their free time."

Ponder took in the scene. "Gosh," he said.

"Well," said the Dean pompously. "If they don't think we're worth coming out to see, then their jolly well about to change their minds!"

He threw out his arms, pushed back his sleeves…and summoned a fire-ball. The next few seconds seemed to go very slowly.

Byrony, as previously mentioned, was an enchantress, the eighth first daughter of a first daughter. A catalyst to magic, she enhanced any magic in the surrounding area. This magic tended to build up, resulting in the flares which grew larger and larger the longer Byrony stayed in a particular area. Any magic spell cast would also increase hugely in potency, a fact that did not seem to occur to the Dean as he made the largest fireball he could possibly conjure.

Rincewind and Ponder made eye-contact, and as one man, pounced the Dean. They knocked him to the ground just as the ball of roaring flare, which seemed as big as the sun itself, shot up into the sky. The crowd inside finally noticed it, and spilled out from the open doors onto the lawn to enjoy the spectacle.

"You idiot!" shrieked Rincewind, flailing at the Dean, who was lying on the ground with his entire front a fetching soot colour.

"I on'y made a li'l one…" he said blearily.

The ball of flame finally reached the peak of its arc, and all the upturned faces watched it as it hurdled through the night air…in the direction of the distant clacks tower.

The explosion was quite spectacular, and the crowd burst into spontaneous applause.

"I say, was that planned?" asked one lord, his perfectly powdered face puzzled.

"Oh, yes," sniffed another knowledgeably. "The Winslow's always have the best parties."

"Well!" said Ridcully, clapping his hands together satisfactorily. "That turned out well, eh?"

Rincewind couldn't believe it. He had just caught sight of her, after scanning the crowd furiously. There she is, he thought, awed, as he watched the woman who coveted his dreams. She's here in my actual presence. She's really here. I'm going to talk to her, to see her again. She's here. She's really, really here! She…she…

Oh shit. She's on the roof.

Byrony was not, in fact, on the roof in question. She was actually suspended several storeys above the ground on the side of the building. She had been about to do a little accidental shattering and inadvertent wandering into a conveniently placed window on the fifth floor of the building when the wizards had arrived, creating an inconvenient and more diverting distraction then the one Byrony had arranged.

Damn! That was one big fireball.

Now she was suspended on the side of the building in full view of the greatest families of the Disc, about to break into a diplomat's office. She suspected the old "oh silly me, I seem to be lost!" wouldn't cut it here, especially since she had a complete set of lock-picks strapped to her waist.

This was not good. She could not, could not, be seen. But it would take too long to climb back up, and the wall in front of her did not currently host the conveniently placed window on the fifth floor that she had been making her way to. It didn't hold any window at all, and a movement towards one could alert the crowd below to her presence.

Her boots scraped against the wall as she pressed herself to it, easing against the straining rope of the harness, which was cutting into her shoulder. The clamps on her belt jingled a little as she closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against the cold stone of the building and wrapped her fingers around a convenient piece of architecture. Okay…She had to get off this wall now, before the accumulating masses looked up and noticed her, and only one option seemed to be currently viable.

Byrony glanced down. It was quite a drop. Well, she thought to herself, at least there are bushes.

It wasn't much of a consolation. She took a deep breath, horribly aware that it might be her last.

Swiftly and a tad reluctantly, Byrony cut the rope that tethered her to the side of the building.

There was a brief cry of "Ooooooooohhhhhhshhhhhhiiii-" which ended abruptly. It was only audible to those who were listening for it, and this was probably just as well.

Rincewind went white and opened his mouth. The scream he was preparing would have come out if not for the firm grip of the hand placed on his arm.

"Don't," said Lord Vetinari, all the while maintaining a pleasant smile on his face. "Your acknowledgement could be the ruination of us all."

"She just fell off a building!" hissed Rincwind, swallowing the scream for later. "She could be in need of medical attention! Her fall could be the ruination of her spine!"

Lord Vetinari increased his grip on Rincewind's arm, cutting off circulation to various fingers. "She will survive."

Meanwhile, Rincewind thought: Who is it that you are trying to reassure here?

Vetinari continued "Her kind tend to be… more resilient then most. Later, you will need to find to her. I would trust no other. This entire affair must be carried out in the utmost secrecy, do you understand?"

Rincewind merely nodded. He couldn't feel his fingers anymore.

At this time, a lone dark figure was stumbling down into a deep cavern. The stone ground which was illuminated by his torch seemed to be a deep red, and the air around his was hot and stifling.

There, just ahead was a tall plinth accessible by walking up steep stairs, carved into the very rock.

The soldier knew what he was looking for, and like his team-mate, he was one of the best.

He was about to get further then his team-mate had.

Unfortunately, this will not be much of a consolation.

He climbed the steps, though they seemed to go on forever. When he reached the top, he stretched out a grimy, dirt streaked hand and-

And the torch flamed, and the fire grew higher and higher, and hotter and hotter…

After a little bit, some ashes floated gently to the ground.

It was a little later, and the entire faculty was inside the grand hall, being plied with drinks- Especially in the case of the Dean, who had not yet regained his power of speech. Well, the entire faculty was inside, except for one easily missed member.

Rincewind felt ill. He had scurried over to Byrony's point of descent as soon as possible while avoiding various diplomats who were a little worse for drink. He had rounded the final corner, and then had been unable to move another step as the shock he felt upon viewing the scene before him rooted him to the spot.

He wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but his brain had done its party trick of blocking bad images associated with Byrony from his conscious mind, so he was quite unprepared for the scene before him.

Byrony was splayed like a rag doll amongst the bushes, practically invisible if you didn't know she was there. The only noticeable body part was her left arm, which was flung out from under the bush, like a faint plea for help. Rincewind fell to his knees at her side.

"Byrony?" He gently picked up the hand attached to that arm, which was cold and wrongly limp.

"Byrony, I'm here. Er- Rincewind is who I mean," he added, aware of the fact that it had been over a year and a half, and who was to say that she still remembered him? Actually, to be fair, who was to say she'd remember anything after her little adventure off the side of a building.

Bloody Vetinari! Though Rincewind only said it inside his own head, he said it loudly. What was the Patrician thinking? She was breakable, dammnit!

Rincewind patted her wrist vaguely. Should he be doing something? Supporting her head or something?

Resuscitation?

Mouth to mou– no. Er. No.

He was supposed to wait.

Rincewind looked down at her pale face, which stood out starkly in the dark night, and vowed not to move until the person Vetinari had mentioned came. He would remain even if the sun crashed into the earth, even if the seas rose to drown them all, even if-

A noise came forth from his right, jerking him out of his noble fantasy and causing him to nearly swallow his tongue.

"What do you think you're doing?"

From a patch of darkness strode a tall, thin elderly woman. She stopped in front of Rincewind, hands on hips and glared down at him. Hurriedly, the wizard scrambled to his feet.

"Er. I was told to come. I'm friend of Byr- this young lady."

"That so." It wasn't a question. The old woman stared at him with eyes like gimlets. They looked as though they could stare right through you to your very soul and, quite frankly, were not impressed with what they saw.

"Er. Yes."

"You'd be Rincewind the wizard then."

"Er. Yes?"

She looked him up and down and sniffed. "I didn't think you'd be so skinny."

Rincewind stayed silent, hoping that she wouldn't ask any more questions if he didn't offer anymore basis for them. The woman continued to survey him as he occasionally twitched in Byrony's direction.

"Look," he suddenly blurted out. "Shouldn't we help her?"

The woman nodded in a satisfied manner, as if he had passed some sort of test "We gots to bring her to her room. A friend of mine is waiting there."

"Where's that?"

She pointed up to a solitary lit up window on what looked like the fifth floor.

"Gosh," said Rincewind reflectively, filling the silence with the babbling of those in shock. "It's going to be hard for us to get her up there."

"Harder for you then me."

Rincewind turned back to the woman, opening his mouth to express his confusion, when he suddenly registered the large, black, pointy hat that was resting on its owners head.

"The reason being," continued the woman. "The reason being that you'll be carrying her."

She smiled a truly terrifying smile at Rincewind.

"By the by, you can call me Mistress Weatherwax."

The Great Manor of Winslow Hall is famed for it's size. The first lord who built it, a distant if obvious relative of Byrony's as it happens, was driven mad with power, and decided to advertise his own greatness in the form of some sort of impressive and impossibly large structure. This was rather unwise, as afterwards people tended to stand behind him and snigger things about his over-compensation for something.

Anyway, it came to pass that the Manor was built, possibly the only residential building on the disc where it's perfectly acceptable for visitors to choose a different bedroom after becoming lost on the way back from a nightly bathroom-break. The Manor went on, and on, stretching into hallways, lounges, dining halls, and the odd room filled with antique chairs that none knows what to do with anymore.

Unfortunately for Rincewind, it also went up and up.

They were on their fourth flight on long winding stairs, with Mistress Weatherwax the possible (if unannounced) witch leading the way with an oil lamp. Rincewind's arms were now quite painful, but he had a feeling that if he even opened his mouth once he would be forced to endure a ten-minute lecture on the youth of today, and how they lack stamina, agility, a work ethic, brains etc. etc.

Besides.

He didn't want to put her down.

The woman in his arms gave a little sigh, and though she was still unconscious she seemed to be smiling slightly. Her long, barely controllable brown hair was forced into a plait which would snake down her back had she been upright. If her eyes were open, Rincewind knew, they would be an iridescent green and sparkling with life.

Here's hoping they actually open again, he thought gloomily.

As they climbed the never-ending steps, he held her warm body close to him, and realised he was beginning to feel very, very guilty.

Wizards weren't allowed to fraternise with the female species- they were famed for it- and now an internal battle was happening in the centre of Rincewind's brain.

Thought you were a wizard, said a smarmy voice coming from the direction of his Ego. You're clutching her pretty tight there, aren't you?

Yeah, well…he was holding her tightly so-

-so she won't fall, interjected his brain cells-

Yeah, thought Rincewind hurriedly. So she won't fall.

That's not what certain areas of your body are telling me, said the voice in what Rincewind thought was an overly smug manner.

Wait, who are you?

Your libido, said the voice. Haven't been around in a while. It's understandable that you've forgotten me.

What?! My libid - oh.

Hey, I might finally get some action, huh?

Though the voice was just a voice, its mere tone suggested elbow nudging and eyebrow waggling galore.

"Listen," said Rincewind, desperately addressing Mistress Weatherwax. "How about you carry her? For a bit?"

Just then, however, Byrony gave a small murmur and her eyes opened.

"Byrony?" Mistress Weatherwax was beside her in a shot, holding the lamp over her face. "Byrony, what day is it?"

Byrony paused. "Gruneday?" she ventured.

The witch looked at Rincewind, who shrugged. "Could be."

Byrony looked up at Rincewind. "Rincewind! What's wrong with your eyebrows?" she asked in the easygoing manner of the semi-concussed.

"Ah…a friendly game designed to strengthen inter-faculty relations got slightly out of hand."

"Oh. Did it strengthen relations?"

"Well, yes," admitted Rincewind. "We all hate each other much more strongly now."

"I see," said Byrony blearily.

"Come on," said Mistress Weatherwax impatiently, "We got to keep going."

They kept going, and Byrony kept up her happy chatter, seemingly oblivious that she had just hit her head quite hard. She had one arm chummily slung around Rincewind's neck and was using the other to point out pictures, wallpaper, odd stains on the walls and anything else that took her fancy.

Rincewind listened to it all, hardly daring to believe that the woman he-

-that the woman he was very fond of as a friend was right there in his arms.

"I miss you, you know." Byrony confided to him.

"I- you-do you? Indeed? There's a thing."

Byrony patted him fondly on the face, accidentally poking him in the eye. "I wish you were here."

Rincewind looked at her worriedly. "Er. I am here. At least," he added, "I'm pretty sure I'm here."

As he looked at it, her face, which had haunted his subconscious dreams, creased into an expression of perplexity.

Ah concussion, thought Rincewind as he remembered all his own falls and head injuries. Thou art truly a bugger.

Then Byrony burst out laughing. "You'renot here, Rincewind! Imagine if you were here!"

"I am here," Rincewind gently insisted, but in her just-about-conscious state, Byrony was having none of it. Her laughs tapered off into chuckles, and she repeated an amused 'imagine!' every now and then.

Rincewind rolled his eyes. The sooner the effects of the head wound wore off, the better.

"Rincewind?" He looked down, and stopped walking. Byrony's face was a delicate green. "I don't think I can-"

Her head lolled back as she lost her tentative grasp on consciousness, and Rincewind quickly pulled her up so it rested on his neck.

"What's wrong? What happened? Is she dead?" he gibbered.

Mistress Weatherwax placed a hand on Byrony's forehead and clucked her tongue. "She's aint dead you silly man," she snapped. "But she's aint fine either." She shook her head. "I don't know how she's expecting to dance tonight."

"Dance?" Rincewind was confused. Where did dancing come into it? Then realisation dawned. "At the ball? She's still going to the ball?"

The witch nodded grimly as she stalked along the corridors. "She's got to. Leastways, that's what the tall skinny fellow in black says," she added.

"Vetinari?"

"That one, yes. The one with the eyebrow thing."

"He can't be seri-…what eyebrow thing? Never mind! He can't be serious!"

"He said the entire operation depends on her goin' this ball."

"She fell off a building! She's unconscious! Are you telling me she's supposed to dance a minuet?!"

"Got wax in your ears, have you?"

They had reached a narrow corridor that was lined with low burning oil-lamps. Mistress Weatherwax stopped outside a white door and gave it a thump.

"You'd do well to do what you're told mister wizard," she snapped. "I gots my hands full as it is. If you've a problem, take it up with her uncle. Otherwise, you're not helping!"

The door opened, and a face that reminded Rincewind of an elderly apple peered out.

"Oh lawks," it said vaguely. "I'm just a poor cleaner sir-"

"Gytha, it's me," said Mistress Weatherwax.

"Oh right then." The woman came out of the room, holding two large bottles. "I was just having a bit of a snack-" She caught sight of Byrony in Rincwind's arms. "Ye gods. What's that girl been up to now?"

Mistress Weatherwax took her from Rincewind, who only managed to let go through sheer force of will.

"It's bad," she said shortly. "Do you think we can get Magrat to take a look?"

"I thought no dignitaries were to know?"

"We need a doctor. Magrat knows about that sort of thing."

Nanny Ogg pursed her lips. "I dunno Esme. She can be pretty indignant. She's a queen."

"She's a witch."

"That too," said Nanny Ogg amiably. She then seemed to notice Rincewind for the first time. He was watching the motionless Byrony with worried eyes and twisting the hem of his robe anxiously.

"Nice to see that Byrony has her own young-" she paused, eyeing Rincewind who, to be fair, was not exactly a poster-boy for masculinity. "…man to worry about her anyway." She grinned suggestively at him.

"What? No!"

"No," agreed Mistress Weatherwax.

Rincewind stared at her. It was one thing to call yourself unworthy to court a young woman. It was quite another thing altogether to have someone else say it.

"Well?" She asked the question icily, and managed to pack a lot of meaning into one syllable. Rincewind began to back away, but though his terrified gaze was locked onto Mistress Weatherwax's face, he kept darting fleeting glances down to the girl in her arms. "I thought you were going to find the uncle and give him a piece of your mind?"

