Just came across this on Goodreads. “Discworld #14.5; City Watch #1.5” - how cute is that?
If you haven’t heard of it, it’s a City Watch short story, here’s the link to where it is hosted The L-Space Web (by Sir Terry’s own kind permission: “I don’t want to see it in distributed print anywhere but don’t mind people downloading it for their own enjoyment.”)
Sharing this awesomeness with those who still doesn´t know!
Werewolves and sexy dragon-people and such are well and good, but there’s something to be said for that one character in a piece of fantasy or sci-fi media who you’re… like, pretty sure isn’t human? But nothing absolutely conclusive is ever shown (though there may be plenty of near misses!), and they’re annoyingly cryptic about certain critical dimensions of their personal history (though they may otherwise be perfectly willing to hold forth at great length about their life’s story), so you can never entirely rule out the possibility that they’re just a huge weirdo.
Nobby: A buddy of mine saw Vetinari take his shirt off in the shower, and he said that his lordship had an eight pack; that Vetinari was shredded. Colon: What?! Your friend’s a liar, mate. Vetinari is a punk bitch. That guy looks like he weighs thirty pounds soaking wet underneath that little black dress.
The most intriguing and terrifying part of this submission is the implication that Nobby Nobbs is Vetinari in disguise.
Ridcully: I don’t want to fuck my clone because it would be gay sex and I’m not gay.
Angua:I’m not gay but I would totally fuck my clone.
Cheery Littlebottom: I’m gay but I still don’t want to fuck my clone, that’s gross and weird.
Rincewind: I don’t want to fuck my clone because my self-loathing is THAT strong.
Moist: I’d fuck my clone because who would know better how to fuck ME than ME?
Glenda: I’d totally do all sorts of weird things to my clone I’d be embarrassed to ask somebody else to do.
Sally: To be honest, fucking my clone has always been my fantasy.
Fred Colon: It’s basically the same as masturbating, right? So no big deal.
Carrot: It’s not the same as masturbating; it’d be like having sex with your twin. Wrong and bad!
Sam Vimes: I would not have sex with my clone because what if my clone is evil.
Nanny Ogg: Not only would I have sex with my clone, I’d probably make a bunch of clones and just get it on with all of them at once because that’s how pro-clone fucking I am.
There, still wearing his hugely oversized coat but now with the addition of a helmet much too large for him, was Nobby Nobbs. “How did you get there, Nobby?” “My mum says I’m insidious,” said Nobby, grinning. A concertina sleeve rose to the vicinity of Nobby’s head, and Vimes realized that somewhere in there was a salute. “She’s right,” said Vimes. “So, where—” “’M an acting constable now, Sarge,” said Nobby. “Mr. Colon said so. Gave me a spare helmet. ’M carvin’ meself a badge out of, of—what’s that, like, waxy, kind of like candles but you can’t eat it?” “Soap, Nobby. Remember the word.”
Three fruits arced gently out of the green whirl and thumped on to Al-jibla’s tray.
The guards looked carefully, and to Colon’s mind nervously, at the cross-dressed figure of the cross corporal.
“She’s not going to do any kind of dance, is she?” one of them ventured.
“No!” snapped Beti.
“Promise?”
Nobby grabbed three of the knives and tugged them out of the man’s belt.
“I’ll give them to his lor- to him, shall I, Beti?” said Colon, suddenly quite sure that keeping the Patrician alive was almost certainly the only way to avoid a brief cigarette in the sunshine. He was also aware that other people were drifting over to watch the show.
“Very well.” Vetinari pushed his paperwork aside. “If there is more suitable clothing in your bag, I will get changed and we can take a look at Al-Khali.”
“Oh, gods…”
“Sorry, sergeant?”
“Oh, good, sir.”
“Good.” Vetinari began to pull other items out of the liberated sack. There was a set of juggler’s clubs, a bag of colored balls and finally a placard, such as might be placed to one side of the stage during an artist’s performance.
“‘Gulli, Gulli and Beti,’” he read. “‘Exotic tricks and dances.’ Hmm,” he added. “It would seem there was a lady among the owners of this sack.”
The watchmen looked at the gauzy material that came out of the sack next. Nobby’s eyes bulged.
“What are them?”
“I believe they are called harem pants, corporal.”
“They’re very-”
“Curiously, the purpose of the clothing of the nautch girl or exotic dancer has always been less to reveal and more to suggest the imminence of revelation,” said the Patrician.
Nobby looked down at his costume, and then at Sergeant Al-Colon in his costume, and said cheerfully, “Well, I ain’t sure it’s going to suit you, sir.”
He regretted the words immediately.
