The world awoke to a sound not unlike the breaking of a book spine, a poppling crack that resounded deep and terrible, as reality flexed and bounced back in on itself but somewhat more creased than before.

High up in the Ramptops, Granny Weatherwax opened her eyes. She blinked away remnants of the mind she had been Borrowing from and sat up, knocking aside the cardboard sign which fell to the floor unheeded. You, not quite the kitten the Aching girl have given her but somewhere between the awkward gangling phase of feline adolescence and grace —wiggling fluff, leaping ball of murderous intent— slid in through the open window, her wet paws smudging the already worn out words as she pawed over them to where Granny was stiffly righting herself. If the old witch noticed the sign she neither cared nor showed concern, instead holding out one arm to the cat, which the creature climbed—ever careful with her claws—to settle around the old witch’s neck like a particularly fine and purring stole.

Granny turned her head to the side, and gave You a questioning look. “Voles, in the lean-to?”

When the cat meowed in response, Granny nodded her head, “Saves me the trouble I suposes. Right,” she stood up, ignoring the creak in her back and knees, and rolling her shoulders like a prize fighter about to step into the ring, “Lets see what that was about.”

Tiffany was out in the garden, her cloak pulled over the white linen on her shift, staring up at the sky. She hadn’t meant to spend the night at Granny’s cottage, but there had been business to attend to up at the Dancers, and by the time she was done her bones ached as though she were older than Granny herself. Nanny had offered to take her for the night, but Tiffany had wanted to see the bees before she left in the morning. She watched them now, fascinated by the swarm as it moved. She’d danced with them once before, in the shape of her own image with shards of sunlight spinning between them. There was no sunlight here now. In fact there was nothing at all.

“So it’s not you then,” the girl, verging onto the cusp of womanhood said, turning dark sensible eyes to Granny, as the old woman drew nearer. She looked frailer every time Tiffany saw her, but to say so would be to test the limits of such frailty, and usually result in a good ding about the ear.



“Not at night,” Granny said with a sniff, “Bees don’t much like the night.”

Tiffany turned her attention to the silver pocket watch in her hand. It had been a gift from Preston, still off studying medicine down in Ankh-Morpork. He’d thought it might be useful to her, writing in his letter that the nurses at the Lady Sybil Free Hospital used much smaller ones to better time heartbeats and labor contractions. Tiffany, who had learned years ago how to see the pain of others and move it outside of their bodies, and feel their heartbeat in the palm of her hands, hadn’t the heart to tell him she didn’t need it, and instead kept it fully wound, keeping it up to speed by the flicker of the clacks tower near Lancre castle whenever she flew by. She’d been surprised when Granny had reacted favorably to it, rather than the way the old woman reacted to everything else Preston sent her. She’d quite nearly had a conniption over the Klatchian styled bracelet he’d sent. Tiffany liked to wear it, a witch never knew when she might find herself in need of a string of glass beads to make a shambles with.

Pressing on the clasp of the watch, Tiffany looked up at the bees again, swarming against the midnight sky.“But it’s not night.”

*

In Überwald, Queen Blodwen formally Rhys Rhysson, the Low King of the dwarfs, reached for the crib where her infant son slept soundly on, oblivious to the sound of the world shuddering around them in the silence.

Lightly she touched a gauntleted hand to his smooth infant cheek, and drew back only when she was content he was there, and not vanished with the light.



A dwarf, she reflected should not be afraid of the dark, save for that which is summoned, but this was different. This was a dark which spread from the bones of the world itself. The deafening silence deepened into a vacuum of sound as the mines fell silent, with only the ghost of the hammer falls to echo through the deep tunnels. After a moment the door to her ante-chamber opened, and then closed abruptly as her axe made contact with the wood and splintered it into shards.The reproachful face of Mr Shine, Diamond King of the trolls, appeared in the hole.