"I was? I was!" Rincewind pulled himself up into what he imagined to be an honourable position. He would find Vetinari, by gum! He would tell him exactly what he thought of the fact that Vetinari was placing the life of the woman Rincewind lo-

That is, he would tell him exactly what he thought of the fact that Vetinari was placing the life of his own niece in pointless danger!

"I'm going to find out what the hell is going on," he growled.

"Good," said the witch. "I should go that way if I were you." She jerked her head in the direction of a downward sloping staircase.

"Right!" said Rincewind. He glanced down at Byrony again. "Right…" he said, with rather less enthusiasm. "Er. Can I just stay until she-"

Mistress Weatherwax glared, and Rincewind backed away so fast that he was half way down the stairs before he turned and began to run.

"Poor lad," said Nanny Ogg reflectively, as Granny Weatherwax laid Byrony on the bed.

"Skinny streak of cowardice," she snapped.

Nanny Ogg shrugged. "If you say so…There's another doctor in the building, I met him on my way and he seems pretty good. Lawn, his name was. The fellow in black told me I was to call him when you and the wizard brought her."

"Fine."

"Esme?"

"Yes?"

"If he's such a coward, why's he gone to face down her uncle? A man who I freely admit gives me the willies."

Granny Weatherwax harrumped, to show that she couldn't be bothered with that line of conversation at the moment. Nanny Ogg leaned over Byrony's still form. "Poor love," she said, and patted her cheek. "I remember when she first came to Lancre. What was she, seven?"

"Eight."

"Oh yes, eight years old and as talkative as you please!" Nanny Ogg chuckled. "Remember when she 'accidentally' exploded old Abber Gurney's shed? With one of them flares of hers?"

Granny's mouth twitched. "I never liked that man," she said. "He beat his horses"

"And Byrony knew it too!" said Nanny Ogg. "Oh, I'll never forget it! Her standing there and all these little, sort of wood shavings fluttering down and old Abber yelling fit to bust and she said- what did she say?"

"I only sneezed!" they chorused. Nanny Ogg almost choked laughing, and even Granny Weatherwax smiled. Nanny's laughter died away, and she patted Byrony's cheek again. Granny stared off into the distance.

"Esme?"

"Yes?"

"She has to go to this ball, doesn't she?"

"Yes. No one can know she was the one who fell. She has to play the part. Be the hostess. Dance the dance. If anyone finds out, it's all over."

"She has to go then?"

"She has to go."

"Esme?"

"What?"

"I think her ankle is broken."

Granny sighed.

"I know."

Rincewind stalked the grounds of Winslow Manor, seething inwardly. He had never before been able to manage a good stalk, but was now carrying it off beautifully. He was, however, about to become aware of one of the most essential elements of stalking: When walking (or indeed, stalking) purposefully, be sure you know where you're going…

In short, Rincewind was lost. He had set out to find Vetinari, but apparently the man was not, in fact, to be found on the grounds of the manor and now Rincewind was just wandering aimlessly around the place, occasionally kicking offensively ugly garden sculptures.

Perhaps it was all for the best, though. After all, he thought reflectively, if he found Vetinari, what was the man likely to do? Put him on the first coach back to Ankh-Morpork, that was what. Rincewind had heard from fairly reliable sources that the Patrician was not only aware of the tentative and uncertain relationship he and Byrony shared, but also knew that they had, at once stage…well, they had…

They had kissed. And for one brief, shining moment, Rincewind's world had been a good place to be in.

Of course, after the kiss, everything had looked just that little bit worse, so maybe it hadn't been worth it after all.

Rincewind gave up. He could search the many rooms of the manor for Vetinari, but he was pretty sure that several tourists who had ventured in without a guide had once gone missing. Only their skeletons had been found, and Rincewind was very fond of not dying.

That's a defeatist attitude, sneered his new-found libido.

Oh, really? Perhaps that's because I'm going to be defeated, thought Rincewind wearily.

Kicking angrily at a ridiculous sculpture of a woman with no arms, he turned and prepared to make his way back to Byrony's room, hoping that, by now, she would have recovered enough to regard him as something more then a hallucination brought on by a swift blow to the head.

Along the track beside him, a carriage rolled up. Rincewind ignored it, as he was contemplating the phrase 'Love conquers all'. Well, it conquers all common sense pretty quickly, he thought.

All thoughts were driven out of his head however, when the carriage rolled to a stop and the door swung open, knocking Rincewind over onto the ground by happy coincidence. He turned over onto his back, ready to swear angrily at its occupant, but the words in his throat died when he saw the crest that adorned the side of the carriage: Black on black – The Vetinari family crest.

A silken voice issued forth. "Ah, Rincewind. I believe you are looking for me?"

Rincewind groaned, and attempted to dig into the moss using only his shoulder blades.

"Are you comfortable down there?" enquired the Patrician, contriving to suggest in his tone of voice that he could soon ensure that this was not the case.

Rincewind scrambled to his feet. "Just on my way to the dining hall!" he proclaimed, his face a rictus of terror. "Don't let me hold you up, your Lordship!"

"Goodness," said Vetinari mildly. "I must have been misinformed. I was told you were searching for me."

"Oh no," insisted Rincewind. "I am, in fact, headed in the opposite direction, so I'll just-"

"Well, I have needlessly detained you. Hop in and I'll give you a lift to the manor."

"Oh it's quite a short walk," said Rincewind with mounting desperation.

"I insist."

"I couldn't possibly-"

"Get in Rincewind."

Rincewind scrambled into the carriage, which set off at a quick pace almost immediately, the driver barely pausing to take note that all Rincewind's extremities were safely inside.

While it was true that the wizard had completely intended to confront Vetinari about his mistreatment of Byrony, upon coming face to face with the ruler of the disc's largest and surely most dangerous city, he found that any thoughts on confrontation were pushed so far to the back of his mind that, if some of the more advanced speculations on the nature and shape of the many dimensioned multiplexity of the universe was correct, it was right at the front.

Still…he should do something.

And if 'something' consisted of sitting nervously and twisting the hem of his robe so much that it made distressing noises that no material should ever make, then he was doing it, by gum!

Vetinari watched the wizard over steepled fingertips, as the coach rattled through the silent grounds. All the guests were inside the building, availing of the copious amounts of free food and drink. Drink, Rincewind thought fervently, that he could very much do with right about now.

"You are angry with me," said Vetinari softly.

Rincewind chuckled nervously. "Nooo…"

Vetinari raised an eyebrow.

"Yes," admitted the wizard, feeling that 'well, I was angry' wouldn't really cut it.

"Of course you are," said the Patrician, leaning back and closing his eyes. "Someone ought to be," he said, almost to himself.

"Ought they?" asked Rincewind, trying to surreptitiously rattle the carriage door handle.

"You must realise that I never intended to harm Byrony," continued Vetinari, opening his eyes and fixing Rincewind in his sharp gaze. "Your arrival was not scheduled, and if the crowd hadn't been drawn out, all would have gone according to plan. However…"

"It didn't?" suggested Rincewind helpfully.

"No," agreed Vetinari, smiling thinly. "It most definitely did not. Byrony, who is expected to host this entire event, is suffering from concussion and a possibly broken ankle."

Vetinari looked at Rincewind. "Socialite ladies are not supposed to climb up buildings. This would not be a problem normally, as we could concoct some sort of explanation involving…oh, I don't know. A dress fitting gone wrong? Then she wouldn't have to attend–"

"So why don't you?" blurted Rincewind. "Don't make her go to the ball! She can barely stand!"

Vetinari shook his head. "Nicholas Rowel the Third."

Rincewind paused. It seemed that they had skipped a section of the conversation. "Who?"

"A young man of noble descent with whom Byrony grew up," explained Vetinari. "They're distantly related, actually. He knows all about her…hobbies."

Rincewind, who was well aware that some of Byrony's 'hobbies' included committing certain hidden deeds for her beloved uncle, gulped.

"He knows exactly what she is capable of, and what's more, one of his spies spotted a figure on the side of the building, and saw it fall. I am given to understand that he cannot prove it was her, but if he does, then all is lost."

Vetinari leaned forward. "It is essential that Byrony attends this ball. She must look as though absolutely nothing is wrong with her Rincewind, do you understand? If Rowel guesses that she was the one trying to break into his study, he will take…action."

"But why?" cried Rincewind, suddenly overwhelmed with information that he feared people would be willing to kill for. Well, willing to kill him. "What the hell is going on?"

Vetinari sat back, and smoothed out the sleeves of his robe. "Of course. I forgot that you were unaware of the story behind this weeks proceedings. Let me try to explain."

He tried to explain. Rincewind tried to understand.

As far as he could tell, it was like this. The country was completely and utterly barmy. Istanzia had been ruled for years by a royal family, which claimed the throne due to their possession of a highly magical object known only as the Orb. Vetinari explained that the Orb brought exceptionally good harvest to the country, and ensured they bred a high standard of animals. However, after four hundred years of the families rule, the power of the Orb began to wane, and a rebel group stole the Orb from the family, claiming that they had no right to rule over a country using a mere symbol of a power they once had. The Orb was taken away and hidden by the rebels, who believed that the people should choose their own leaders, and feared that the Orb would be used once again to claim the throne.

"Rowel wants the Orb," said Vetinari finally. "The latest elections are coming up, and he's running against an ancestor of the original royal family, Princess Emmaline. The people of Istanzia are beginning to feel restless, they're harking back to the good old days when there were Kings and Queens and magic in the land. If Rowel finds the Orb, he'll use it to swing public favour in his direction. "

"And that would be…" Rincewind hazarded a guess. "…bad?"

"Ankh-Morpork is, of course, very friendly with the great and noble country of Istanzia and wouldn't dream of getting involved in any of its political dealings. We enjoy fine trading with them, and have a wonderful history of diplomatic relations. However, if Rowel were to gain control of the country…" Vetinari pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes, I believe that would be bad."

"Let me get this straight," said Rincwind as he tried to untangle the already tangled story in his head. "Byrony's trying to find a mythical Orb which may or may not exist so that a country which I've barely even heard of will continue to give us money?"

"It's a little more complicated then that," said Vetinari mildly.

"She nearly died. Her head almost splashed all over the ground! It can't get much more complicated!"

"Today she was attempting to break into Rowel's office to find what information he had already gleaned of the Orb's whereabouts. The wall-climbing element was necessary, as I believed he was about to send it on over clacks to his search party. Happily, the Dean's stunt with the fireballs has ended any clack's sending for the week. The gathering of the rulers of the countries of the disc is to ensure that when we do find the Orb, there are suitable witnesses to Princess Emmaline's reinstated claim on the throne."

"Oh? How lovely. Is the Princess in on all this, then?"

"She and her advisors requested Ankh-Morpork's help," said Vetinari. "Rowel is… how shall I put this?" He paused for a moment and looked off into space. "Perhaps the most suitably diplomatic word is 'bully'. He is a small-minded snob who thinks nothing of hiring muscles to scour votes for himself. Once in power, I fear that he will attempt to spread that power around, and may feel that the borders of Istanzia are not enough."

Vetinari looked at Rincewind who looked blankly back. "Istanzia enjoys a very fine military tradition," he hinted.

Rincewind winced. Any word that even suggested the possibility of fighting made him break out in a rash. "Yes," Vetinari sighed. "As tiresome as it is, I'm afraid that our friend Rowel has his fairly egotistical heart set on disc-domination."

"You're joking," said Rincewind sceptically.

"I am not," said Vetinari.

"You're not?" gibbered Rincewind.

"No. And now I feel we must discuss your place in all this, Rincewind."

Oh ye gods, thought Rincewind, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. My place? Where I would like my place to be is a thousand miles from all this, thanks.

With a stiff drink.

No, two stiff drinks.

Of course, if he was a thousand miles away from all this, that would mean he was a thousand miles away from Byrony. And if he was a thousand miles away from Byrony…

Rincewind wasn't sure if the inner-barriers he had subconsciously constructed would work a second time, but it didn't really matter. He found now, after some quick examination of his brain, that he didn't want to forget Byrony. He wanted every memory of every smile, touch and laugh, and he wanted all the pain that came with it. More then the memories though, he wanted the real thing.

"Rincewind, I realise that you are fond of my niece, having spent time as her guide in Ankh-Morpork."

Oh bugger, thought Rincewind frantically. He realises I'm fond of his niece!

He realised that Vetinari was probably going to tell him to stay away from Byrony, to allow her to finish the ridiculous mission she was on. He drew himself up, ready to…to… to be really indignant!

"Now, I am going to ask you to-"

"I won't leave her!" said Rincewind waving a frantic finger. "You can't make me!"

"To stay as close as you possibly can to her throughout the week," continued Vetinari smoothly.

"Never! Shan't! I'd rather be punished in a cruel and unusual – what?"

"It has come to my attention that you really have this marvellous knack for not dying," smiled Vetinari. "I would like this to apply to Byrony. You shall stay as close as possible to her, agreed?"

Unable to utter a single word, Rincewind simply gaped at the Patrician. In his state of shock, he leaned on the door-handle which, thanks to his early rattling, hastened to comply with his assumed wishes. The door opened, and Rincewind fell out of the still moving carriage onto the dusty track near the back of the manor. The carriage halted and Vetinari leaned out.

"How lucky," he said. "We're right outside the dining hall. However, I would suggest that you go and call in on my niece?"

"Ah, actually," said Rincewind from ground level (in a rather muffled voice). "I would rather like to visit the-"

"Capital!" said Vetinari, feigning sudden deafness. "I believe young Ponder Stibbons has called up to her already."

There was a sudden angry scrambling noise. "Stibbons?" growled Rincewind, rising to his feet like a vengeful if rather shabby spirit.

"Oh yes," said Vetinari cheerfully. "He's gone to give her the necklace he devised with Curwen's Modulator to control her magic flares, you remember?"

Rincewind, who had almost died as a direct result of one of those flares, remembered.

"Stibbons?"

"Well, don't let me detain you," said Vetinari, tapping on the roof for the driven to continue.

Rincewind stared bitterly at the carriage as it trundled away, doubtless to one of the other many entrances of this ridiculously large monstrosity of a building.

As close as possible to his niece, eh? thought his libido. Well, I thought that went rather well.

Nicholas Rowel the Third stared at the mirror and tried to think himself calm.

Calm, he thought angrily. I am calm. The clacks would be down all week and - Calm, I say!

He closed his eyes and tried to visualise the thing that made him happy. Flowers…butterflies…untold riches and power achieved by entirely amoral means…puppies…sunshine…

Rowel was a young man, but he had centuries of greed distilled into him. He was tall, slim and pale and wore impeccably tailored suits. His every move seemed calculated and planned in advance, and he wore wire spectacles on the end of his slightly pointed nose. His black hair was slicked back, and absolutely nothing about him could even be vaguely described as being out of place.

Rowel smiled into the mirror.

Then he stopped. That was enough practise for one day.

So. It would appear that his beloved distant cousin was attempting to thwart him. He sighed. How very, very like his family. He couldn't prove it at the moment of course, but as soon as he did, she would have to be…removed. Not killed of course. No, he had much more profitable plans for her then that.

He tried smiling again – he was getting rather good at it.

