Cometh the Hour
.......... In the master bedroom of a decaying mansion, out of place amongst the warehouses of the docks area of Ankh Morpork, Hubert H. Hibbert sat up. Then stood up. Then jumped high into the air and came down running on the spot. He looked tall and skinny and very very old, but capered like a Fools Guild apprentice with a hat full of custard. Another leap ended in roundhouse kick which narrowly missed the black robed skeleton that appeared in the room beside him.
.......... “Oops, sorry.” Hubert grinned, “It’s just so good to have legs again!” In the bed Hubert’s cooling body made a mound under the blankets that ended some feet short of the end of the bed.
.......... “YOU DON’T HAVE LEGS.” said Death.
.......... “Well it sure feels like it!” Hubert enthused, doing a little dance step and twirling.
.......... “YOU DONT HAVE ARMS OR HEAD OR TORSO EITHER.”
.......... “Well what are these then?” Hubert asked, doing ‘jazz hands’ at Death.
.......... “PLEASE DON’T DO THAT.” Death said.
.......... “Does it disrupt your power or something?” Hubert asked.
.......... “NO. IT’S JUST ANNOYING.” Death answered. “YOU CAN LAUGH IN MY FACE INSTEAD IF YOU LIKE.”
.......... “No, that’s all right. Back in the day I might have, but now I’m just pleased to see you.”
.......... “AS YOU WISH.”
.......... “You were saying about my legs?” Hubert prompted, dropping to do the splits then a leg sweep.
.......... “OH. YES. YOU HAVE NO LEGS, ONLY THE MEMORY OF THEM. OF YOURSELF.”
.......... “Memory, eh?” the venerable gymnast mused, jumping back up to stand before Death. His spirit stood nearly as tall as his spectral visitor. “Well, I’ve got lots of memories.” He said, looking down at himself. His emaciated figure - from thigh up a match for the body in the bed - suddenly broadened and fleshed out, inflating like a politician’s expenses claim. In moments he appeared to be a impressive, broad shouldered hulk of a man, 60 years younger, his huge muscles straining at the old man’s nightshirt he wore.
.......... “That’s still not right,” he said and the nightshirt transformed itself, darkening and spreading out to cover his body with a much stranger outfit. “There now, how’s that?” He asked.
.......... “IT’S VERY.... RED.” said Death.
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.......... Havelock Vetinari, God of Rats, stood in His temple’s inner sanctum, looking out of His window at the city spread out before Him, His hands clasped behind His back. The temple’s creation had been one of his first uses of His new Godly power, under the tutelage of Patina and appeared not unlike - in fact very much like - a certain palace in a certain city far off towards the rim. His inner sanctum resembled in equal measure a certain oblong office within that certain palace.
.......... After some general advice of the ‘don’t spend it all on sweets’ kind Patina had left in something of a hurry, citing a game she was late for with Offler.
.......... Dunmanifestin, City of the Gods, sprawled in an untidy heap across the Cori Celeste mountainside. Architectural styles from every era and culture clashed like a troll in a treacle mine. Cloud castles overhung sacred groves, lava pits butted up against crystal towers, perfumed gardens fought for room with smoking caverns.
.......... It wasn’t only Gods who lived here, of course. Some Gods like to keep vast armies of servants and angels at hand, others a menagerie of beasts and monsters to do their bidding still more elevated countless prophets and martyrs to sit by their side.
.......... All of these needed some place to abide when not actually doing their God’s bidding or generally adoring Him or Her. Which resulted in suburbs and districts dedicated to various Gods and types of Gods - the tentacled type tended to stick together, for instance - other housing of a more mixed kind where even some of the smaller Gods had been known to take residence - you know, just temporarily, until things improve.
.......... Since the power and prestige of Gods rises and falls with the power of their religion, some of those that kept many minions at hand when times were good and the altar fires were burning the hearts of the enemy like an action hero baking cakes found themselves rather hard presssed to maintain their follower’s living conditions when the fires burned out. “The slums of Heaven.” Ventinari murmured studying some of the more down market areas, “Who would have thought it?”
.......... Moreover conflict between faiths down on the disc often spilled out onto the streets of Dunmanifesting as angels responded to the provocation of some sacrilege or monsters rampaged to avenge a fallen comrade. Indeed, as Vetinari watched a collosal bull charged through tenement block. Moment’s later a flight of angels rose from that district in perfect formation and soared over another area. In synchronised motion they stopped, turned, raised their robes and... Vetinari turned from the window and strode back to His desk.
.......... “This won’t do.” He said. “It won’t do at all.”
.......... It was so untidy, He felt, so dis-organized, so... uncivil. What The City of the Gods needed, He thought, was a firm hand upon it’s tiller; someone with the experience of dynamic management of an urban enviroment in the modern age to help steer it on a clear course towards the future in an efficient and business-like manner. Someone with expertise.
.......... He took His seat and rested His elbows on the desk, steepling His fingers. Now where to begin? He asked Himself. His gaze fell on a large gold envelope in the middle of His desk. Embossed on the front of the envelope was the outline of a kitchen ladle. “Ah, yes.” He said quietly. He broke His steeple and made the Sign of Vetinari with one hand.
.......... The door of the Rectangular Office opened and a figure entered. In many ways - like the fussy manner and oiled down center parting - it resembled a certain secretary currently listening to an impressive display of volcabulary from His Grace, the Duke of Morpork. In others, like the pointed snout and whiskers and the hairless tail hanging down behind it, not so much.
.......... “Ah, Drumratt,” Vetinari said, “Please RSVP to Anoia. We shall be attending her function, after all.”
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.......... “What’s up? You seem a bit down.” Asked Albert, Death’s manservant.
.......... “NO ONE LAUGHS IN MY FACE ANYMORE.” Death said, gloomily.
.......... “Ah, well, kids today you know,” Albert sympathised.
...to be continued
Mongo