“What are you doing here?” she asked, forgoing the formalities of greetings as he had done by entering into her mines unaccounted for. “If it’s about the gem stone mines…”

Mr Shine stepped inside the room, his hulking mass held low by the confines of the space. Dwarfs had no need for large rooms, but they liked to show off in them. In here, Queen Blodwen felt neither the need nor the desire to show off. This was her space, between her and her son. She watched as the troll laid one enormous shining finger on the side of the crib, and set it to gently rocking.

“The sky is dark.” he said into the silence, his words like the sound of a chandelier clinking in an earthquake. “It is dawn, and the sky is dark.”

Queen Blodwen thought about this, sucking in air through her teeth and letting it out in a whistle. “Light is a funny thing though… sometimes I swear you could watch it seep over the plains, like treacle through a mine, when you least expect it, see?”

The Diamond King shook his head, creating a grinding noise like gravel on a chalkboard. “Not like this.”

*

Up on the surface, a cautious young man, dressed in an old fashioned opera cloak, with slicked back hair and an impressive widows peak, stepped out into the daylight. Or where it ought to be. For good measure he ran toward the moat, waving his arms about, then ran back toward the family castle, where a patient looking Igor stood. He was holding a black umbrella in one hand, and a vial of blood in the other. Just in case.

“Remarkable,” Vlad said, once under the safety of the umbrella. But he still threw his hand out from under the safety of the awning, frowning when no smoke began to appear. “Vhat do you think it means, Igor?”

“Couldn’t thay, Mathter.” Igor lisped obediently, ushering his young (in a manner of speaking) master back inside the safety of the castle. It wasn’t the sunlight he was worried about, it was what might happen if people realized the vampires could venture outside at this time of…not day…The old Count Magpyr at least still had the sense to stay in his coffin. Even if his great nephew didn’t.



“Has Agnes been?”

“Yeth, Mathter, it wath Mith Nitt who thought you ought to know.” After a moment Igor carefully added, “Lookth well, Mith Nitt. Fantashtic pair of lungth. Not that I’ve theen them ofcourthe, Thir.”

“I think…do you think she vhould like to come to,” Vlad swallowed around the word, then persevered, “Do you think Miss Nitt vhould care for thome, I mean some, tea?”

Igor shrugged, which was not unlike watching a landslide occur in terrible slow motion. “I don’t thee why not, Thir. It’th well known that witcheth are fond of tea.”

Outside, the werewolves began to howl into the dark and moonless sky, the sound spreading faster than wildfire in summer, down to the plains and beyond…

*

It wasn’t often that Mustrum Ridcully could be said to be nervous. He’d faced more unmentionable things in the dungeon dimensions than could be counted, and the only reason he didn’t have any of their heads mounted on his study wall was that demons tended to explode messily when hit right. He’d even watched his one time…oh, whatever she had been, trap a unicorn with a strand of her hair, then shoe it with silver. No, there wasn’t a lot which could make Ridcully nervous. Angry and hungry yes, but not nervous. Nevertheless…

He cleared his throat and tried again, all too aware of the many sets of eyes not looking at him. Even Vetinari’s eyes were fixed elsewhere, focused on some distant horizon that only he could see.

“Well, y’see…it’s just…not there.”

“The sun,” Vetinari said slowly, in a voice like tempered steel, “the sun, is not there?”



“Oh no, that’s all right. Still up there.” Ridcully brightened slightly, glad to be able to say something with certainty, “Stibbons found it with that machine of his. It went “ding”.”



“Ding.” Vetinari repeated.



“Ding.” Ridcully confirmed.



The silence that fell was not so much awkward, as excruciating. You could have heard a pin drop, were it not for the pin, having taken command of it’s own destiny, temporarily rerouted the course of gravity and high tailed it out of the room to avoid the chagrin.



“Ding.” Vetinari said again, then pinched the bridge of his nose, “Well, that’s more than dong I suppose—Mr DeWord do not print that.”