Rincewind climbed the stairs to Byrony's bedroom feeling a little sorry for himself. Oh sure, he was getting to be with the woman he-

-with the woman he was very fond of, but it wasn't exactly voluntary, was it?

Admittedly, if he was given the choice, he would have chosen this. The point was, he wasn't given the choice, was he?

The stairs creaked under him, and the oil lamps on the walls flickered as Rincewind examined the depths of his soul. It slunk away, embarrassed at the attention. He reached the corner that would lead him to Byrony's room, and paused. Was that…was that a creak? A creaking floorboard could only mean one thing.

"Stibbons," hissed Rincewind under his breath.

Oohhh, so Stibbons thought he could creep up here with his little gift for Byrony. Wrangle his way into her good graces would he? Get to be in a room alone with he, would he? Trying to be untoward towards her, was he? Rincewind's imagination, already taxed beyond belief, conjured images of an intimate meeting between Byrony and Ponder, involving wine, candles and a roaring fire.

It was the fire that did it.

Rincewind jumped out from behind the corner screaming.

"HAH!"

And the small blonde child standing there burst into noisy tears.

"Er," said Rincewind. The last five seconds hadn't really adhered to his internal script.

He tried to pat the child, which seemed to be of the female persuasion, on the head, which caused it to wail all the louder. "Shush," he begged. "There's a good…girl?"

It did no good. She threw her head back and bawled.

Suddenly, the door at the end of the hall swung open, shedding a brighter light on the scene.

"What is all the racket?" said Byrony irritably.

Rincewind swallowed his tongue. Oh ye gods. There she was.

She was wearing some sort of white shift. Her hair was freshly washed and hanging down her back and over her shoulders. The light of the room streamed out around her, and Rincewind thought she was the most utterly lovely thing he had ever seen

Their eyes locked, and Byrony inhaled sharply.

There should have been music. There should have been an orchestra and a sunset to a backdrop of a roaring ocean.

What there shouldn't have been was a thoroughly fascinated four-year-old excavating the internal recesses of her nose.

"You're here," said Byrony weakly. "I thought you were a dream.

"No," said Rincewind firmly. "I'm definitely here." Anything as unpleasant as the earlier carriage ride couldn't possibly be a dream.

They looked at each other, and the air between them seemed to sizzle with tension. The small child's enthralled face swivelled from one to the other; finger still firmly plugged into nose.

"Rincewind, I…" Byrony noticed the little girl for the first time. She coughed. "I think we should continue this inside?"

Rincewind nodded mutely, and followed her into the room.

To his annoyance, so did the little girl.

"This is Little Esme," said Byrony cheerfully, ushering the child inside. "She's heir to the throne of Lance you know."

"Is she indeed?" said Rincewind, trying to desperately remember where he'd heard that name before. Oh, that's right. "Er, are those two…ladies still here?"

"Who?" Byrony looked momentarily thrown. "Oh, you mean Nanny and Granny Weatherwax," she laughed.

"Yes," agreed Rincewind. "I'll stay as long as they're not here, is what I mean."

"Don't be silly. They're not here anyhow."

They surveyed one another once more, the silence filling the room with tension.

"You've lost weight," said Byrony finally.

"Haven't much felt like eating," admitted Rincewind sheepishly.

"Not even potatoes?" asked Byrony with a faint smile.

"Not even potatoes," said Rincewind.

Silence. Suddenly Byrony turned away and walked to a dresser at the side of the large and fairly luxurious room. She was, Rincewind noticed, limping the kind of slight limp that concealed a great amount of pain. All at once, Rincewind noticed other worrying details, like the bandage on her arm and the pale pallor of her face.

She really was limping.

"I have to get ready for this bloody ball," she explained. "Gods, but I hate balls."

"Yes, I remember," said Rincewind vaguely, still contemplating the limp. "That's a lovely dress," he added, feeling it was expected of him.

Byrony turned around grinning, a very mischievous look on her face. "Actually, this is, in fact, my under slip."

"Oh?"

"I goes under my dress."

"Oh."

"So, I'm practically in my underwea-"

"Yes, all right!"

Byrony turned back to the dresser sniggering. Rincewind fumed. It looked like they had instantly fallen back into their usual relationship, with Byrony teasing Rincewind mercilessly and Rincewind helpless to defend himself.

It also meant that he was now in a ladies boudoir, with the lady in question wearing little more her undergarments.

Not only was he a wizard, but he was a wizard, he was a wizard and he was a wizard!

There were rules!

Well…guidelines.

"Gnaaahh," he proclaimed eloquently.

"I beg your pardon?" Byrony asked politely, her dress under her arm.

"Ah, that is…look, you can't go to this ball!" blurted Rincewind.

"Really? Why?"

"Well, look at yourself!"

Byrony's face arranged itself into an expression of defiance, but she was swaying where she stood. There were deep purple crescents under her eyes; her face was as white as milk and a purple smudge of a bruise adorned her left temple. The bandage on her arm was stained with suspicious and worrying dots of red.

Avoiding his eyes, she turned to Little Esme, who was playing with tassels of the bedspread. Rincewind noticed for the first time that the child had a rather lumpy knitted stuffed frog toy under one arm.

"Esme? Be good for uncle Rincewind while I get dressed, wont you?"

"Yeth," she said indistinctly, due to the thumb that was lodged in her mouth.

"You're getting dressed?" said Rincewind incredulously. "You're going to go?"

"I have to," she said simply, slipping behind a silk screen embroidered with multicoloured peacocks. "You idiot," she added from behind it.

Rincewind sighed, and sat heavily on the large bed in the room. Little Esme scrambled up beside him and leaned against his arm with her thumb still in her mouth, her frog under one arm and gave a little sigh of contentment.

Then, the peace was broken by the sound of silken rustling from behind the screen.

Rincewind gulped as his libido and imagination conspired against him. He had self control. He was in command of his own thoughts. Hah, everyone knew a wizard didn't need a chaperone, because their minds were much too busy contemplating higher and worthier subjects then beautiful and barely clad creatures that were on the other sides of the fairly thin silk screens.

There were more rustling noises, and the scent of lavender drifted over.

Hah, yes, thought Rincewind furiously. Higher things, that was the ticket.

Only the frantic bobbing of his adams apple betrayed him.

He felt a small poke to his elbow and looked down, fervently grateful for the distraction. He came face to face with Little Esme, who retracted her thumb and took a deep breath.

"Your hat is silly," she said, with the air of one who is well versed in these matters.

"My hat," said Rincewind haughtily, "is a symbol of learning and the culmination of over a thousand years of magical experience and knowledge."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Can I wear it?"

"No."

Esme went an interesting shade of purple.

"Look," said Rincewind, casting about wildly. "How would you like to wear this…this?" He held up a piece of intimidating feminine corsetry, which consisted mainly of straps and buckles.

"That's scary."

"Yes, it is isn't it…"

"Wanna wear the hat!"

There was a little chuckle from behind the screen.

"I'll scream," warned Little Esme.

"Look," said Rincewind desperately. "You're not wearing my hat, okay?"

Esme opened her mouth.

Two point five seconds later, a very satisfied four-year-old was perched on the wizard's lap. Her thumb was jammed into her mouth and she was wearing a pointy hat that was so big on her, it slipped down and perched on her nose.

"Can I have it back now?" asked Rincewind wearily.

The thumb was retracted with an audible popping noise. "No! I'm a magic pony."

"Fascinating."

Suddenly, the rustling from behind the screen stopped. "Oh gods," muttered Byrony. "This is awful. It has pleats!"

"You all right?" asked Rincewind nervously.

"Just putting on my outer-under slip," called Byrony.

"Ah. Of course," said Rincewind in what he hoped was a knowledgeable sort of voice. "Good."

"No, it's terrible. I'm changing it, or it'll be digging into me all night."

She came out from behind the screen, and Rincewind saw that she had changed from the white dress into a pale blue one, made of stiffer, scratchier looking material. It did indeed have pleats.

"Could you help me take it off?" asked Byrony looking critically down at herself.

There was a pause, which managed to somehow be very expressive.

"Excuse me?" asked Rincewind carefully.

"I can't open the back by myself," explained Byrony. "Come on, you just have to pop out the eyelets."

Rincewind, who felt that his own eyelets were going to pop out at any second, removed Esme from his lap and walked over to her.

"Just unhook the little hook things," she instructed, turning her back to him and putting her hands on her hips.

With hands that only trembled a little, Rincewind unhooked the first eyelet. When no spectral vision of the scandalised founding fathers of wizardry materialised, he unhooked a second.

As he made his way through all the hooks holding one side of the dress to the other, Rincewind became aware of certain things.

He became aware that more and more of Byrony's bare, smooth back was being revealed.

He became aware that his knuckles were brushing warm soft skin as his fingers popped open each tiny hook.

He became aware that the room temperature seemed to be slowly rising, and that her breathing was soft and shallow.

When the final eyelet was open, she didn't move. Rincewind then watched in a trance, as his arm seemed come under the control of some other entity. It slowly reached out, and pressed his hand against her soft, bare back. He felt the warmth of her skin under his palm and the thump of her heart under his fingertips…

He snatched his hand away as if he had been burned, and took three quick steps backwards. Byrony turned around, and she looked at him for a minute, clutching the front of her dress with a thoughtful air.

"Thank you," she said finally.

"Not a problem, no problem at all," babbled Rincewind. He picked up Esme, who giggled delightedly, and held her in front of him like a shield. "Really, it was nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing."

Byrony made a face that Rincewind knew well. It was the face she made when she was making a heroic effort not to roll her eyes. She disappeared behind the screen again, and he let out a relieved, shaky breath.

"I'm upside-down!" complained Esme.

"People who take other people's hats don't deserve to be upright," said Rincewind firmly. Hey, he thought, I'm pretty good at this parental thing.

"I think it's time for someone to go," called Byrony from behind the screen. Rincewind stared at it. Did she mean…?

"Esme needs to get ready for the ball," continued Byrony. "Could you bring her back to her room?"

"Sure, why not?" said a relieved Rincewind. "Er. I'll probably get lost though."

"Oh, she knows the way," said Byrony airily. "Just ask a passing servant on the way back. An elderly one though," she added. "I fancy that the younger ones would be just as lost as you."

"Fine, fine, that's fine. Er. You'll be here when I get back?"

"Why, Rincewind," said Byrony, the smile audible in her voice. "Wherever would I go?"

Rincewind closed the door behind him, in a better mood then he had been for over a year, despite the wriggling and protesting child under one arm.

"I'm still upside-down!"

It shouldn't have taken this long to climb a small hill.

At least, it started out as a small hill, but as soon as the soldier started to climb it, it suddenly seemed to turn into a towering monument, a tribute to geological developments everywhere. As he swore silently to himself, he hoped that the other three were having just as much bad luck and drove another grappling hook into the side of the mountain as if it had personally insulted him. The wind whistled around him, and the air seemed to blow through his clothes as if they were made of paper. He wasn't out of breath, however, and the cold didn't bother him. He had faced worse then this.

He was near the peak now, just a little further and he would be able to get the damn thing, and to get off this wretched mountain.

The wind howled, and the very air around him screamed…

They never did find where his body landed, though certain people thought to themselves that it was likely that he was already dead before it did.

Whoever knew that air could pull?

When Rincewind returned to Byrony's room after explaining to a frantic nanny what, exactly, he was doing wandering around the manor with the heir to the throne of Lancre under his arm, she was waiting at the doorway, and oil-lamp in hand. Rincewind looked at her suspiciously.

"Where are we going?"

"Oh, I just thought we'd take a little night-time stroll," she replied airily.

"Where the- Oh, er, you look nice, by the way." He felt it was rather expected of him to comment.

Byrony looked down at herself. "This still isn't my dress. There's another two layers and all manner of bustles and collars to go."

"Really? Seems a bit…well…"

"Stupid? Pointless?" volunteered Byrony. "I quite agree. Then I still have to put my hair, put oily gunk on my face and, you know, I have to put on corsets!"

Rincewind thought of the item he had offered to little Esme, which looked rather like a shackle-based torture instrument. "Oh. Wow."

"Yes. Well, off we go then!" With that Byrony set of down the winding, dark hallway. There were no lamps in this part of the building and the paintings flickered spookily under the light of the moving oil-lamp in her hand. Rincewind hurried after her.

"Again, call me Mr. Silly, but I would like to know where we're heading." She was still limping, Rincewind noticed. She was still very limping.

"Well, Mr. Silly," said Byrony seriously. "I was supposed to find out what Rowel knows about the Orb- Oh, have you heard about the Orb?"

"You dear uncle enlightened me," shuddered Rincewind.

"Yes, he's a sweetheart, isn't he. I was supposed to find out what Rowel the Rat knows before he sent the information away on the clacks. I come home, and find the slimy bastard has put his own damn guards in my house! He's watching my every move, the creepy git."

Huffing, Byrony stopped by a portrait of a rather constipated looking you man, and slammed it with her fist. It swung open, revealing a large doorway in the wall.

"Um…" said Rincewind.

"So now," continued Byrony. "The clacks are down and it's the changing of the guard. I still need the information but due to a sudden and lovely absence of prying eyes, we can make use of all the rather marvellous passageways that wind throughout the manor. Questions?"

There was a pause.

"We?" said Rincewind.

"We," said Byrony firmly.

"Right."

"Come on then." She smiled and stepped into the darkness.

"Yes, now, let me get this straight. You want to break into-"

"Inadvertently shatter into."

"What?"

"Never mind."

They were walking along the inside of the wall, with the oil-lamp giving flickering outlines to the bare bricks of the walls, and the dusty boards of the floor.

"Have I got this right? You want to break into the room of a man who is attempting to achieve disc domination, a man who, I might add, already suspects you of nefarious deeds. Instead of hiring someone else to do this for you, you want to break into his actual study yourself."

"Yep."

"You. By yourself. All alone with no back-up whatsoever."

"Well, now I've got you, don't I?"

While Rincewind's stomach did lazy flips at the slow smile Byrony bestowed upon him, his brain was quick to point out that on the occasion that they were actually caught, he would be about as useful as a chocolate tea-kettle.

"I suppose there's not much he can actually do to us. I mean, it is your manor, after all."

"Oh, I don't know," said Byrony cheerfully. "He could have us shot on the spot and claim he thought we were intruders."

Rincewind gulped audibly. "Or," continued Byrony. "He could have us murdered in our beds. Or whoever's bed we happen to be in at the time," she added with a backwards wink. Rincewind flushed.

"Besides," continued Byrony. "I don't trust anyone else to get it done."

"Er," he said, as they continued along their dark and dusty way. "I've mean meaning to ask, is this actually your manor?"

Byrony held the lamp a little higher. "Yes, of course. I'd hardly rent it for a fortnight, would I?"

"It's just that it's very…big."

"Manors usually are. Noted for it, in fact."

"Well, you never mentioned it before."

"Generally it's not the done thing to mention ones vast wealth in polite society–"

To Rincewind's alarm, Byrony suddenly pitched forward, her eyes rolling up into her head. Moving at a speed he normally reserved for running away from people, Rincewind caught her around the waist, also neatly catching the oil-lamp before it hit the ground, engulfing them both in flames.

"Byrony!" Wobbling, Rincewind tried to hold her up and not burn them to death at the same time. He noticed how alarmingly pale she was, and in a response to some deeply buried medical knowledge, he jiggled her a bit.