“I hadn’t intended that they should suit me ,” said the Patrician calmly. “Please pass me your fez, Corporal Beti.”
The bit of [water] that was immediately below them bubbled for a moment, and then the hull of the Boat rose a few inches above the surface. The lid unscrewed and Leonard’s worried face appeared.
“Ah, there you are,” he said. “We were getting concerned…”
They lowered themselves down into the fetid interior of the vessel.
Lord Vetinari was sitting with a pad of paper across his knees, writing carefully. He glanced up briefly. “Report.”
Nobby fidgeted while Sergeant Colon delivered a more or less accurate account, although there was some witty repartee with the Klatchian guards that the corporal had not hitherto recalled.
Vetinari did not look up. Still writing, he said, “Sergeant, Ur is an old country Rimward of the kingdom of Djelibeybi, whose occupants are a byword for bucolic stupidity. For some reason, I cannot think why, the guard must have assumed you were from there. And Morporkian is something of a lingua franca even in the Klatchian empire. When someone from Hersheba needs to trade with someone from Istanzia, they will undoubtedly haggle in Morporkian. This will serve us well, of course. The force that is being assembled here must mean that practically every man is a distant stranger with outlandish ways. Provided we do not act too foreign, we should pass muster. This means not asking for curry with swede and currants in it and refraining from ordering pints of Winkle’s Old Peculiar, do I make myself clear?”
“Excuse me, your lordship?” Sergeant Colon raised his voice. The Patrician looked up from a conversation with Leonard.
“Yes, sergeant?”
“What do they do to spies in Klatch, sir?”
“Er… let me see…” said Leonard. “Oh, yes… I believe they give you to the women.”
Nobby brightened up. “Oh, well, that doesn’t sound too bad-”
[…]
Colon leaned forward and whispered in Nobby’s ear. The corporal’s expression changed, slowly.
“They really-”
“Yes, Nobby.”
“Theyreally-”
“Yes, Nobby.”
“They don’t do that at home.”
“We ain’t at home, Nobby. I wish we was.”
“Although you hear stories about the Agony Aunts, sarge.”
“Gentlemen,” said Lord Vetinari. “I am afraid Leonard is being rather fanciful. That may apply to some of the mountain tribes, but Klatch is an ancient civilization and that sort of thing is not done officially. I should imagine they’d give you a cigarette.”
“A cigarette?” said Fred.
“Yes, sergeant. And a nice sunny wall to stand in front of.”
Sergeant Colon examined this for any downside. “A nice roll-up and a wall to lean against?” he said.
“I think they prefer you to stand up straight, sergeant.”
“Fair enough. No need to be sloppy just because you’re a prisoner. Oh, well. I don’t mind risking it, then.”
“Well done,” said the Patrician calmly. “Tell me, sergeant… in your long military career, did anyone ever consider promoting you to an officer?”
Inside of the darkness he was half expecting, he saw the sea’s surface, bubbling like a boiling saucepan. Green and yellow flashes of lightning danced across the water, illuminating a distant wall that seemed practically a horizon.
The tube squeaked around. If this was a cave, it was at least a couple of miles across.
“How long, do you think?” said Lord Vetinari, behind him.
“Well, the rock has a large proportion of tufa and pumice, very light, and once floated up the build-up of gas starts to escape very rapidly because of the swell,” said Leonard. “I don’t know… perhaps another week… and then I think it takes a very long time for a sufficient bubble to build up again…”
“What’re they saying, sarge?” said Nobby. “This pace floats?”
“A most unusual natural phenomenon,” Leonard went on. “I’d have thought it was just a legend had I not seen it for myself…”
Nobby nudged him. “What’re we doing down here, sarge? I mean, what’s it all about? Poking around, looking at weird marks on the rocks, going in and out of caves… and the smell… well…”
“It’s not me,” said Sergeant Colon.
“Smells like… sulfur…”
Little bubbles streamed past the window.
“It stunk up on the surface, too,” Nobby went on.
“Nearly finished, gentlemen,” said Lord Vetinari, putting the papers aside. “One last little venture and then we can surface. Very well, Leonard… take us underneath.”
“Er… aren’t we underneath already, sir?” said Colon.
“Only underneath the sea, sergeant.”
“Ah. Right.” Colon gave this due consideration. “Is there anything else to be under, then, sir?”