“More like dung,” uttered the unmistakable tones of Sam Vimes, who despite being hovered over by a very reproachful looking Drumknott holding a pristine ash trey, was taking a drag from the dog end of a cigarette, surrounded in his own personal cloud of smoke.



“Ah, Sir Samuel,” Vetinari drawled, “Do you have something to contribute to the table?”



All eyes were momentarily drawn to the axe, cleaved into the partially collapsed table they were sitting around. The aforementioned pin, having now mastered the art of defying gravity, moved on to transcendental physics, and found an entirely different universe to drop into. Somewhere, sometime, something looked up in confusion as a pin dropped into its cup with a splash.



When the silence had passed like the swing of an axe, Vimes took a final drag from his cigarette, and stubbed it out into the proffered ash trey. Drunknott who had been on the verge of vibrating through the floor with annoyance, sagged imperceptibly, and stalked off to dispose of the butt.



“Don’t know really,” the Duke of Ankh-Morpork said, “Can you steal the sun? Sorry, the light, from the sun.”



As one shambling body, all eyes turned to one figure at the end of the table.



“Hey!” Said, Moist Von Lipwig, echoed by the Guild Master of Thieves at the other end, who went largely ignored. “Why does everyone always look at me?”

Beside him his wife, affectionately known to him as Spike, and fearfully referred to as “Yes Ms. Dearheart, No. Ms. Dearheart, Right Away Ms. Dearheart” by everyone else, leaned back in her chair, a hand pressed to the swell of her expanding belly. Vetinari had been surprised to find that after some years of electric matrimony, the razor sharp Adora Belle Dearheart (von Lipwig) had apparently acquiesced to motherhood, in much the same way he was surprised that the River Ankh had yet to get up and sludge its way out of the city under its own accord. It seemed that wonders never ceased. He hadn’t failed to notice however, that their neighbors, Lady Sybil and the right honorable Duke of Ankh-Morpork, currently eyeballing the younger man as only one lying bastard can to another, had started putting up newer, sturdier walls. Lined with steel. Vetinari doubted it was for the dragons.



The mental imagery of what might happen should a young Vimes befriend the Von Lipwig offspring filled his mind, and Vetinari briefly considered retirement. He heard Fourecks was nice this time of year…and very very far away…



“They probably think you’re wearing it,” Adora said to her husband, a small tight smile tugging at her lips as she reached out to flip the brim of his golden messenger cap. But even that, the electric flash of gold that seemed to personify Moist Von Lipwig, embodiment of the messenger god himself, looked dim in the darkness, no matter how many candles they lit.



“Not me,” the swindler turned honest man said, “I’d tell you if I had, Adora. For once, it was not me. No turtle eggs up my sleeve this time.”



“This time?” Vimes jumped on it, as a terrier to a rat, and was met with the unabashed and deflecting grin of the Post Master, who spread his hands widely.



“I’ve never stolen from the gods, Mister Vimes. Not even Dunnit Duncan would confess to this.”



“Ats right,” said the primordial ooze from somewhere behind Sam Vimes which was the voice of Nobby Nobbs standing to—what was presumably—attention. “We asked him first.”



“What is becoming abundantly clear, gentleman, ladies” he added with a flash of a smile toward the figures of Adora Belle, Queen Molly of the Beggars’ Guild, Mrs. Palm from the Seamstresses and the newly appointed Dr. Jocasta Wiggs of the Assassins’ Guild, “Is that no one has the faintest idea what is going on.”

Silence resumed, and was only broken by the return of Drumknott sidling back into the room.



“No word from Überwald then, Sir?” Vimes said, voice light as though he were afraid the string he were pulling at might turn out to be a lit fuse.



“Nothing that we don’t already know.” Vetinari said flatly, “And the Klatchians are reporting the same. A loud noise that shook the ground, and the sun hasn’t risen. It hasn’t risen anywhere. Not even at the Hub. The Lancre King was good enough to send,” he glanced to his notes which were clipped to a notepad, “the estimable Mrs. Ogg and some of her gels up to check and they found, and I quote “pitch bastard blackness”. I don’t think I can speak much more plainly than that. We are dealing with the anomaly of our time.”