"Byrony!"

Her eyes snapped open and she struggled to her feet. "Loose board," she said briskly, avoiding his eye. "Must've tripped. Watch out for them."

Rincewind waved the oil-lamp over the totally smooth path ahead.

"Oh, really," he said, rather sarcastically. Byrony snatched the oil-lamp out of his hands and glared. It was quite an impressive glare, but she was clearly weak and it wasn't a patch on the glare she had given him on the first day they had met, so Rincewind deflected it easily.

"Amazing," he continued. "Loose boards, eh? Who'd have thought it? Now, tell me what the nice doctor Lawn said."

Byrony's lips compressed. "Nothing. I'm fit as a fiddle."

"Really? He didn't, by any chance, use the words 'bed-rest', 'severe-concussion', and 'continuous observation'?"

"No," lied Byrony.

Rincewind was no stranger to concussions, having been on the receiving end of many. He knew, without a shred of doubt that Byrony was suffering from a very serious blow to the head. She would fall in and out of consciousness, experience extreme bouts of nausea, and in a saner world, should be constantly watched by trained medical staff. However, because she was stubborn, she was currently embarking on a ludicrous trek inside a wall which would probably get them both killed.

Those purple smudges under her eyes…

Rincewind sighed. "And how's your leg?"

"Fine," said Byrony truthfully. "My leg is perfectly fine. Nothing wrong with it whatsoever."

Rincewind feigned a kick at her ankle. "Ah, but my ankle," she said, quickly moving away. "Yes, my ankle is a little sprained. Just a little. Only a bit, that's all, nothing to worry about."

She hurried quickly away, trying to disguise her heavy limp by leaning inconspicuously against the wall. She has to go dancing, thought Rincewind incredulously. This is madness…

He sighed, and with one calculated movement, threw himself full-length on the hard floorboards.

"Ow." Byrony turned back, eyebrows raised.

"Loose floorboard," said Rincewind morosely, scrambling to his feet "Perhaps I could hold onto your arm? To make sure I don't fall again?"

Byrony looked at him for a long, long time.

"Well," she said reluctantly. "If you really need my help…" She took Rincewind's proffered arm.

"Oh, I do," he said fervently, as he took her weight. "I really, really do."

Suddenly, Byrony closed her eyes and leaned against his chest as if she were resting after a long and tiring journey. Weary, thought Rincewind, as he looked at her pale face. She looks so weary. When did she last sleep?

They stood there for a moment, in the flickering yellow light, and Byrony rested her aching eyes. It felt as though she had been beaten, sorely beaten, by people who hated her and wanted to cause her harm. Every muscle ached, every tendon screamed and every movement required strength of mind and the gritting of teeth. Her head throbbed, and it felt as though she was on the verge of some sort of mental cliff, and any minute she would slip and go falling, falling…

But here, here she could rest a moment, while someone took her weight. Someone who didn't expect her to cope and to deal with it. Someone who knew she was breakable…

She rested and listened to his heartbeat.

Then she straightened. "Right!" she said brightly. "On we go!"

A little later, they reached another doorway. Byrony thumped it at some sort secret area, and it swung open. Rincewind wasn't sure what to expect to find in the study of a mad-man who wants to take over the world, but what he did expect included maps, big folders marked 'PLANS' and possibly small notes saying 'note to me: Take Over Disc – Mwahahaha!!!!!'.

Instead the entered a small and modest room, with one medium sized and well-organised desk. There was one filing cabinet and a small window which had its curtains pulled closed. Just as Rincewind was feeling rather put out, he noticed the walls.

"Gosh," he said, unnerved.

"I know," said Byrony speculatively. "What is that man doing to that dog?"

She was still examining the painting they had just exited. Rincewind tapped her on the shoulder and pointed. In the study of Nicholas Rowel the Third, row upon row of glass cases lined the walls, and within those glass cases were row upon row of pinned butterflies of all different types, colours and hues.

"Oh, yes," said Byrony distastefully. "Nicky's butterfly collection." She walked over and peered into a case. "He began it when we were kids, you know."

Rincewind started. "When you were kids?"

"Yes, we spent a bit of time together. He's my third cousin four times removed, or my fourth cousin three times removed or…well, something like that, anyway." She shook her head. "I never liked it. He took far too much pleasure in sticking the pins into them, in my opinion. Well, best get on with things!"

She leant over and hitched up her skirts, causing Rincewind to look up at the ceiling so quickly, he gave himself a minor case of whiplash.

"I keep a small set of lock-picks strapped to my leg," she said conversationally.

"Yes, thank you for that piece of information," said Rincewind irritably, his face flaming. "That's sure to come in handy when I need a set of lock-picks. Yes, I'll just ask you, shall I?"

When the rustling stopped, he deemed it safe to look down again and was just in time to observe Byrony break into a very secure looking drawer on the desk.

"Child's play," she sneered. "He relied too much on his guards, the stupid git." She began rummaging around in the drawer as Rincewind hopped impatiently from foot to foot. Any minute now, fifty guards were going to burst in and try to beat the crap out of them both. Well, if they tried to touch Byrony he'd…well, he'd…

We'll, he'd get the crap beaten out of him, but he'd do it in a dynamic kind of way.

"Ahah!" cried Byrony. "Success!" Out of an invisible pocket she took a tiny black square and knocked on it. A tiny head popped out.

"'s?" it said.

"Right, these are fine print Sid, but it's dark so I'll need a flash. That okay?"

"'s," squeaked the tiny figure as it retreated back into the iconograph.

"Hey," said Rincewind. "Is that a nano-demon?"

"Yep. Small, isn't he? He's got some sort of extra charm to make light so I don't need salamanders. Pretty clever."

A series of flashes went off as Byrony took pictures of all the documents in Rowel's desk related to the Orb. She was finished as quickly as she started and began hurriedly tidying everything away.

"Good ma- I mean, good demon, Sid."

"'nk you," replied the tiny voice from the little black box resting on the desk.

"But- No, hang on," frowned Rincewind. "I thought you couldn't have demons around you, remember? What with you being an enchantress, giving off pulses of magic and generally being a danger to life and limb?"

Byrony straightened up, her eyes sparkling. "Ah!" she exclaimed. "But now I have this!"

Triumphantly, she pulled on a gold chain around her neck, pulling out a smallish cube from her bodice. "Ponder finished moderating the modulator!" she cried delightedly. "It absorbs my magic!"

"What- When did he give you that!?"

"While you were dropping Esme back to her room. I was going to surprise you but- Rincewind, isn't this fantastic?"

Cursing all Heads of Inadvisably Applied Magic who happened to drop in just when you were out of the room, Rincewind sullenly replied, "Why?"

Byrony walked over to him, smiling. "Well, for one thing, I'll be able to stay in one place for as long as I want."

"So?" Rincewind had a horrible suspicion that she was smiling because she knew exactly why he was acting so sullen.

"You never know. Maybe I might come back to Ankh-Morpork?"

Suddenly, the significance of the modulator hit Rincewind. He hadn't thought about it before, but now it landed upon him like the proverbial ton of bricks. Byrony could come back to Ankh-Morpork and stay as long as she liked…

"After all," she continued, still moving towards him. "There are still so many things I've yet to experience there."

"Oh," he squeaked, and then cleared his throat. "Oh, yes indeed. Of course. Yes, that would be…nice," he said, gruffly

Rincewind realised that Byrony was now very close indeed, and seemed to be intent on getting even closer. He was also horrified to realise that he didn't seem to be very inclined to stop her.

"Er, shouldn't we leave before someone comes?"

"What's the rush?" she said gently.

And as softly as a butterfly alighting on a flower, her lips pressed against his…

And time stood still….

Then suddenly, the door to the study let out an audible click, and swung open.

Though annoyed, Byrony was rather impressed. Rincewind had moved so fast, he had actually left a Rincewind shaped outline in the air. He was now standing on the other side of the room, red faced with his hands firmly clasped behind his back.

Vetinari smiled mirthlessly. "Ah, Byrony. I should have known you would take the initiative."

"Oh yes," said Byrony breezily. "I'm always taking the initiative. Taking anything not nailed down, really. Famed for it, in fact. Er… How did you get past the guards?"

"They seem to be currently occupied by two rather intimidating elderly ladies, one of whom insists on repeating the word 'Lawks!' in a rather loud voice."

Byrony hid her smile with a hand. "I see."

Rincewind tried desperately to make himself invisible, while his brain screamed. Had the Patrician seen that? What had actually happened, exactly? Was he going to get into trouble for it?

"I assume the iconograph worked?" Wordlessly, Byrony handed over the small box to her uncle, who turned it over in his long pale fingers.

"Excellent," he said finally. "I'll have the- what we discussed ready for you tomorrow evening at the latest."

Rincewind's ears pricked up. What was that all about? They were talking as though he wasn't there, and yet at the same time, they were being very careful not to mention anything in front of him.

"Great," said Byrony cheerfully. "Now, if you don't mind, I'll just take Rincewind away before the guards burst in and beat him senselessly" She looked fondly at the scruffy wizard. "It always seems to happen, bless him. Coming Rincewind?"

She stepped inside the secret corridor, out of sight. Hurriedly, Rincewind made to follow her, as being alone with the Patrician for any length of time did not figure highly on his list of 'Things To Do.'

"Oh, Rincewind?" said the Patrician.

Rincewind froze.

"When I said to stay close to my niece… Perhaps you might refrain from getting that close?"

Rincewind opened his mouth.

Rincewind closed his mouth.

He settled on nodding silently, and stepping into the doorway in the wall, swinging the portrait closed behind him.

In the darkness of the room, Vetinari smiled.

Walking along the corridor, Byrony called back to Rincewind. "I just need to swing by the kitchens, if that's okay?"

No reply- Rincewind was hyperventilating. Mindless to this, Byrony continued down the now sloping passageway.

"The Chef is a little…temperamental, if you know what I mean. And I know I had a talk with the staff, but I really wouldn't put it past the games-men to try something, I really wouldn't. They were out all evening stalking the grounds. And I know that's their job, but really, they did it in a very sullen kind of a way." She sighed. "You know, I've always got on with people. One of the things I'm proud of, and it does come in handy…but it seems that snobbery exists everywhere, really. Anyway, sometimes it's hard, you know? Everyone relies on me! Everyone seems to think I'm always capable, and I'm at the beck and call of every damn dignitary looking for- Rincewind?"

Rincewind, who had been lost in a world of his own, musing about the Patrician's scorpion pit, looked up guiltily. "What?"

Byrony sighed. "Never mind. Look, we're here!" She gently pushed on a piece of wall that was completely indiscernible from any other piece of wall, and it squeaked open. They peered out, and were greeted by the hot hustle and bustle of a kitchen in full flow, with piles of plates being transported across slippery floors, and steaming dishes being created and tasted. If they stepped out, they were in danger of being caught in the flow.

"Ladies first," said Rincewind firmly.

"Now, don't be silly. It's a kitchen, nothing can happen."

"There's a lot of knives in a kitchen, Byrony. A lot of knives. In fact, I might point out that there are more knives in a kitchen then there are in normal rooms. What were you saying about a temperamental Chef?"

"I am Lady of the manor, you know," said Byrony rather uncertainly.

"Of course you are," nodded Rincewind. "So I think you'll be going first, seeing as if a complete stranger stepped out of the wall I suspect the staff would take sharp action."

Byrony peered out hesitantly into the chaos, while someone shouted at someone else, and someone dropped a lot of plates that promptly shattered.

"Hey," she said brightly. "I've an idea. Let's go via the pantry!"

"Wonderful," said Rincewind. Byrony walked a little further along and rounded a corner. She pressed against another piece of seemingly blank wall, which again swung open, but smoothly this time. The shouts and screams of the kitchen were muffled, and Rincewind followed her out hesitantly. They had stepped out of a door made out of a cabinet in the wall that was filled with pheasants into a room simply crammed with dead things.

"Urgh," said Rincewind. "Is that dinner?"

"The games-men have been busy," said Byrony thoughtfully. "I wonder, what's their plan?"

"Is there actually a dinner this evening?" asked Rincewind, who was watching a dead rabbit nervously. He was sure it was looking at him. "The invite just said a ball."

"Oh, it's more of a buffet thing," said Byrony making for the larder door, which promptly swung open revealing a maid, who opened her mouth and then screamed

The whole kitchen stopped and stared. Screaming was a matter of course in a kitchen, it practically made the food taste better, but the screaming was generally done at other people. No one screamed into larders.

Then their stares shifted over to Byrony and Rincewind, who had been, for some reason, alone in the larder…together. Things dripped off of ladles, pots began to boil over and knives hung motionless over vegetables that needed chopping.

"Er. Well done, excellent cooking," said Byrony jovially. "Jolly good show. Good stirring there, very good stirring. Er…"

Suddenly a huge, mountain of a man sporting a very red face and a ridiculously tiny moustache, came to life. "Back to work," he bellowed, and the kitchen suddenly came to life again, with pots and pans clanking, people yelling and things being spilled.

"Phew," said Byrony. "Awkward or what?"

"Or what?" said Rincewind anxiously watching as the large man made his way over to them. "Ah- this Chef. How temperamental is he? I mean, are we talking a little moody, here?"

As the Chef came closer, he seemed to get ever larger. The man could have his own orbit, and range of tides. He practically had a circumference.

"Or is he say, totally psychotic, would you say? In a room full of knives? Byrony? Would you say?" Byrony elbowed him into silence as the Chef drew near.

"Don't say anything," she hissed. She had a smile plastered onto her face, aware that this could go one of two ways…

"Byrony!" bellowed the Chef. "What took you so long?" He then enveloped her in a smothering hug. Now he was closer, Rincewind could see that he was actually quite elderly, and the small moustache was streaked with grey. He let her go, and dabbed his eyes with his apron. "Haven't seen you in, oh, over three years, I'd say?"

"I'd say that's about right," beamed Byrony, a little smugly. "Just came down to see how everything was running, you know."

"Pah." The Chef shook his head disgustedly, causing his chins to wobble. "The day I need a little hellion to check on my kitchen is the day I drown in a pot of my own gravy. But look all you like–" He suddenly caught sight of Rincewind, who had been rather hoping he wouldn't. "And who is this?"

"This is Rincewind."

"Really? Rincewind?" The Chef raised his eyebrows, obviously angling for more information. Byrony smiled sweetly at him.

The Chef harrumphed. "Fine. Go. Look all you like, and don't tell me anything. Me, the man who fed you all your childhood meals. You think you'd be so strong and healthy without me?"

"No-oo," said Byrony cheerfully. Clearly this was an old and comfortable argument, played out between them many times before. It was the Chef's favourite guilt trip, and he often used it when she withheld information. He flounced of, still berating Byrony as she followed him and played along.

Rincewind was left alone, a small island in the middle of the chaotic kitchen. He turned around to get a full 360 degree idea of what the kitchen looked like. Also, it would probably be a very good idea to know where the exits were, just in case the Chef decided to flip to the other side of his temperamental nature.

Then he came face to face with the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

The main drinks cabinet.

It spanned the entire wall, and it was filled with every alcoholic beverage known to man. The bottles gleamed and glistened, and seemed to call to Rincewind. If the had had clothes, they would have taken them lasciviously off, and danced around, begging him to drink them…

A hand clapped onto his shoulder and he nearly screamed.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" said Byrony, joining him as she wistfully looked up at all the shining bottles.