Sergeant Colon knew he was facing one of the most dangerous moments in his career. There was nothing for it. He was out of options. “Er… if I add this A and this O and this I and this D,” he said, the sweat pouring down his pink cheeks, “then I can use that V to make ‘avoid.’ Er… and that gets me, er, a… what d’you cal these blue squares, Len?” “A ‘Three Times Ye Value of Thee Letter’ score,” said Leonard of Quirm. “Well done, sergeant,” said Lord Vetinari. “I do believe that puts you in the lead.” “Er… I do believe it does, sir,” squeaked Sergeant Colon. “However, I find that you have left me the use of my U, N, and A, B, L, E,” the Patrician went on, “which incidentally lands me on this Three Times the Whole Worde square and, I rather suspect, wins me the game.” Sergeant Colon sagged with relief. “A capital game, Leonard,” said Vetinari. “What did you say it was called?” “I call it the ‘Make Words With Letters That Have All Been Mixed Up Game,’ my lord.” “Ah. Yes. Obviously. Well done.” “Huh, an’ I got three points,” mumbled Nobby. “They was perfectly good words that you wouldn’t let me have, too.” “I’m sure the gentlemen don’t want to know those words,” said Colon severely. “I’d have got ten points for that X.”
The occupants of the boat play the Make Words With Letters That Have All Been Mixed Up Game | Terry Pratchett, Jingo
Riften Guard:“Hold there. Before I let you into Riften, you need to pay the visitor’s tax.”
Dragonborn: “What’s the tax for?”
Riften Guard:“For the privilege of entering the city. What does it matter?”
“Whaddyou want, then?” It took a moment for [Lydia] to recognize his growl as speech. How can a guard be so lax? Then, to her mounting horror, she noted the sergeant’s patch on his shoulder. He has authority?
The other guard gave a hacking cough, and Lydia’s eyes flicked over and down to him. Then, they flicked down some more, until she beheld him in all his repulsive splendor.
He was most likely human, if only because even Riften probably didn’t let goblins join the town watch. She quickly looked away, though. Learning anything more would require studying him, and she wasn’t in the mood to punish herself that way.
With some relief, she wrenched herself away from the oddly compelling horror of the smaller guard, and faced the obese Dark Elf. “I need to get into the city. Is this gate usable?”
He nodded, leaning on his spear. “Aye. Gate works.” He smiled at her. “It’s ten gold to use.”
“Ten septims!” She saw red, and had to restrain herself. “Is this—is this a bribe?”
In Whiterun, we’d have them flogged for even suggesting such a thing!
The scrawny guard coughed, and when he started talking she realized it had been to get her attention. “Aye, for upkeep, innit?”
“Upkeep?”
The Dark Elf nodded in what he was clearly intending to be a sage manner. “Aye. Wear and tear, and the like.”
The little one jumped in then. “Every day, the gate goes up and down, up and down. ‘Snot good for the chains and, y'know, the like. So we needs you to contribute towards this public service.”
Lydia knew a scam when she saw one. “Any why, pray tell, is the gate down at all?”
The Dark Elf puffed out his chest indignantly. “Why, leaving the gate open would be to invite all sorts of miscreants into our city! Perish the thought! Have you ever heard such a thing, Nobby?”
The little one—Nobby—shook his head. “Perish the thought indeed, Sarge! We’d be overrun with bandits and riffraff! This ‘ere gate is key to the defense of our fair—” he devolved into a fit of coughing that may or may not have been divine retribution for calling Riften fair“—home!”
She looked them both up and down, wincing when her eye fell on Nobby’s face. “Could I have your names, so I can report such… dedication…to your superiors?”
The Dark Elf laughed. “Won’t be anyone to care, I can tell you that. Unappreciated, the two of us!” He scratched his nose. “But, if you’re wondering, I’m the honor of being Sergeant Fedril Kolyn. And this here is the right honorable Corporal Mordistair Nobbs, what we call Nobby for short.”
Mordistair Nobbs is it? It was unwieldy and completely unfitting, and might almost have been Breton. However, she had a hard time seeing any Breton she’d met sharing much with this… nodded absently as she thought, almost forgetting their attempt to shake her down. “And, ah, Nobby, if you don’t mind me asking…”
“Human!” He grinned hugely, and produced a greasy sheet of paper from under his breastplate. “Got a paper right here from one of those fellows at the College, saying I am,” he read aloud from the paper, marking each word with his finger, “in the absence of ev'dence to the contrary, almost certainly 'uman!” His grin showed off his teeth, of which most were yellow and several were gold. “'Not many folks can say they got a wizard’s affa-davit on that!”
So, this is the quality of the Riften guard. She’d never been one for prejudice based on appearances, but only an organization desperate for warm bodies would take Nobby. And as for Sergeant Kolyn…
She waved at the gate. “It’s been a pleasure. Now, let me through.”
Kolyn stood up as straight as he could. “Like I said—”
She glared at him. “You’re trying to bribe me. Either you open this gate now, or I report you for corruption.”