“Some of the temples, are saying it’s the end of times.” Mrs. Palm said, and Vetinari couldn’t help but notice the way her hand trembled when she raised a lace handkerchief to her painted lips.



“They’re always predicting the end of something,” Vimes growled bitterly, and Mrs. Palm gave him a flinty look, all timidity gone.



“Yes, but this time people are listening.” Dr Wiggs said, her high young voice belying the wicked looking dagger which had appeared from thin air and which was spinning distractedly between her fingers. Vetinari was impressed and upset that he hadn’t been able to recruit her as one of his Clerks. He hadn’t even felt her move.



“Mrs. Palm is quite right, we can’t have rumors spreading and causing unrest.” Vetinari said, “Vimes, I want your men out patrolling. All of them. Torches, lamps on show, all the watch houses lit. In fact, Molly, could you see that all the beggars have fires lit? I think it would be good to have the city illuminated.”



“Right you are,“ the toothless old woman wheezed and knuckled her forehead as she stood, “excuse me, I need to see a man about a duck.”



Vimes likewise stood, his chair scraping back loudly as he did so. “Sir. If you don’t mind I’ll take the liberty of emptying the city sand stores as well…and ah, Mr Lipwig, if you could see that the golems are aware we might be needing them for fire duty? I’d rather not have the city ablaze, if it’s all the same to you.”



“You mean those secret golems? The ones out in the middle of nowhere which nobody knows anything about who can only be commanded by a man in a golden suit?” Lipwig asked flatly.



“Yes, Mr Lipwig. The ones you most definitely did not use to carry a steam locomotive over a broken bridge in the middle of the night while we were ambushed by fundamentalist dwarfs.” Sam Vimes returned just as deadpan, pausing to light another cigarette while Drumknott made strangulated noises in the background. “Those ones. Good day to you, if you can call it that.”



“As for the rest of you,” Vetinari’s cold gaze took in the remainder of the council around the collapsed remains of the war table as Vimes followed after the scuttling Molly. “Carry on as normal. I wont have this city fall because of darkness.”



“What do we do though,” Adora asked, with uncharacteristic quiet, as both hands came to encompass her belly protectively, followed mere seconds later by the hand of her husband who in that moment looked like a man who had finally run out of steam. “What do we do if the darkness stays?”



Vetinari’s eyes slid from her, to the axe, to the window, to the other faces around the room. Even Mustrum was being uncharacteristically quiet, his brandy snifter far from touched, neglected on the arm of his chair. Drumknott wouldn’t even meet his master’s eye.



Havelock felt a momentary pang as he wished for a moment of clarity, the kind that came from being encompassed by the chaos of gentle Leonard of Quirm. But the prolific inventor had long since passed into that other eternal night.

“We keep going.” he said into the awful silence, “We keep putting one foot in front of the other until it does. And when it does, we still keep going. Because that is what it means to be alive. Now go. I’m sure you have as much to attend to as I do.“



*



It was the early hours of the following morning, though it was hard to tell without any light at all. Even the stars failed to shine now. It was the kind of darkness Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson associated with being underground. Having grown up amongst dwarfs he was much accustomed to the darkness of a mine. But this was not merely the dark of being underground, this was thick, black, cloying darkness, the kind that slipped down your throat and crushed the air from your lungs. The dark which every dwarf felt dragging in his bones with every swing of the pick, the deep, unforgiving darkness of a cave in, filling your mouth, your nose, your eyes, even your ears, all of it weighing you down as you fought against the unstoppable.