"Think anyone would notice if we in fact didn't go to the ball and spent the entire evening down here getting pissed?" asked Rincewind furtively.

They thought about it.

"No," said Byrony, sighing regretfully. "It's my ball, I should probably make an appearance."

"We could take some along," suggested Rincewind, eying the cabinet hopefully. "And we could trust ourselves not to get roaring drunk."

"Could we trust ourselves though?"

Rincewind thought about the last time they had been in a bar together. "I see your point. We could just get roaring drunk anyway."

Byrony laughed. "We should probably be sensible about this."

"Good grief, I should hope not. I'm standing over a thousand miles from home in the kitchen of an over-emotional man with a large supply of sharp things, while on a mission to save the disc from domination from a megalomaniac and talking to, no offence, a masochistic young woman who is placing this ridiculous mission before her own well-being. And now you're saying I can't have a drink?"

Byrony grinned ruefully and took his arm, sending tingles up and down Rincewind's spine. "Come one, we had better go. You need to get to the ball-room, and there's probably a team assembled in my room, ready to paint stuff on my face and strap me in things so I can't breathe."

She yanked Rincewind through the kitchen and back into the larder. The larder door swung closed, and they were in the musty darkness. Rincewind reached out his arms, trying to find the wall.

"Hey!"

"Sorry!"

He heard Byrony try to find the door again, wincing happily as she let out a string of expletives when she knocked over a pot and it shattered. He missed Byrony's swearing. It could be so informative.

"That was a Klatchian vase, yer know," said a voice.

Byrony and Rincewind froze. A match flared, and the pile of rags in the corner lit its pipe.

Byrony said "What's that?" at the exact same moment that Rincewind said "Hinkle?"

"A Klatchian vase," said Hinkle reproachfully. "Genuine Klatchian pottery, that was. Made by a Klatchian craftsman. From Klatch."

Byrony stared at him in the dim light cast by the glow of the pipe, totally nonplussed. "Who are you? And why are you in my larder?"

"That's Hinkle," said Rincewind.

"Thass me," said Hinckle happily puffing on the foul smelling pipe.

"He was our driver," explained Rincewind. "He's a total loony," he added, feeling justified in doing so.

"Thass me," agreed Hinkle. "Mad as anyfing, miss." He raised his pipe cheerfully to Byrony.

"Right," said Byrony uncertainly. "And you're living in my larder, are you?"

"I wouldn't go into it," advised Rincewind.

Byrony shook her head and opened the secret passageway. "You didn't see us, okay?" she said to Hinkle.

"Didn't see anyfing miss," nodded Hinkle. "You jes' count on me. I'll batter anyone 'oo even tries to go frew there. Your young man'll take care of you anyhow, I'd imagine."

Before she could engage, Rincewind pushed Byrony through the door, back into the dusty way between the walls.

"What an interesting man," she said.

"That's one way of putting it," Rincewind said.

They continued along their way in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Rincewind was thinking about whether or not he actually was Byrony's young man, and what did that entail, exactly?

Byrony was thinking …other thoughts. These thoughts were related to Rincewinds thoughts but they were also different. They were a lot calmer, for one thing.

She was still limping, Rincewind noted. Her colour had improved a little, but there were still dark crescents under those green eyes.

Finally, they came to a point where the passage split into two. "You go that way." Byrony pointed to the passage on the right. "It goes to the grand hall outside the ball-room and you can climb out of a painting there, when you hear voices."

She turned to him, looking somewhat amused. "Now, be careful, won't you? Don't fall out of the wall into a pile of guards, do you hear me? I know what you're like."

"Oh you know me," said Rincewind, rolling his eyes. "Can't get enough of adventure."

She grinned, and in a whirl of lilac scented air, she was gone.

It was only a after a few minutes of dazed stumbling that Rincewind realised she had taken the oil lamp with her.

The soldier put out his cigarette and eyed the gap in the stone wall. The wall itself was covered in strange drawings of vaguely humanoid shapes. It was narrow, but it wasn't the worst he had faced. At this time, all he wanted was to get this damn thing over with, and to go home. He had no doubts that he could do it- after all, he had done things much more difficult then this before.

He squeezed through the tight space between the rocks. As soon as he recovered the damn thing, he'd be beck home and rewarded handsomely if the rumours were true.

But….

He couldn't breath now, he was pushed so tight into the earth. The stone was moving, it was pressing in on him.

He was being pushed and squeezed and twisted by the very rock. It felt as though his very being was fused into the stone…

Any traveller coming this way, would have found strange etchings on this stone. Very strange etchings indeed.

After a while, Rincewind came to the conclusion that he was lost, and was doomed forever to wander within the walls. Perhaps, he thought mournfully as he stumbled along in the gloom, perhaps my ghost will wander the halls of the manor. He thought about this for a little bit, and then decided that no, it wouldn't.

Luckily just as Rincewind realised how boring a life of haunting would be, he heard voices filter through the walls. The voices seemed to have a nasally sort of tone that could usually be attributed to the upper-class.

I must be in the great hall, he thought as he frantically began to scour the walls for switches, levers or (getting desperate) door handles. What had Byrony done? Whatever it was, it had been so minute that Rincewind hadn't seen it. A life of haunting was looking pretty likely at this point.

Suddenly, for no reason whatsoever, the wall in front of him swung open and Rincewind slapped down noisily on cold marble floor. When he was sure that the action wouldn't cause his face to peel away, he lifted his head.

The hall was deserted. Thanking any deities in the vicinity, Rincewind hurried towards the grand golden door at the end of the hall, and slipped between them.

The room he entered was hot, brightly lit and filled with people. They were all well dressed, and some had their faces painted white. Others boasted tall wigs that nearly scraped the ceiling, and Rincewind caught a glimpse of one woman who had affixed a miniature windmill to hers.

Dodging between the high-borns, Rincewind began his search for the promised buffet. Then he spotted it and almost howled with delight as he took in the groaning table, the piled high plates, the silver tongs and…the potato salad.

Less then three minutes later he was the proud owner of an over-flowing plate and he wandered the ballroom with his features happily smeared with cream. He needed somewhere quiet to consume the rest of the plate though…He glanced around until his eyes alighted on a small tight-knit group, its members muttering urgently to each other. That looks nice and quiet, he decided. He wandered over and leaned against an ornamental plinth while raising the first forkful to his mouth.

"Of course, Lady Winslow has always been…different."

Rincewind froze.

"Different? An unmarried woman taking a secret lover in Ankh-Morpork isn't different, it's madness."

"Well. Call her odd, then."

"Oh she's odd alright. She's got odd coming out her ears."

The group beside Rincewind was comprised of various nobles and ladies. The nobles were well dressed, powdered and primped- and that was just the men. The women fluttered their fans anxiously, as the men hooked their thumbs into their pale pastel breeches. Rincewind strained so hard to here what they were saying, he was sure he heard a twanging noise inside his head.

"A lover in Anhk-Morpork!" A woman with a heart shaped beauty-spot painted above her lip gasped. "Are you sure?"

A noble with a white powdered face nodded authoritatively. "Yes, she met him the last time she was there. Visiting the Patrician at the time, apparently."

The plinth beside the group wobbled as Rincewind tried to regain his composure. Byrony had a lover? In Ankh-Morpork? But that meant…that meant that while she was there, she had been seeing some other man the whole time! A slow ache formed in his chest.

"The Patrician let her run wild, or so I'm told."

"She runs wild anyway," muttered one of the younger men in the group.

"I agree, Sebastian," sniffed a young woman with a pointed nose and a sharp face. "It's very odd. We don't hear from her for years, and now she's society's favourite?"

"No, I meant-"

"I heard she travels all over the Disc. Hardly a suitable activity for a young woman of noble birth."

While the unpleasant woman was making her views known, Rincewind took the opportunity to squirm into the group, unnoticed.

"Anyway," said the man with the white powdered face loudly, attempting to regain his audience. "Anyway, he let her off, completely un-chaperoned I might add, with some total stranger. This mysterious lover was her guide around the city." A small thought suddenly became a growing suspicion in Rincewind's mind. No…surely not. No one in their right mind would ever…

"Apparently, he saved her life or something."

The cold ache in Rincewind's chest suddenly became a flooding warmth. There was no lover, no other man! It was all a misunderstanding! They thought…they thought…

Oh shit.

Rincewind stood bolt upright, now scanning the crowded ballroom furiously. The last thing he needed now was someone to come over and say something like: "Hey, did you lot know that Rincewind guided the Patrician's niece around Ankh-Mopork?! Yes, all over Ankh-Morpork!! Spent hours alone with her!!!"

However, the conversation was continuing on with out him, and he was helpless not to listen.

"Never mind all that," said the beauty-spot woman eagerly. "What's he going to do about it?"

The huddled close together again and launched back into fervent conversation.

"I hear Rowel is going to take her ardent lover and have him chopped into a thousand pieces."

"I heard he's got his troll guard out searching for him."

"I hear he's going to tie him to a stake and set the dogs on him, and take bets on how long he lives."

"Er. Any idea what this ardent lover looks like?" asked Rincewind anxiously.

"They say he's taller then a house, with muscles like a troll and has locks of hair like spun gold."

Rincewind nodded encouragingly.

"I personally don't see why Rowel doesn't cut him down where he stands," said the irritating man with the white powdered face. "I would, if my honour was at stake in such a manner."

At this, Rincewind felt it prudent to interject again. "Sorry, quick question. Why does Rowel want this man dead? I mean, what does it matter to him if Byr- I mean, if the Lady Winslow takes a lover…or possibly just a very good acquaintance of whom she happens to be very fond of, all physical details of their relationship aside?"

They stared at him, in the manner that all people do when they are faced with the truly ignorant. Then they told him, and marvelled at the vein that throbbed out of his forehead.

"Engaged?" Rincewind growled.

"Well, not exactleah," said the white-faced man, his eyes fixed on the purple worm of a vein on Rincewind's brow. "But it's been expected since they where born. They're two of the most noble families this side of the Disc. It would be unthinkable for them to take anyone else."

"Engaged?"

"Well, in a manner of speaking- I say, are you quite all right?"

Thankfully, it was then that a young man diverted Rincewind's attention by blowing a trumpet directly into his ear.

"Sorry about that," said a worried man with rather runny eyes after they had picked up Rincewind off the floor. "Shawn doesn't seem to have the hang of the whole heralding thing."

"What?"

"I said sorry about your ears!"

"What?"

A few minutes and a couple of drink later, Rincewind was feeling much better and was nodding along happily as the strange man talked enthusiastically about something called irrigation. His hearing wasn't 100% yet, but judging by the few words he picked up from the stream of that was flowing from the man's mouth, this was probably a good thing.

"Verence, I hope you're not boring this man."

Rincewind turned, and came face-to-face with what looked like a may-pole draped in gold. It was a thin young woman with a red nose and fly-away hair. Rincewind thought she rather resembled a dandelion at around two o'clock.

"Not at all," said Verence. "I'm explaining our new crop-rotation system."

"I know. That's why I mention the word boredom." She smiled at Rincewind. "Hello, I'm-"

"Quuueeeen Maaaagrat of Laaaancre!" bellowed the young man beside her. Magrat held up a hand to her ear.

"Shawn," she winced. "We talked about this. You only herald when we enter a room. I can do my own introductions."

"Yes, and I think it's time you put away the trumpet too," said Verence firmly. "Mr. Rincewind got quite a nasty shock."

"I feel much better now," volunteered Rincewind, which was true. Alcohol generally had that affect.

Shawn sloped off, looking slightly sulky, and the couple visibly relaxed at his parting.

"He means well," said Verence shaking his head.

"He does," agreed Magrat. "He just gets over enthusiastic sometimes."

"Er. Sorry," said Rincewind. "But did you say you were Queen Magrat?"

"Of course she's a queen," said Verence jovially. "She's my wife!"

"Ah. And you'd be a king, would you?"

Verence blinked. "Goodness, didn't I say that?"

"You didn't say that," said Rincewind firmly.

"I could have sworn I did."

"You didn't. I'd have remembered."

"Anyway," Magrat cut in. "I just wanted to thank you for bringing Little Esme back to her room when she went wandering. She said she had a lovely time with her Uncle Rincewind."

Rincewind, who had been knocking back his drink when this was being said, sprayed out a fine mist of alcohol into the air. "Uncle Rincewind?"

A nanny appeared towing a small figure behind her. Little Esme was pushed forward, looking very fetching in a pale pink frock and with her hair neatly combed and tied up. The effect was rather spoiled by the knobbly knitted stuffed frog under her arm.

"What do you say?" said Magrat in that singsong voice that all adults use to prompt children.

"Thank-you-for-minding-me-when-I-was-bold-and-got-lost-on-purpose," said Little Esme. Clearly, it had been said time and time before.

"Oh. Er, you're welcome."

"Yes, thank you so much. Esme tends to enjoy bothering people. She said she was in Lady Winslow's room as well?" asked Magrat with polite interest.

"Yes, I called in to say hello. We're old friends."

Esme chose this moment to pipe up. "He helped her take off her clothes."

Silence.

As if attached to strings, every face turned towards Rincewind. He laughed weakly.

"Ahahahah. What will the child think of next?" he said desperately.

Then, the gold doors at the top of the grand stair case swung open…

Ten minutes earlier, Byrony had been waiting impatiently behind those gold doors for her escort to materialise- Because a woman couldn't be trusted to walk down the stairs by herself, by gum!

She tugged irritably at the scratchy material that went around the neck-line of her dress. This was the absolute limit, it really was…

Be honest with yourself, she thought glumly. The dress is really the least of your problems right now, isn't it?

The truth was, Byrony hurt.

Have you ever been beaten? Has your body ever been put through its paces to such an extent that every movement caused your muscles to scream? Byrony felt like that, but worse. She felt as though she had been strapped to the ground, and as if someone who hated her, really hated her, had been given a big stick.

Every movement sent shards of stabbing pain shooting around her body. Her ankle ached and throbbed, and every breath she took felt like something was stabbing into her side.

And now her bloody escort was late!

Suddenly a figure appeared by her side and took her arm.

"Finally," she grumbled, shifting her weight off the useless ankle. "I've been w- you!"

She had been expecting to see the handsome and amiable (if not very bright) features of Lord Hudsley, of whom she was quite fond.

Instead, she had come face to face with a pale, perfectly composed demeanour wearing a pleasant yet disturbing smile.

Rowel.

"Dear cousin," he smiled, tightening his grip on her arm as she surreptitiously tried to pull it away. She'd shake him off if she could, but politics, politics…

"I should think you'd be expecting me," continued Rowel, choosing to ignore her gentle but persistent tugging in the opposite direction. "It really is my duty to escort you." His hand tightened its cold and clammy hold on her wrist. "After all, we are related."

"Related? Barely," said Byrony, forcing a laugh while her eyes darted around the empty hallway. If I punched him out now, she though No-one would ever have to know…

"Nevertheless," said Rowel mildly. "As the only male relation present at your little gathering, I feel responsible for ensuring that you don't, shall we say, sully our family name."

Byrony gritted her teeth at his wiser-then-thou nasally tone. "My family name, Nicholas. However much you wish to be a Winslow, it's still just my family name."

