The Wit & Wisdom of Discworld - By Terry Pratchett Page 0,62

matter what you do, there’s always a mark.’

*

Few birds could sit more meekly than the Lancre wowhawk, or lappet-faced worrier, a carnivore permanently on the lookout for the vegetarian option.

The Count blew a smoke ring.

‘Good evening,’ he said, as it drifted away. ‘You must be the mob.’

‘May I introduce you to Sergeant Kraput, and this gentleman here picking his teeth with his knife is Corporal Svitz. They and their men will be going on duty in, oh, about an hour. Purely for reasons of security, you understand.’

‘An’ then we’ll gut yer like a clam and stuff yer with straw,’ said Corporal Svitz.

‘Ah. This is technical military language of which I know little,’ said the Count. ‘I do so hope there is no unpleasantness.’

‘I don’t,’ said Sergeant Kraput.

‘What scamps they are,’ said the Count.

*

‘It’th a pleathure to be commanded in a clear, firm authoritative voithe, mithtreth,’ said Igor, lurching over to the bridles. ‘None of thith “Would you mind …” rubbith. An Igor liketh to know where he thtandth.’

‘Slightly lopsidedly?’ said Magrat.

*

‘The Prophet Brutha said that Om helps those who help one another.’

‘And does he?’

‘To be honest, there are a number of opinions of what was meant.’

‘How many?’

‘About one hundred and sixty, since the Schism of 10.30 a.m., February 23. That was when the Re-United Free Chelonianists (Hubwards Convocation) schismed from the Re-United Free Chelonianists (Rimwards Convocation). It was rather serious.’

‘Blood spilled?’ said Agnes. She wasn’t really interested, but it took her mind off whatever might be waking up in a minute.

‘No, but there were fisticuffs and a deacon had ink spilled on him.’

*

‘The Omnians used to burn witches …’

‘They never did,’ said Granny.

‘I’m afraid I have to admit that the records show—’

‘They never burned witches,’ said Granny. ‘Probably they burned some old ladies who spoke up or couldn’t run away. I wouldn’t look for witches bein’ burned,’ she added, shifting position. ‘I might look for witches doin’ the burning, though. We ain’t all nice.’

*

‘There is a very interesting debate raging at the moment [among Omnians] about the nature of sin, for example.’

‘And what do they think? Against it, are they?’ [said Granny]

‘It’s not as simple as that. It’s not a black and white issue. There are so many shades of grey’

‘There’s no greys, only white that’s got grubby. I’m surprised you don’t know that. And sin, young man, is when you treat people as things. Including yourself. That’s what sin is.’

‘It’s a lot more complicated than that—’

‘No. It ain’t. When people say things are a lot more complicated than that, they means they’re getting worried that they won’t like the truth. People as things, that’s where it starts.’

‘Oh, I’m sure there are worse crimes—’

‘But they starts with thinking about people as things …’

*

Scraps tried to lick Igor. He was a dog with a lot of lick to share.

‘Thcrapth, play dead,’ said Igor. The dog dropped and rolled over with his legs in the air.

‘Thee?’ said Igor. ‘He rememberth!’

*

Agnes indicated the headless vampire. ‘Er … is that one Vlad?’ she said.

‘We can check. Piotr, show her the head.’

A young man obediently went to the fireplace, pulled on a glove, lifted the lid of a big saucepan and held up a head by its hair.

‘That’s not Vlad,’ said Agnes, swallowing. No, said Perdita, Vlad was taller.

*

The Countess clutched his arm.

‘Oh, this does so remind me of our honeymoon,’ she said. ‘Don’t you remember those wonderful nights in Grjsknvij?’

‘Oh, fresh morning of the world indeed,’ said the Count solemnly.

‘Such romance … and we met such lovely people, too. Do you remember Mr and Mrs Harker?’

‘Very fondly. I recall they lasted nearly all week.’

*

Vampires are not naturally co-operative creatures. It’s not in their nature. Every other vampire is a rival for the next meal. In fact, the ideal situation for a vampire is a world in which every other vampire has been killed off and no one seriously believes in vampires any more.

SAM Vimes is a man on the run.

Yesterday he was a Me, a chief of police and the ambassador to the mysterious, fat-rich country of Uberwald.

Now he has nothing but his native wit and the gloomy trousers of Uncle Vanya (don’t ask). It’s snowing. It’s freezing. And if he can’t make it through the forest to civilization there’s going to be a terrible war.

But there are monsters on his trail. They’re bright. They’re fast. They’re werewolves - and they’re catching tip.

Starring dwarfs, diplomacy, intrigue and big lamps of fat.

All Jolson was a man who’d show up on an atlas and change the