Carrot breathed out, and the steady metallic sound of stone against steel filled the quiet room once more. His sword was sharp enough now to cut the atoms in the air as it passed, but still he kept going. He’d grown up listening to stories in mountains, about great old kings with oak vines for crowns and birthmarks, the power of life over death held in the shedding of their blood. It was said that to kill such a King would make the sun rise again…



He paused at the sound of a door flap downstairs, and resumed his task. A letter for home still sat on his desk, the carefully spelled out words glittering darkly in the candlelight as the ink dried. It was hard to think of anything else to write.



“Dear Mume and Dad, Hope this letter finds you welle despite the sun going out…” he’d gotten lost after that.



The sound of clawed paws clicking over wood, changed to the sound of bare feet padding over wood as she climbed the stairs, and Carrot turned to find Angua in the doorway to their shared bedroom, just as he slid his sword under the bed.



They’d technically been not-married for several years now, but he still regretted that one time he’d drawn a sword on her. True she had just turned from the beautiful girl in his arms into a golden haired werewolf, but he still felt bad for jumping to conclusions.



“Anything?” he asked.



Angua, naked and starting to uncharacteristically shiver, crawled over their shared bed and climbed under the covers. After a moment she lifted his hand from beside her on the sheet, and placed it on her neck. Carrot obliged, closing his grip just a little bit, feeling her relax ever so slightly under the decisively wolfish action. It was an odd gesture amongst humans, but given that strictly speaking he was a six foot dwarf and she was a werewolf, he felt able to give her this small measure of comfort. It wasn’t often she wanted for someone else to be stronger than her, it made his heart sink.



“Nothing.” she replied at last. “Everything still smells the same, I can see the colors, sort of. They’re just…muted. Cherry can’t find anything wrong either. I’ve brought her back samples of soil from everywhere. I even made it to Sto Lat. I had to hitch a ride back on the mail wagon.”



Carrot moved until he was leaning over her, and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.



“Don’t go.” Angua said into the dark, “Not yet. Mr. Vimes…”



“Can wait.” Carrot finished for her, and climbed up into the bed behind her, enveloping her in his arms. “We’ll go out on duty together, once you’ve slept. It’ll be all right in the morning, you’ll see.”



Angua, unable to speak said nothing. Instead she let herself be enveloped in his warmth, and closed her eyes against the darkness.



*



Samuel Vimes, Duke of Ankh-Morpork, Commander of the City Watch and one time Blackboard Monitor, did as he had always done, and stepped out into the night. His lantern cast green glow on the street, spreading shadow, if not actual light. But he was used to that too. On his arm he could feel the welt of the Summoning Dark, cold and burning against his skin, but even that parting gift left to him by the ancient dwarfen curse afforded him no sight here.

Young Sam had reached for it, while Sam had been tucking him into bed, and with the knowing innocence of a child had looked up into his father’s eyes and said “It’s the wrong kind of dark,” kissed his mother good night, and rolled over to sleep.



Sybil, who hadn’t known what to say to that, and who had pretended not to see her husband turn to stone beside her, had likewise turned to kiss him, and told him to take care on the streets before Willikins had offered him up his cloak and lamp and seen him out into the night.



Vimes had been reluctant to leave, knowing the mood in the city after so many days and nights of darkenss, but he’d been somewhat relieved to see the steadfast look on his Butler’s face and the ice pick propped up in the umbrella stand by the door. It had gleamed in the fire light, almost as much as the glint in Willikins’ eye.



The sound of metal skittering over the cobblestones brought him back to the present, and Vimes’ hand strayed to the truncheon at his side. He relaxed a moment later when he saw the lamp light coming towards him, the sulfurous yellow barely illuminating the features of CMOT Dibbler. Apparently not even the imminent apocalypse could keep the vendor off the streets. His tray held small lamps, which barely gave off any light at all. Typical.



“Hello Mister Vimes.”



“Throat.” Vimes greeted him in return, “Shouldn’t you be indoors?”



“I could Mister Vimes, I could.” the other man replied. Vimes was not fond of his acquired titles over the years, but there were very few people who knew him well enough to get away with calling him Mister Vimes these days. “And I was going to Mister Vimes, but then it occurred to me…”

It was then that Vimes spotted the shadows trailing along in Dibbler’s wake, each one holding one of the tiny lanterns Vimes had seen in the vendor’s trey.