"We'll see," he replied mildly, still not letting go of her arm. "We were born to be together you know. The Rowels and the Winslows are two of the greatest families on the Disc, I mean, think of our blood-line-"

Byrony shook her head incredulously. "You're one of the few people I know who can make me nauseous on whim. Now Master Rowel, let go before I make you let go. I don't need a male family member present, I have Uncle Havelock."

He winced at the emphasis on Master, but regained his composure beautifully. "Ah, yes. The uncle who isn't really your uncle. You keep in contact with him, do you?"

Byrony paused. "Yes?"

"A very powerful man, Vetinari. Tell me, does the thought of all that power appeal to you?"

Byrony looked at his pale, waxen face. "What are you suggesting?" she asked coldly.

"I suggest nothing," said Rowel, still wearing that infuriatingly calm, smug smile.

He should be covered in slime, she though, and longingly imagined breaking those golden spectacles with her fist.

"Only I do wonder," he went on. "When you visit the great and powerful Patrician of Ankh-Morpork…and you spend all those cosy evenings alone in his study…what is it you actually do?"

"We talk," said Byrony, unable to stop the anger rising in her voice. "And we play Thud."

"Thud?" said Rowle inquisitively, his face stretched with that sickening smile. "Oh, is that what they're calling it these days?"

Hurt him! Her brain screamed as she stared at him, shocked to her core. Grab him and hurt him!

But before she could, the golden doors swung open.

Rincewind watched as Byrony stood at the top of the grand marble staircase, arm in arm with a pale young man with gold glasses who was clad entirely in black. The millions of flickering candles cast a glow upon them, and the crowd hushed and craned to see.

Her sweeping, flowing dress was the deepest, darkest indigo and was speckled with shimmering diamonds to resemble the night sky. Her glossy hair was piled up on her head, and small diamonds had been woven into the curls so that the stars sparkled even in her hair. Perched on one side of her head, was a beautiful silver hair-piece in the shape of a crescent moon…

Because the Discworld is right on the very edge of unreality, little bits of realness tend to creep in whenever someone's mind is resonating properly.

This happened now.

Out of nowhere, Rincewind's head was filled with lines of poetry that certainly hadn't come from his own subconciousness…

'She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies,

And all that's best of dark and bright

Meets in her aspect and her eyes…'

Considering that Rincewind was about poetic as a duck, this was really rather impressive.

Hey, he thought blearily. I should really write that down…

The ballroom broke into applause as the two descended, but Rincewind (once he shook off the pink clouds that filled his brain), noticed things.

Byrony was smiling, but he could see a tightness around her eyes. It was a fake smile too; horribly fake but good enough to fool the crowd.

And…was it just him, or was she angled a little away from her companion? The young man with the vaguely worrying smile?

"That is Rowel," murmured Vetinari, causing Rincewind to jump and scatter various pieces of food throughout the crowd. "That is the man who would rule the Disc."

"Him?" said Rincewind aghast. "He's butterfly boy?"

"Him," confirmed Vetinari, as the butterfly boy in question was dragged towards them. Byrony was doing the dragging; Rowel still would not relinquish his hold.

"Uncle Havelock!" she cried with forced joviality. "How lovely to see you again."

"Your Lordship, the Lady Winslow was just telling me how she enjoys your company," said the man that Rincewind now knew to be Rowel.

For some reason, this innocent comment caused a look of barely contained rage to pass over Byrony's face like a cloud over a summer sun. Rincewind, who was well aware that Byrony's rage rarely remained contained, braced himself.

"Is something the matter, Lady Winslow?" asked Rowel in his quiet and somewhat whiny tone.

The look vanished as quickly as it had come. "Of course not. You're quite right, that's exactly what I was saying. Has anyone tried the duck?"

Rincewind frowned. Apparently while Byrony wasn't much good at containing her rage, it would seem that Lady Winslow was a dab hand at it. This whole political correctness situation was making him nervy.

Rowel turned to Vetinari. "And what does his Lordship think?"

"His lordship thinks that he is lucky to have such a dutiful niece," said Vetinari politely.

There. Rincewind saw it. For a split second, Rowel's mask of calm cracked and something entirely different came through. The face that peered through the mask was that of a mad man- And then it was gone, and his face smoothed over into a state of tranquillity once more.

"Quite," Rowel said stiffly, his face once more locked in its frozen smile.

Somebody, thought Rincewind, has something wrong with them. And whatever it is, it is not a little thing.

"Ah, now who is this distinguished wizard?" For one bright, shining second, Rincewind thought Rowel was referring to him, but the descending mass of the ArchChancellor soon put a stop to that.

"Mustrum Ridcully," boomed the ArchChancellor. He pumped the man's hand, and then had to surreptitiously suppress the urge to wipe his palm clean on something.

"And of course, I know who this is, don't I m'dear!"

While shaking her hand just as enthusiastically, the ArchChancellor deemed it appropriate to slap Byrony heartily on the back.

That's right, thoughtRincewind wearily, as he watched the blood drain from her face. The woman has just fallen fifty feet off the side of a building but please, hit her on the exact place she landed, oh go on, do.

Ridcully was blathering on about how he had known Byrony since she was knee high to something or other, so she felt it was safe to tune out.

What's wrong with this picture? She thought morosely to herself as she tried to ignore her inner shrieks of pain. I'm standing here, arm in arm with a man I loathe…

And Rincewind is right there.

And we've yet to even make eye-contact.

She shifted slightly, taking the weight off her excruciatingly painful ankle, and continued smiling genteelly through her teeth. She had lied to Rincewind earlier: Her ankle wasn't sprained, it had been dislocated. She had put a strap of leather between her teeth and grabbed the bedposts.

And Doctor Lawn had taken her ankle, and pulled…

She glanced up, and Rincewind was looking right at her. He knows, she thought faintly, as waves of pain from every part of her body began to wash over her. The painkillers were wearing off.

The orchestra started up, and couples began to break away from the crowds. Soon the white marble floor was filled with spinning, gliding couples.

Rincewind seemed to reach a decision. He had no particular experience of these things, but he had a vague idea of how it was supposed to go.

"Lady Winslow?" he quavered, cutting across a rather disgruntled ArchChancellor. The he coughed, and in a rather gruffer tone, said: "May I have the honour of this dance?"

He bowed stiffly and extended a hand in her direction, slightly suspicious that he looked like an utter pillock.

"Seriously?" said Byrony, forgetting herself in her astonishment. "Er- I mean, La sir, if you think you must!" She snapped open her fan and simpering, allowed herself to be led away by Rincewind.

Once out of ear-shot however, and once they were away from the shocked faces, it was a different matter.

"Pillock!" hissed Byrony, while maintaining a pleasant and sunny expression.

"You have to dance, right?"

"So?"

"Better with me then him!" Byrony looked at him. "That is," said Rincewind hurriedly. "He would notice your limp. Yes, that's it, and then he'd know about your little excursion off the side of a building. And we don't want that, do we?!"

They made their way out onto the dance floor.

"Fine. Point taken," said Byrony, disgruntled. "But tell me, do you know how to dance?"

"Er-"

"Marvellous!"

"Look, you just sort of lean on me, and guide me and I'll take your weight."

"I don't need you to," lied Byrony, her eyes dark with pain.

"Of course you don't," soothed Rincewind. "Come on, we're getting in peoples way."

Indeed, it was true. Couples were banging into them as they attempted to glide gracefully across the floor, and giving them nasty looks.

"Quick," urged Byrony. "Put your hand on my waist."

"Where?"

"My waist, Rincewind, my waist!"

Gulping, Rincewind placed his hand on the body part in question, and he and Byrony assumed the appropriate dancing position.

"All right," said Byrony warily. "Now, start slow and let me lead."

So, with Byrony counting out a waltz time under her breath, they began to dance.

It wasn't actually as bad as could be anticipated, though Rincewind kept glancing down at his feet. He had a wiry sort of strength, and he found he could take Byrony's weight quite easily so she could dance on her damaged leg.

After a few minutes they managed to hit a rhythm in their dancing, and found that they were enjoying themselves. There Rincewind was, Byrony in his arms and no one telling him he was letting down a thousand years of wizarding tradition. Byrony, on the other hand, kept up a constant stream of insider information on the various scandals that plagued the surrounding nobles and finally had someone to make fun of the whole event with.

They- well, they never really glided across the dance floor, but they achieved a really rather pleasing sort of drift.

Rowel watched the couple, a rather bemused expression on his face.

"Who is that wizard?" he mused out-loud.

"Oh, that'll be the Dean," came the reply. Ridcully shook his head. "Sorry about that, he always gets over-excited at these damn things. Dean! I say, Dean! The buffet is for everyone, there's a good chap!"

"No, I mean that one there. The tall skinny one, with the bad beard and floppy hat."

"Oh, him? That's just Rincewind. Scruffy fella. Good with a banana. Not sure why we keep him about the place. Well, he is our Egregarious Professor of Cruel and Unusual Geography, to be fair."

"Oh, really?" Once the wizards unimportance was established, Rowel rapidly lost interest. He turned away and was just about to leave the conversation, when-

"He gave your cousin a tour of the city, last time she visited."

Rowel's face froze. "Pardon?"

"He was her tour guide, doncherknow. Showed her the sights and whatnot." Ridcully waggled his eye-brows at Rowel, and turned to take a proffered pastry from a passing tray. "Saved her from some nasty business in the Tower of Art too. A serial killer, or something. Have you tried the duck pastry things? They're deli- Oh, you've gone…"

Rowel marched and pushed through the dancers until her reached the empty circle of calm that surrounded Rincewind and Byrony. They were just swaying gently in time to the music now. He was saying something, and she was laughing.

Laughing.

Rowel grabbed Byrony's wrist and yanked her away from the wizard.

"Hey-" began Rincewind, but then stopped, as Rowel was squeezing her wrist so tightly he could almost hear the bones scraping together. Then Rincewind realised.

This is a man who takes butterflies, a man who takes beautiful things and stabs them with something sharp. This is a man who takes pride in catching things that are hard to catch and locking them in glass boxes.

This is the man who would marry Byrony.

The man in question was now slowly twisting her wrist, as he glared into her eyes.

"Him?" Rowel hissed furiously, with a jerk of the head in Rincewind's direction.

Rincewind watched incredulously as she didn't make a move to stop him- after all, had once personally seen Byrony kick a man so hard in the crotch that he vomited up his back teeth.

Instead of issuing such instant justice now, she simply stared coldly back.

"Him," she affirmed. Then she-

Well, no one at the ball was ever quite sure what happened after that.

Lady Winslow seemed to slip on the marble floor, gripping Master Rowel's shoulder as she went down, and in an effort to regain her balance she sort of twisted…

There was a loud sickening crack accompanied by a shriek, and Rowel sank to the floor white-faced and whimpering. His arm was sticking out at a very odd angle indeed.

Byrony looked out at the sea of startled faces. "Silly me," she trilled gaily, snapping her fan open. "Whatever have I done?"

She had, in fact, popped his arm right out of its socket.

Just on general principles.

Quite some time later, after Rowel had been taken away to have his arm strapped and bandaged in peace, Rincewind stood at the edge of the dance floor. In his hand, he held a chicken drumstick and on his plate was a delicate array of mashed potatoes and coleslaws. Both lay forgotten as he watched her twirl across the dance floor with some berk in an officer's suit and a pony-tail.

He was pretty sure the idiot had some form of an earring too.

The bastard.

At some point, the Librarian ambled by with a buffet-plate that was taller then he was.

Rincewind heaved a sigh, and glanced to his left. "You too, huh?"

Ponder was standing on there, his eyes miserably following the dancers, and he jerked at the sound of Rincewind's voice.

"What? What do you- Me? Hah, no," he let out a peal of desperate laughter. Rincewind edged away from him. "No," continued Ponder. "I'm afraid that you're very much mistaken. I mean, I'm a wizard and wizards…wizards…"

"Don't do that sort of thing?" suggested Rincewind.

"Apparently not," said Ponder rather gloomily. "Is it because- I don't know. Is it the magical flares? As wizards, perhaps we're naturally attracted to large sources of magic?"

"The rest of the faculty don't seem to be having any difficulty," Rincewind pointed out.

"Yes, but they're…not as young as they were. It's only natural that certain urges would have, er, shut down, as it were."

"Er- urges, you say?"

"Come on, you must have noticed that the faculty don't do it as often as they used to?"

Rincewind went quiet for a little bit. "What are we talking about here?" he asked very carefully.

"Magic of course! When was the last time you saw the Dean do any conjuring, I might ask?"

Rincewind gave the young wizard a long, slow look. "Magic?"

"Yes. What else would I be talking about?"

Rincewind patted Ponder on the shoulder. "Nothing."

He moved away then, leaving Ponder muttering about flares and magnetism-Rincewind didn't want to spoil his fun, so he had refrained from mentioning that Byrony was wearing her modulator, so it couldn't be the magic pumping out of her that made her so…something. It was a nice looking piece of jewellery though, to the untutored eye. It swung on its golden chain, resting just below the hollow of her neck.

Feeling rather at a loss, he wandered back over to the buffet on the basis that- well, that it was there, really. The ball was turning out to be pretty boring at this point. Oh, it had been fun at first- hob-nobbing it up, stuffing himself with food and pretending to know what everyone else was talking about. It had also been pretty amusing watching Byrony pretending to be someone else. Rincewind didn't know who that someone was, but whoever they were they laughed a little too loudly and showed too much teeth when they smiled.

It was still funny though, because whenever she made a stupid 'I'm just a little woman' remark, she would drop Rincewind a lazy wink and a grin.

For example, Byrony had been seated on the chaise lounge surrounded by an assortment of Lords and Ladies making what they thought were witty comments. Rincewind had been on the edge of things, and had seen Byrony steadily becoming more and more bored. Then Lord Sellachii had begun a lengthy story about his last expedition through deepest, darkest Klatch…how the man made deepest, darkest Klatch sound about as riveting as pipe-cleaning remained a mystery.

It was only when he described the beautiful symmetry of the tiger that Byrony felt the urge to speak up.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, pulling an appropriately lady-like face, all open mouth and wide-eyes. "The poor thing!"

"I beg your pardon, your Ladyship?" Sellachii had politely enquired.

"Why," she said, casting an evil glance over at Rincewind. "I hadn't realised the poor thing was dead!"

At that moment Vetinari, who had been indulgently watching over the proceedings, came down with a rather suspicious cough.

Rincewind walked away, grinning to himself as the lords explained that, no, he meant symmetry ladyship. Not cemetery. Not cemetery at all. No, it's quite all right, anyone could make the mistake, it his own fault really wasn't it? Didn't make it clear enough, did he! No ladyship, I assure you, the fault here is entirely mine…

And so on they went, completely unaware that she was laughing at them all behind her eyes.

It was odd really, thought Rincewind, standing by the buffet as the latest duke (or prince, or what-have-you) she was dancing with dipped her low. She wasn't the most beautiful woman there, not by a long shot…but there was something about her. Maybe it was the proud tilt of her chin, or the barely-contained-crimes suggested by the gleam in her eyes. Maybe it was the laugh that hinted at a thousand dirty jokes, just on the cusp of hearing…

As the song ended, the noble bent and kissed Byrony on the hand.

"Bloody pillock," muttered Rincewind as soon as he was sure that he was out of ear-shot. "You're not even her type."