The two shared a long look, and then dissolved into peals of laughter.
Lydia waited until they’d regained some control of themselves. It would have been the easiest thing to go and find another gate, but now she was well and truly annoyed. I’m going to go through this gate, and I’ll not give them so much as a halved drake to do it!
Sergeant Kolyn finally stopped laughing long enough to point at the gate. “You must be new around here, miss. Nobody’s going to care if we’re collecting some extra repair fees. Plus, we’re guarding the gate. Right hazardous duty, it is!”
Corporal Nobbs nodded vehemently, and his ill-fitting helmet almost fell off his head. “What the big man said.”
Sergeant Kolyn gave Corporal Nobbs a little nudge with the butt of his spear. “You’d best show me the respect of my rank, Nobby.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, Sarge, but I shows you a lot more respect than most what 'ave your rank. If'n you was one of those officers like I had in the Stormcloaks, then we’d 'ave a real problem.”
Apparently they’d forgotten that Lydia existed, but she couldn’t let that last bit slide. “Youwere a Stormcloak?”
Nobby grinned. “For all of a day, I was! Offered a signing bonus and it weren’t half bad money, but then they wanted I should go to war. So, I slipped out of my tent with some of the captain’s silverware and came back.” He winked at her. “Lucky I wrote the wrong name on the papers, and nobody never seems to draw my face right for the wanted poster.” He shrugged. “Don’t think war’s quite to my liking, any'ow.
“Right you are, Nobby.” Kolyn was nodding again. “War’s a fool’s game, and no mistake.”
Lydia had had enough. “Very enlightening. Now open the damn gate.”
Sergeant Kolyn blinked. “There’s no call to be rude, miss.”
She sighed and hefted her shield from her back. “Open the gate, or I will.”
She could see the calculations happening in their heads. Their eyes went up and down the length of her body, and she obligingly loosened her sword and settled into an easy stance.
Sergeant Kolyn nodded, as though something had been agreed upon. “I think, for rare cases of clear civic virtue such as yourself, the ordinary upkeep fee can be waived.” He slammed a fist on the gate. “Open up, you lot! Got a visitor!”
A muffled voice came back through. “Whatever you bilked her for, I get half!”
Corporal Nobbs put his mouth so close to the door that he was practically kissing the wood. “Listen to me, you skeever-sucking stout! We’ve an important guest out 'ere! Open this door, or the captain’ll 'ear about it!”
There was bit of muffled cursing while the gate creaked open, and Kolyn nodded to her again. “May I be the first to welcome you to Riften, my lady. Enjoy your stay, and don’t drink the canal water.”
Nobby leaned in too, and Lydia resisted the urge to lean away. “Also, I’d recommend 'gainst the antagonization of any others what are wearing the jarl’s colors. Me and Fedril 'ere are fair-minded types, but some of the other fellows would throw you in the canal for nothing at all.” He bowed, and stuck out a hand, palm up.
As if he’d get a coin!
She glared at them both. “You have to be the worst guards I’ve ever seen.”
Corporal Nobbs snorted. “That'nd a drake’ll get me a cup o’ piss-ale at the Shackle, so'n I’ll lose no sleep.”
Ignoring the urge to grab them both and smack them around until they were less, well, them, she grabbed the reins of her horse and passed beneath the gate.
Welcome to Riften, I guess.
—
Excerpt from chapter 20 of Dragon from Ash by Mortigaunt on Archive of our Own, featuring a very minor crossover from Terry Pratchett’s Discworldnovels.
(Sorry, Tumblr decided to treat me like a spammer when I tried to include a direct link, but please go read the fic! It’s one of my favorites!)
There, still wearing his hugely oversized coat but now with the addition of a helmet much too large for him, was Nobby Nobbs. “How did you get there, Nobby?” “My mum says I’m insidious,” said Nobby, grinning. A concertina sleeve rose to the vicinity of Nobby’s head, and Vimes realized that somewhere in there was a salute. “She’s right,” said Vimes. “So, where—” “’M an acting constable now, Sarge,” said Nobby. “Mr. Colon said so. Gave me a spare helmet. ’M carvin’ meself a badge out of, of—what’s that, like, waxy, kind of like candles but you can’t eat it?” “Soap, Nobby. Remember the word.”
Sam Vimes, Carrot Ironfoundersson, Fred Colon and Nobby Nobbs
I finally scanned my Discworld Inktober drawings from last year, because I’m getting them printed into a zine! Here’s the first four, because of course I started with the four original Night Watch members from Guards! Guards! Fun fact: for some reason, Colon got the most likes out of any of these drawings when I posted them on Instagram. I guess The Algorithm™ really likes old Fred for some reason.