“Only I thought about the kids, Mister Vimes, what with them not having any lights…and well the Beggars, they has their territory, but they don’t like the Shades or the Urchins Streets…and well…” the other man trailed off, and Vimes found his eyes were suddenly burning.



“Take them to the yard, Throat. If there’s not enough room as Pseudopolis Yard get Fred and Nobby to get the old hurry up wagon out the back and we’ll take them wherever we can. Wake up the whole damn street if you have to. And tell Fred to run up to the house for food too, I’m sure Sybil can manage something…”



Dibbler’s smile changed ever so slightly, to one just a little less sad. “Fank you Mister Vimes, you’re a real gem you are. See that my loves? That’s a true gentleman that is.”



Vimes let the comment pass, just as he let the many little bodies pass him by, a sea of grubby illuminated faces looking up at him, Old Stone Face, and not quite smiling, but they weren’t crying either. Vimes wanted to bawl, and momentarily wished he could traipse down Cockbilll Street and beg his old mum for…what…just beg he supposed.



When the urchins had passed by, lead on by CMOT Dibbler, Vimes started up again, walking up toward the main square.



I arrested a dragon here once, he thought, with dazed befuddlement, Hell I arrested Vetinari once.I’ve been chased by werewolves, sent back in time, almost been crushed by a rampaging golem, possessed by a dwarfen curse, and then there was the business at Dolly Sisters…the list went on and on, but Sam Vimes realized one thing now. All those times when he had thought there was no hope of survival, he had been acting on instinct. And instinct had won. There was nothing he could do here. Nothing he could run from, nothing he could kick, punch, stab, burn out from his very veins by sheer force of will alone, nothing tangible to rage at. Only the darkness. And you couldn’t arrest the dark.



“Quiet night,” he said after a while, when he’d become aware of the presence at his side.



IT WOULD SEEM TO BE. the hooded figure intoned, with the depth and bass of a crypt door slamming shut.



“Haven’t seen you for a while.” Vimes said lightly, careful not to turn and look, even though he’d stared into the grinning face of Death many times before. “Is this the end then?”



IF YOU MEAN, AM I HERE FOR YOU? THEN NO. IF YOU MEAN THE WORLD. Death paused, drawing in a rattling breath he did not need, then carried on. I DO NOT KNOW.



He’d imagined Vimes would start at that, but to his surprise the other man merely nodded, letting out a sound half between a laugh and a grunt of acceptance. Susan had been much less calm. In fact she’d been downright agitated with that poker. She’d even made him go all the way North to check on the Hogfather, who like all the other anthropomorphic beings of the Disc, was currently just as confused as He was.



I WISH, THAT I DID.



“Wishing is human,” Vimes replied quietly, “Well…living, I suppose. I don’t think it matters much to you, either way.”



I HAVE SEEN THE BEGINNING, AND THE END OF TIMES, ALL OF THEM. Death said in return, NEITHER HAS FELT LIKE THIS. He paused, then added. I HAD A DAUGHTER ONCE… This time Vimes did start, but he didn’t look around, NOT ME PERSONALLY, BUT I TOOK HER IN, I RAISED HER, I EVEN HIRED A BOY AS AN APPRENTICE, SOMEONE HER AGE YOU SEE…



“What happened?” Vimes asked, setting down his lantern on the cobblestones, and patting absently at his pockets for his cigar case. He’d stopped smoking a year ago for Sybil, but the strain of the last few days had given way to certain old habits. Apart from the one he never could give way to.



SHE DIED. Death said succinctly and out of the corner of his eye, Vimes saw the blue fire dim ever so slightly in those hollow eyes THEY BOTH DID. NO THANK YOU, I DO NOT HAVE THE LUNGS FOR IT, he said, when Vimes offered him a cigar. I AM UNCERTAIN ABOUT SUSAN.