Oh? said the voice of the long-forgotten libido. And what exactly is her type then? Is it a skinny strip of a not-very-good wizard, perchance? It is? Wonderful, you're in for the running then.

Rincewind was just about to point out that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit when he was suddenly distracted by a disconcerting sight. Byrony was standing by herself, swaying slightly. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were glassy with pain, reflecting the flickering candles of the room. He began to stride quickly towards her, tossing his food on the way. (It landed on a Duke, but never mind.)

"Byrony?" he hissed, as he reached her side. "Are you all right?"

She was staring at nothing as she reached out and grabbed his arm, squeezing it tight.

"Is there anyone watching me?" she asked urgently.

"What? No, I don't think so. Apart from me, of course."

"You don't count."

He caught her just as her knees buckled.

"Ah, Lady Winslow," he gabbled loudly for the benefit of anyone nearby. "Let's admire the view, shall we?" Ignoring the stares, he half-carried, half-dragged her over to a handily placed balcony and firmly shut the swirled-glass doors behind them.

Rincewind found himself at a loss. What did people usually do in these situations? Normally he was the one passed out, so he didn't feel to be in a position to comment. Though he had been kicked in the ribs a lot…

Disregarding that suggestion, Rincewind opted for a gentler version of a method that had once been used on him to bring him round. He propped her up on the wall of the balcony and lightly tapped her cheeks.

"Come on, Byrony. Come on," he muttered urgently. He glanced at the doors, catching several people in the act of trying to peer through the distorted glass.

"People can see you're passed out!"

Suddenly Byrony came round with a gasp. "No," she said weakly, not opening her eyes. "They just think they've solved the mystery of my Ankh-Morpork lover."

Rincewind glanced down. From the way they were standing, it did look a little like…

He dropped her.

She fell.

He swore and picked her up again.

In retaliation to the sudden authority he possessed over her, Byrony batted him weakly on the side of the head. "That hurt!"

"I told you," babbled Rincewind, realising that if she was admitting it, it was very sore indeed. "I told you no good would come of you going to this ball!"

Completely ignoring him, Byrony closed her eyes and rested her head on his shoulder, her hot forehead pressed to his cool neck.

"I said it," insisted Rincewind, continuing on the long established tirade of the under-appreciated. "I said this would happen."

"Didn't," she murmured, unable to stop herself from answering back.

"Did," said Rincewind firmly. "And did you listen? Of course you didn't, you never listen."

"Do."

"Don't. And another thing, why did you do all that dancing? Sprained ankle my- you don't have a sprained ankle, anyway! The damn thing is broken, isn't it? Well, isn't it? You'll never learn will you?"

No response. It was then Rincewind tried to angle his head so he could look at her. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was shallow. Her retaliations were stinted and weak and he was getting more then a little worried. Arguing was what they did best. Arguing was what they did all the time. Arguing was practically Byrony's hobby, and she included Rincewind wherever possible

"And," said Rincewind desperately. "And…" Inspiration struck. "And you were only dancing so you could flirt with that soldier!"

That did the trick. Her head jerked up and her eyes snapped open. "Was not!"

"Were too!" said Rincewind happily.

"Was not!"

"Were too!"

"We interuptin' something?"

Rincewind froze. Expecting the worst, he turned slowly, still clutching Byrony, to face-

Well, he thought faintly, he had expected the worst.

Before him stood Granny Weatherwax and Nanny Ogg, thankfully devoid of their witches' hats. Instead, they were dressed as, for want of a better term, maids.

"Wotcha wizard!" said Nanny Ogg cheerfully. "Thought your lot weren't allowed to do that sort of thing?"

"I'm not- we're not-"

"Leave him alone," chuckled Byrony weakly.

"Yes, but we're not-"

Suddenly, her eyes rolled back and any tentative grasp on consciousness she had was lost. Rincewind turned to the witches.

"Help her," he commanded.

For some reason, Granny Weatherwax seemed to examine him for a moment before nodding.

"Gytha, we'll be needing a distraction," she instructed Nanny Ogg, who promptly pulled two bottles of champagne from a recess that Rincewind would really rather not think about.

"No problem," she said, shaking the bottles as she made for the glass doors. "I'm good at distractions."

"Now," continued Granny Weatherwax. "You take one arm, and I'll take the other. I reckon we can move pretty swiftly, eh wizard?"

"I can carry-" began Rincewind, but Granny shook her head.

"It's got to look nat'ral, you know that."

Rincewind nodded mutely, and together they hoisted Byrony's prone form up between them. For some reason, Granny was counting under her breath.

"Let's see now. I'd say five…four…three…two…"

Screams and yells began to filter through the glass doors. "Now!" she said, and they quickly went through. Unseen in the commotion of the rushing crowd, they carried Byrony across the back of the ballroom. Once through a door leading to a quiet servant's entrance, they lowered her onto an ornamental chair. Unfortunately, a servant happened to be using the servant's entrance, with a loaded tray balanced neatly on each shoulder.

"Um," he said reproachfully. "That chair isn't really for sitting in-"

"Bugger off!" snarled Rincewind, and the waiter scurried off, leaving only a couple of small egg-pastry things to mark his departure.

Ten minutes later, minutes which scraped by like eternity and mostly comprised of the sounds of Rincewind's anxious fidgeting, Nanny Ogg rushed around a corner with a thin, harassed looking man on her heels.

"I got the doctor," she panted, bending double in an attempt to regain her breath. "Cor, them posh people don't half make a fuss! Back in mo'!" Then she dashed off again.

Doctor Lawn nodded brusquely to Rincewind and Granny, and then quickly moved to Byrony's side. She was breathing shallowly, and sitting limply in the chair. He pressed a finger to her eye-lid and pushed it up; angling her head at the same time so an oil-lamp in the wall cast it's light over her face.

He clucked his tongue disapprovingly. "Pupils dilated and loss of consciousness. Was she finding it a struggle to stay awake?"

"Yes!" said Rincewind.

"Only to be expected really, not much you can do if you want to go out and about with a concussion. It's not something you can just put off until later."

"I knew she was concussed, I knew it."

"Right. Be a good chap and lift her skirts, would you?"

Rincewind blinked. "Sorry?"

"I've got to take a look at that ankle."

"I'll do it," said Granny, pushing Rincewind aside and giving him a dark look, as though he was the one who had suggested skirt-lifting in the first place.

Rincewind quickly looked up at the ceiling and tried to ignore the urgent rustling of material.

"That's it," Doctor Lawn was saying. "I just need to make sure the splint- oh…"

At this small and worried noise, Rincewind looked down, carefully averting his gaze from the length of leg revealed. Strapped tightly between two thin lengths of wood, Byrony's left ankle was a horrible, throbbing red and had ballooned to twice its normal size. There was also a small bone protruding from her inner-ankle, and the skin around that was a bluish-purple.

"It popped out again," said Lawn, finally. "The bone popped out. She must have- was she dancing on this?"

"Yes," said Rincewind, aghast. Her ankle was dislocated?

"Well, we gots to pop it back in again," said Granny firmly. "You know the rules."

"Right…" said Lawn vaguely. "I suppose the pain and the concussion must have triggered her black-out…and the ribs wouldn't have helped of course."

Rincewind had been staring at the horror on the end of her leg (and not looking at the leg in question at all) but at that final statement, he glanced up.

"Ribs?" he enquired, politely.

"Three of 'em broken," Granny informed him.

"Broken?"

"Least of our worries," said Lawn, as he reached into his shiny black leather bag and pulled out a bottle of clear liquid. "She's strapped good and tight. Not much you can do for broken ribs, lad."

"Broken ribs? No one told me anything about broken ribs!"

Suddenly Granny fetched him a ding across the back of the head with the hand that wasn't holding up yards of silky material.

"And what do you expect, eh?" she snapped. "We runnin' everything by you these days Mister wizard? Broken ribs is only to be expected! She fell off a building, and you'd do well to remember that."

Rincewind was about to open his mouth to explain that he would quite possibly never forget the sight of Byrony falling fifty feet through the night sky, but he shut it with a snap when he realised that the witch was speaking in code. She was telling him that while the Doctor was familiar enough with Byrony to believe that she would climb down the side of a building just for laughs, and while he knew what had happened to her, he didn't know why it had happened. Clearly Lawn was here just to fix up Byrony and go, but if Rincewind made any more protestations, the good Doctor might become a tad suspicious.

"Fine," muttered Rincewind sulkily. "I guess I'll just go over here, shall I? I'll just go stand in the corner then? I'm clearly not needed here, so I'll just- is that a needle?"

Lawn had pulled a nasty syringe from his bag, and was now filling it with the clear liquid from the small bottle.

"Yes," he said mildly. "It is, in fact, a needle. She needs the strongest painkiller I've got."

"Oh. But-"

"Shut up," ordered Granny Weatherwax.

All of a sudden, a small groan came from Byrony's prone form, and she struggled to sit up.

"No needles," she gasped. "No needles!"

"Come on now Byrony," said Doctor Lawn his voice cajoling. "Young women who scale high things for fun have to be prepared to face the consequences when they fall!"

"Noooo," said Byrony desperately, as Granny Weatherwax held her down. "No needles!"

"She has a compelling argument," quipped Rincewind.

"I said shut up."

"Sorry."

"Rincewind!" Byrony spotted him, standing nervously beside her. "Hit that man!" she said, pointing at Lawn.

"No, that's the doctor," said Rincewind firmly. "And you have a concussion. You're in no position to be telling me to do anything."

"He's going to stick a length of metal in me! I'm allergic to people sticking lengths of metal in me! It's done me nogood so far!"

Byrony was regaining some strength at this point, and Granny Weatherwax was beginning to strain against her. Feeling slightly like a traitor, Rincewind leaned over and held down Byrony's shoulders, pinning her to the chair. Granny Weatherwax let go, and bent to make sure the doctor was doing it right. Byrony struggled a bit more, but she was pale and drained and she finally gave up, slumping back in her chair and a flash of pain crossed her face.

"There!" said Lawn, sitting back on his haunches and wiping the syringe. "I can't imagine what the fuss was. I mean, that little prick was nothing compared to a dislocated ankle and three broken ribs."

"I just don't like needles," she mumbled. "I don't like people sticking anything sharp into me, thanks." Then she seemed to realise something, and she looked guiltily at Rincewind. "Er- I have some broken-"

"Broken ribs," said Rincewind shortly. "I gathered."

"Er- I might have forgotten to mention that…"

"It seemed to slip your mind, yes."

Rincewind began to move away when Lawn warned: "Don't go anywhere yet."

"What? Why?"

Granny leaned over and grabbed Byrony's right shoulder. "The two of us will need to hold her this time."

"This time? What time? What?"

Byrony smiled wanly at the wizards confusion, though she was gripping the handles of the chair so tightly that her knuckles.

"Silly man," she chided. "You're forgetting my ankle."

Realisation dawned, and Rincewind gulped. Feeling stupid, he said "Oh," and gingerly returned to her side to grip her left shoulder.

"Hold her firm," said Granny authoritively. "She's going to jerk when this happens."

"I'm still here you know," said Byrony irritably. "Right below you, no need to talk around me." She stopped when Granny gave her a Look.

"Ready Byrony?" Lawn asked as he gently wrapped his hands around her foot.

"Ready," she replied, rolling her eyes as if this was a game, but Rincewind could feel her tense up under his hands.

"Look at the ceiling," Lawn advised her as he eyed the bones in her foot, gently tugging it to align them.

Byrony nodded, but she didn't look at the ceiling. Instead, she stared into Rincewind's eyes as spasms of pain wracked her face. Suddenly he reached down and gripped her hand, tightly and she squeezed back.

"Well, isn't this fun," she said mournfully.

And Lawn pulled.

Somewhere on the other side of Winslow Manor, there is a room that has no windows. No-one has ever been sure why it was built, but it is generally held that a mansion of such magnitude should hold every type of room that it's possible for it to have. And, apparently, one of the rooms that it's possible for it to have is a room is a room with no windows…so it does. But this is just the folly of the obscenely rich, and no-one has ever used this room for anything much…until now that it.

It was Rowel's bedroom.

He had never liked the light, and didn't understand why so many people thought it to be a wonderful thing, even a necessary thing. Yes, he had collected butterflies in the sun-shine as a boy, but his discomfort had made catching them all the sweeter.

Just like the discomfort he was experiencing now.

The doctor had twisted his arm back into its socket, but he still had to wear it in a sling. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, his normally immaculate, slicked back hair mussed and his glasses askew. And he was furious.

"I sent seven teams," he said quietly to the man standing before him. "Seven teams of the best soldiers we have. Teams of four, each time, and not one team has returned successful."

"Er-"

"In fact, not one of them has returned at all."

"With respect sir-"

"Tell me captain, how is it possible that not one man has returned alive from these 'quests' as you insist on calling them?"

"It's gone all mythic hasn't it!"

Rowel stopped. "What?"

The captain of Rowel's private guard coughed. "Sorry, sir. It's just that now...we think that you have to be... a certain type of person to get...the things you want us to get."

"Explain."

The captain nodded miserably. Oh, the pay was good, but no-one said anything about being alone in a room with the Disc's creepiest man.

"We think we've found the cave, sir. And I know you said that the cave is no good without…those things…but, well, this was on the outside, sir."

He passed Rowel a scrap of paper with lines of writing scribbled on it. Rowel took it with his good arm, and read it soundlessly, his lips moving slightly.

"Ah," he said.

"Is that good, sir?" asked the captain, a large and rather scarred man, hopefully.

Rowel just looked at him, and the captain closed his mouth with an audible snapping noise, biting his tongue in his haste. Paying no heed, Rowel returned to the scrap, poring over it once more.

"Yes," he said quietly to himself. "This may work to my advantage…I want guards outside the cave at all times," he ordered the captain.

The captain stood to attention. "Already done, sir," he replied, as he ripped off a marvellous salute.

"Then double the guard!" snapped Rowel. "And put the best men on it!"

"Er-" said the captain desperately. "They won't actually be our best men, sir, because, if you remember, we sent the best men to get-"

"Yes, fine," said Rowel irritably, waving the captain towards the door. "Just do it."

"Yessir," said the captain, relieved. He backed hurriedly towards the direction Rowel's waving hand pointed him in. "Thank you sir."

The captain exited the room, and as soon as the door had closed behind him, he slumped against the wall. No wonder the creepy bastard smiled all the time.

Because when he didn't smile…

The captain shuddered and went to do his duty.

Inside the room with no windows, Rowel was not smiling to himself, because he didn't see the point. He was, however, very pleased.

"Yes," he said again, to the dark and empty room. "This could work out very well."

The rest of the ball had been utterly painful.

Rincewind hadn't believed it at first, when they told him she was going to have to go back out there, but when it seemed inevitable, he had insisted that he would stay near for the rest of the night.

And that had been utterly painful.

She had been stiff, and her face had been stretched into a smile that was more of a grimace then anything else. By now, of course, most of the nobles present had been too drunk to notice much, especially since Nanny Ogg had brought out her Special Punch for Special Occasions made Specially.

After that no one noticed anything much.

Still, she had to be there, and Rincewind had been forced to watch as the circles around her eyes grew darker, her face grew whiter and whiter and her protestations grew weaker each time some idiot in a suit and a stupid grin pulled her to her feet to trip the light fantastic.