“Susan?” Vimes asked, trying not to think too hard about what it must be like to be technically immortal, and to feel emotion, to watch empires crumble and fall and for the continents to shift. He tried to think least of all, of what it would feel like to outlive his son.



MY GRANDDAUGHTER, I BELIEVE SHE IS TEACHING YOUR SON HISTORY. SHE IS MORTAL. SOMETIMES.



Vimes, who had paused with cigar midway to his lips, nodded his head, and bit down on the end of the cigar, spitting it away in the street. His son was being taught history by the granddaughter of Death. Who was he to dwell on the idiocracies of mortality at a time like this?



Sam Vimes, said a voice in the back of his head, You’re Sam Bloody Vimes, you ought to be doing something…



IT FEELS LIKE THIS.



“What does?” Vimes queried, now beginning the hunt for his lighter, or failing that a box of matches.



THIS DARKNESS, IT IS AS THOUGH YSABELL HAS DIED AGAIN, AND ONCE MORE, one skeletal hand holding an empty glass timer came into Vimes’ peripheral vision, I CAN DO NOTHING.



In the silence that followed, nothing stirred between them, not even the chill night air. Vimes wiped roughly at his eyes with the back of his hand, and coughed around the cigar in his mouth. He’d found his matches, but he didn’t seem able to light them, the sticks extinguishing before their sulfurous little glow even had time to warm his hands.



“I’m sorry.” he said at last, giving up on the matches and throwing them aside, holding the unlit cigar in his fingers for the sheer comfort of the thing. “That must be terrible.”



DEATH COMES TO US ALL, IN THE END the seven foot skeleton replied, EVEN ME, THOUGH I DID WIN THAT PARTICULAR FIGHT.



“Hang on,” Vimes halted, this time turning to look at Death full on and pointing the cigar at him accusingly, “You died and fought yourself?”



IN A MANNER OF SPEAKING. HE WAS ME, BUT NOT. HE WAS DEATH, WHILE I WAS…ME. SUPERIOR SKILL AND EXTENSIVE EXPERIENCE WITH A SCYTHE WON OUT, IF YOU’RE WONDERING. THAT AND I COULD NOT DO IT.



“Do what?”



I COULD NOT CONCEDE THIS WORLD TO ANOTHER DEATH WHO WORE A CROWN. I’M SURE YOU CAN RELATE.



“A crown? That’s a bit…”



OSTENTATIOUS?



“I was going to say up his own arse, but yes, that works too” Vimes conceded, once more resuming his search for the lighter he knew to be on his person somewhere. It would be morning soon, at least, the time morning usually arrived at. He wondered if Angua was back, and whether Carrot had been able to pry himself from the duty desk at all.



Death made a hollow intoning sound of a laugh, which for some reason made Vimes think of Hogswatch.



YES, THAT WOULD ALSO SUFFICE.



“So you really can’t do anything?” Vimes asked, unable to keep a hint of pleading from his voice.



I CAN DO MY JOB, WHICH IS ALL I EVER CAN DO. AFTER ALL WHAT CAN THE HARVEST HOPE FOR, IF NOT FOR THE CARE OF THE REAPER MAN?



Vimes nodded sadly, even as he found his lighter, and clicked the flame into life. “Fair enough.”



Silence fell between them once more, a thin tendril of smoke snaking into the air as Vimes held it between his teeth, letting ash form on the end. Even with all the lamps in the city burning, it wasn’t enough. He could barely make out the palace from here…everything seemed too vague and shapeless, as though it might vanish were he to blink too hard. He could feel all of it slipping away, like sand through his fingers. He’d felt this way once before, but when he’d sought out the Sonky shop earlier that day there had been no one to greet him, not even a broom or tambourine. Just the memory of times past, of many times past. He could feel them welling up now, like ghosts in his vision, the world he had known, and the world he knew now, merging together. The Sweeper had once told him the possibilities of the future were endless. Now Vimes wasn’t so sure.



YOU ARE WONDERING, WHAT HAPPENS AFTER DEATH.



Vimes was wondering, but he didn’t bother to confirm it.



THE ANSWER IS UNSATISFYING, I AM AFRAID. I HAVE NEVER DIED, SO I DO NOT KNOW.



“There’s sand.” Vimes said, as one who had found himself confronted with one too many doors in his life, and found nothing but black sand on the other side, open and inviting. Only to be dragged back through the other side by desperate grappling hands on wounds, his own determination, the word Daddy emblazoned across the starless sky…



THERE IS SAND, Death conceded, AND THE WALK UNTO ENDLESS NIGHT. BUT BEYOND THAT…I DARE SAY WE WILL FIND OUT TOGETHER ONE DAY, SAMUEL VIMES



Sam Vimes, who was puffing strongly on the end of his cigar until it glowed cherry hot, let out a plume of smoke, the breath hitching in his lungs and making him cough ever so slightly. He threw it down on the ground and stamped it out, remembering why Sybil had asked him to stop smoking in the first place. Reaching for his lantern he paused to look up at the sky.It could almost have been his imagination, but he thought he saw…

“Commander Vimes!” he whirled at the sound of his name, aware of the presence beside him vanishing to be replaced by the rapidly approaching figure of Captain Carrot, and Captain Angua in tow. Carrot was in uniform, while Angua was not, though she did wear her badge around her neck.

“Fred said we’d find you out here,” the towering red headed man said, and Vimes had to wonder at that cheery smile on the younger man’s face. “He said good old Sam Vimes, he’s out creating havoc.”

“What? Oh, the urchins…” Vimes said pinching the bridge of his nose. How long had he been standing there talking to Death? That couldn’t be good for your health, could it? Long protracted conversations with Death about death… “I take it everything is about as under control as a tea cup in a maelstrom?”



“Yesir,” Carrot replied promptly, and Vimes couldn’t help but notice the way Angua’s lips curved ever so slightly upwards. Along with his strapping good looks, near infallible good mood and community spirit, Carrot Ironfoundersson was also impervious to sarcasm and the cynicism of others. Well, perhaps that wasn’t a bad thing. If you couldn’t stop a bullet or the march of time itself, you might as well be, well, kind. That was what it all came down to in the end, wasn’t it? Making the world a better place so others didn’t have to, even if that world was heading to hell in a bow tied basket with a cherry on top…you had to do what was right, otherwise, what was the point?

He blinked around the weariness, seeing light spots forming behind his eyes. He heard Angua gasp, a sound mimicked a moment later by Carrot as the other man reached for his shoulders and spun him about to face the city walls and the view beyond.And Sam Vimes opened his eyes to see…nothing really, just a faint glimmer on the horizon, but it was there. No matter how many times he blinked, it was there.

Across the city, Fred Colon stepped out of the yard, cocoa mug in hand, and looked up. A thousand miles away and more, Lady Margalotta drew back from her window, and a further thousand more Princess Esmeralda Margaret Note Spelling the First of Lancre stepped out onto the parapet of the castle walls, holding onto her mother’s hand to point happily at the sky.

The world yawned, and seemed to roll over under Sam Vimes’ boots, and he turned to find that he, Angua and Carrot were no longer alone in the street. Hundreds of people crowded in on them, each and every one of them pushing to be out in the street to see the sky. It was a copper’s worst nightmare, and Sam Vimes grinned broadly from ear to ear.

“It’s over then, is it?” Carrot asked, shielding Angua from being jostled as the tide of people were forced to move around him. “Do you really think the darkness is over, Mister Vimes?”

Sam Vimes turned to the sky, where the dawn spilled over the landscape, flowing freely as though it had never once gone away. It was different of course, but then again what dawn isn’t?

“Some nights are just longer than others, I suppose.” he said, and turned to walk home in the light.