When the bells tolled 4 am, it had been as though the Gods had opened the skies and partaken in a spot of divine intervention. Of course, most of the merry-makers were in no mood to stop making merry, but it was now officially acceptable for Byrony to slip away, which is exactly what she did.

With a barely noticeable limp, she pulled away from the crowd begging her to stay, ordered more wine for all of them and bade them good-night. Rincewind met her at the painting in the passage, as they had agreed. She stalked along the corridor, limping at high speed as she shook her hair out of it's intricate up-do.

Not speaking, Byrony leaned over, gave the wall a thump and the painting swung open. She made to climb in, and was faced with a conundrum. If she put her right foot first, she'd have to lean on her dislocated ankle, but if she put her left foot first, she'd have to step down on her dislocated ankle and either way was going to cause extreme pain-

"I'm carrying you."

She looked up. Rincewind looked impassively at her.

"I'm going to carry you to your room."

"Don't be ridiculous," she retorted. "I'm perfectly capable of-"

"No you're not. And I'm going to carry you."

"You-"

"Remember that time that you knew me for two whole months and you never told me you were an enchantress?"

"That-"

"And remember that time you got me killed and brought me back using rat's life force?"

"You can't-"

"Remember when that giant was going to beat me senseless in that bar-"

"Now that was not my fault," said Byrony firmly.

"He was going to rob you," explained Rincewind. "I tried to stop him."

"Oh. Well, let that be a lesson to you!"

"I'm going to carry you, whine all you like."

"I am not whining!" said Byrony, but even as she said it, the fight began to drain out of her. Would it be so bad, just this once, to be the damsel in distress? All right, normally she abhorred the whole role-of-the-woman situation… I mean she even had a broken ankle for all the gods' sake, next minute people would expect her to scream all the time and to burst into tears at the sight of fluffy animals.

But this wasn't some swarthy buck with more brain then muscle.

This was Rincewind.

Rincewind looked at her. "Well?" he asked. "I warn you, I'm prepared to use force," he said, rather uncertainly.

Byrony sighed. "I'm temped to struggle just to see that," she said. "But, if you insist…"

"I insist," he replied firmly.

Reluctantly, she put one arm over his shoulders and let him lift her up into his arms with her skirts trailing the ground. Then she pressed the back of one hand to her forehead and said: "Ooh, alas!"

"What," said Rincewind, "are you doing?"

"I'm practising my swooning," explained Byrony. "Alas!"

"Stop that."

Rincewind climbed through the hole in the wall, which Byrony pulled shut by hooking her good foot around the edge.

"So," she said, as Rincewind carried her through the dusty passage-way. "Does this mean I'm off the hook for the whole rat life force thing? Take this left," she added.

"No," said Rincewind. "I'm going to hold that one against you forever."

"What?! Put me down then!"

"Absolutely not."

"Put me down!"

"Not a chance."

They continued on like this until they reached the door that would lead to the hallway in front of Byrony's room. When she kicked it with her serviceable foot, it swung open and Rincewind stepped through into darkness. He stumbled his way through the gloom, bumping into walls while Byrony clung to his neck and tried to laugh quietly, and eventually made it to her door. Byrony used her good foot to press down on the handle and it swung open easily, revealing the pleasantly lit room.

"Oh good," she said. "Someone lit oil-lamps."

"Someone?" asked Rincewind, walking in and gently lowering her onto the bed. "You know, it a sign of being disgustingly rich when you don't know the names of all the people who do all the things you'd rather not do."

"I do know all their names," said Byrony, as she propped herself up on pillows. "There's just so many of them."

"Now that," said Rincewind, "is a sign of the obscenely rich."

"Oh, shut up."

"You could have warned me. I mean, I gathered that you were of noble birth, but I mean, all this…!"

"All what?"

"The never ending house? The hoards of servants? How about the seats that are for looking at not sitting in? The peacocks!"

"I hate them, those evil bastards," said Byrony, plumping up one of the cushions on her bed. "You know, one bit me when I was six? I'm scarred for life."

"Right," said Rincewind wearily. "Well, now I know, I suppose. Goodnight, then."

He made for the door. "Wait," said Byrony urgently. "You could- er, you don't have to go, is what I'm saying."

"No, I do," said Rincewind. "I mean, it's what? Five in the morning and I still haven't found my room yet? No, the longer I stay here, the worse it'll get. Not," he added, "That there's going to be any fighting for rooms on this place."

"No," said Byrony impatiently. "You could stay here."

"Yes," said Rincewind. "But then I wouldn't get to bed until six, so-"

"You could stay the night here, Rincewind."

"But I-"

Suddenly, the penny dropped.

Rincewind froze, and stared wide-eyed into space, his mouth working soundlessly. Byrony sat on the bed, waiting patiently for him to regain use of his vocal chords. She had never been very good at patient, however, and after a minute or so, she threw a pillow at him.

"Calm down. You could stay here for sleeping. No salacious deeds of any kind. Promise."

You hear that? said Rincewind's libido disgustedly. How does it make you feel that she is the one promising you that? Isn't it meant to be the other way around?

Go away, Rincewind thought. His libido was worrying him. It appeared to have a direct line to parts of his body that he wanted to ignore at the moment.

He regained his senses. "We-" he began, and then cleared his throat. "We need to talk," he said, a little hesitantly.

"No," said Byrony wearily. "Talking is, in fact, what we don't need to do. Talking is all we do."

"Byrony-"

She waved him into silence and indicated a patch of bed beside her.

"Sit," she said resignedly. "Talk."

Gingerly, Rincewind sat and tried to sort out the sentences in his head while simultaneously ignoring the mournful howls of his libido. Byrony watched him, smiling a little at the tortured expression on his face.

"The thing is," he said slowly. "The actual thing is…I'm a wizard."

"No! Really?"

"I'm a wizard," continued Rincewind ignoring the sarcasm. "I always have been a wizard. I've only ever been a wizard and…and…"

Rincewind looked into her green, concerned eyes and tried to articulate his feelings. What it all essentially boiled down to was that Rincewind was a wizard. It was engraved on his very soul. So, he wasn't good at magic. So what? Whoever said you had to be good at magic to be a wizard? He knew he was a wizard. Being good at magic didn't have anything to do with it. That was just an extra, it didn't actually define somebody.

And one of the main parts of being a wizard is that- well, he in all honesty shouldn't even have been in her room.

"It's just that…I can't…"

Rincewind the Carpenter? Rincewind the Undertaker? Rincewind the Postman? All of these careers required knowledge and training that Rincewind didn't have. All right, so he wasn't any good at wizardry, but he'd learned how not to be good at it godsdammit!

It had been preying on his mind for quite some time now. If he continued with this, if he continued treating Byrony as if she was more then just another member of the opposite sex, then Rincewind would be doing something that a wizard wouldn't do.

And if he did something a wizard wouldn't do, then how on earth would people know he was a wizard?

If he wasn't a wizard, then what could he be?

"It's just that," said Rincewind, as if he had to drag the words out of his mouth. "I can't do-"

"Yes, all right," said Byrony hurriedly. "I know. You're a wizard, you can't do that sort of thing. As if," she added, "there's any other sort of thing to do."

"Oh. Good," said Rincewind, relieved. "I thought I'd have to explain."

"Ooh, yes. Do explain," said Byrony, with a grin. "Explain exactly what it is you can't do," she said as she settled back on her bed, unaware that her movements caused her neckline to tug down a little. Rincewind's libido sobbed.

"It's just that," he continued quickly, "if we don't do that sort of thing, then that means…that would classify our relationship as 'just friends'. Right?"

"I suppose so."

"Right. And though I'll admit my knowledge of this whole area is shaky, I'm pretty sure that friends of the opposite se- Um. I mean, men who are just friends with women don't sleep in the same room as them, is what I mean."

Byrony opened her mouth. "Even just to sleep," Rincewind added.

"Are you sure?" asked Byrony. Rincewind remembered the first day he had met her, she had persuaded him to be her guide. Then she had persuaded him to go down the Shades. Then she had persuaded him to…Well, the point was, she was good at persuading him.

"I should go," he said hurriedly, making for the door.

Byrony's face seemed to close up. "Fine," she said, a little coldly.

"Er- I'll see you in the morning?"

"I would imagine."

"So we're…just friends then?" he added, his hand hovering over the door-handle.

"I suppose we are," said Byrony, closing her eyes tiredly. She was very pale. "Just friends."

Rincwind nodded. "Goodnight," he said quickly, and went through the door. As soon as it was closed, he leaned his forehead against it.

You rat bastard, said his libido.

Rincewind didn't have the strength to argue.

In her room, Byrony opened her eyes and looked at the door for a little while.

It didn't open again, but that didn't matter. It wasn't as if she was expecting it would.

It wasn't as if she was hoping it would.

After a while, she just looked at the stars.

The next morning, Rincewind woke up in a random drawing room in some part of the Western Wing. He had curled up to sleep on a long, embroidered couch, and was only now discovering that it wasn't the type of couch you sat on, let alone slept on. As he sat up, he gently twisted his neck from side to side and winced at the cracking noises this produced. He was disgusted to discover he had a magnificent head-ache, which wasn't very fair considering he didn't even get to drink anything last night.

Last night…

Rincewind groaned, and curled back up on the hard couch as memories assaulted him from all sides. Not just the whole snapping-of-the-ankle thing but the…

Just friends, sneered his libido. When was it ever apart of the plan to be just friends?

I didn't have a plan, thought Rincewind desperately, squeezing his eyes shut tight. I never had a plan. Go away, it's much to early in the morning for this.

Bet you wouldn't be saying that if you had stayed in her room. Bet you wouldn't be saying it was too early for me if-

Rincewind sat up quickly, causing his head to issue a giant throb of pain as punishment. Distraction, that was what he needed. Distraction from everything, and especially from himself.

He left the drawing room quietly, aware that though he personally hadn't drunk anything last night, he was surrounded by rooms occupied by those who had and any louder then necessary noises could earn him some serious physical pain. Judging by the sun in the sky, it was actually around three in the day or so, but there were no signs of life anywhere in the mansion.

He wandered around for a bit, sometimes poking expensive things which probably weren't really supposed to be poked. He continued down any staircase he saw, on the basis that 'down' would eventually lead to 'out' and that, hopefully, 'out' would eventually lead to 'food'.

When he finally exited through a door into the evening sun, he was lightly savaged by a peacock. It was not turning out to be a good day, and he hadn't even been awake for more then three hours. For a while, man and bird fought for supremacy and when the peacock finally ran away from his flailing hat, Rincewind watched it go in a yeah-you-run-like-that manner, much as one would eye the other man in a fight where one had emerged the victor. He was just replacing his hat on his head, when he suddenly realised he had had an audience the entire time. Right behind him, an old balding little man with a thin toothbrush moustache was standing by a piece of awful garden art, and a swarthy soldier stood by his side.

Rincewind stared at them. They stared at Rincewind.

Then they looked at each other.

They had a brief, whispered conference.

They turned back again.

"Rincewind the wizard?" said the old man uncertainly.

"Yes?" said Rincewind, muscles immediately tensing to flee.

The old man relaxed a little. "You have an appointment with her majesty, the Princess Emmaline of Istanzia for this time, wizard."

"You know, I'm sure I don't"

"That's funny," the soldier said happily, clamping a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Because the princess is sure you do."

"Oh," said Rincewind, faintly. That said it all, really.

As a result of the soldier's insistence that he see the princess right this very second, Rincewind's feet had hardly touched the ground the whole way up the tower, but his whole body touched it when he was dumped on the floor.

Nice carpet, he thought blearily as he was dragged to his feet again. I've always liked those little gold bits…

When the room finally stopped spinning, and when he had regained focus in both eyes, he realised that he was standing before someone seated on a rather fancy chair.

The Princess of Istanzia eyed him uncertainly. She was thin and pale, with white blonde hair and a rather pointed face. She wore a golden embroidered robe, and had a certain set to her eyes that indicated that she looked down upon everything, even when she was looking up at it.

"Rincewind the Wizard?"

"Er- yes?" he said.

"Really?" she asked a sort of horrified fascination.

"Really really," he replied firmly. There weren't a lot of things in this world that Rincewind was sure of at this moment in time, but one of them was that he was most definitely him, dammit.

"Tell me wizard," said Princess Emmaline. "How are you going to be of any help to Byrony while she attempts to regain me my rightful crown?"

Rincewind was semi-concussed, so he rather couldn't help thinking 'oh, your rightful crown is it?'

"Ah," he ventured. "I'm pretty good at carrying things."

"Carrying things?"

"Yes. Or being the one who says 'Let's not be daft buggers.' I'm pretty good at that too."

The princess sighed a sad and mournful sigh that struck deep harmonics in the soul. Rincewind couldn't help feel that it sounded a tad rehearsed. She walked over to one of the glass windows in the tower.

"Your soul isn't committed to this task, Rincewind the Wizard," she said, as though this was something to be considered gravely.

"Oh. Isn't it?"

"Come here," ordered the Princess, losing some of her patience. Rincewind joined her at the window. She was fairly young and two foot shorter then him, but she vibrated with a sort of indignant power that has made dictators great.

"Look out of the window," she commanded. "Tell me what you see."
"Fog," said Rincewind promptly.
The Princess sighed. Sometimes the weather had no sense of narrative convenience. "If the fog wasn't there, then you would see a country in need of a leader."

"Would I?" asked Rincewind doubtfully. He had a suspicious feeling that if the fog wasn't there, all he'd see was miles of bloody forest.

"Artists!" said the Princess fervently. "Sculptors! Writers! All these people toil in the fields because there is no one in power to nurture them! And Rowel," she said his name as if it was synonymous with 'dirt'. "Rowel would have them go to war. Seventy percent of my people fight, and the rest dig up potatoes. I ask you, is this fair?"

Rincewind, who coveted potatoes like dirt-encrusted jewels, wasn't sure how to respond. This didn't matter however, because the Princess ploughed on regardless.

"This country doesn't need to be bigger, it needs development. The people need to be allowed to grow and to express themselves. They should be allowed to change the country with the very thoughts in their heads!"

"Vetinari told me that Rowel thinks he's building a better world for the people," Rincewind suggested.

The Princess turned to him, her eyes on fire. "You can't build a better world for people," she said quietly. "Only people can build a better world for people. Otherwise it's just a cage."

There was a small silence. Finally, the Princess sighed. "Rowel. You've met him, haven't you?"

"Yes. Well, met is a bit strong. Experienced might be more accurate.

The Princess shivered. "He's mad, isn't he?"

"No."

"No?"
"No, mad's when you froth at the mouth," said Rincewind firmly. "He's insane. That's when you froth at the brain."

She looked at him reflectively. "You know, perhaps it's not such a bad thing you're helping Byrony. You could be a great asset for her."

"Yes?" said Rincewind politely. "That's nice," he added, feeling that more was expected of him.

"Yes," said the Princess thoughtfully, tapping her chin. "Well, that is all I require of you, wizard," she said suddenly. "You may leave."

"Oh, good," said Rincewind in relief. He was shuffled towards the door by a guard and was unceremoniously pushed out.

Just as the door swung closed, the Princess called out: "Good luck on your quest!"

Rincewind stared at the door.

"Quest?" he growled. "What quest?"