Terry Pratchett - Guards! Guards!

And eventually, under siege, you did what Ankh-Morpork had always done - unbar the gates, let the conquerors in, and make them your own.

How did you start? She seemed to be expecting something.

He shrugged, and picked up his wine glass and sought for a phrase. One crept into his wildly reso­nating mind.

"Here's looking at you, kid," he said.

The gongs of various midnights banged out the old day.

(. . . and further towards the Hub, where the Ram-top Mountains joined the forbidding spires of the cen­tral massif, where strange hairy creatures roamed the eternal snows, where blizzards howled around the freezing peaks, the lights of a lone lamasery shone out over the high valleys. In the courtyard a couple of yellow-robed monks stacked the last case of small green bottles on to a sleigh, ready for the first leg of the incredibly difficult journey down to the distant plains. The box was labelled, in careful brush-strokes, "Mstr. C.M.O.T. Dibbler, Ankh-Morpork."

"You know, Lobsang," said one of them, "one can­not help wondering what it is he does with this stuff.")

Corporal Nobbs and Sergeant Colon lounged in the shadows near the Mended Drum, but straightened up as Carrot came out bearing a tray. Detritus the troll stepped aside respectfully.

"Here we are, lads," said Carrot. "Three pints. On the house."

"Bloody hell, I never thought you'd do it," said Colon, grasping a handle. "What did you say to him?"

"I just explained how it was the duty of all good citizens to help the guard at all times," said Carrot innocently, ' 'and I thanked him for his co-operation.''

"Yeah, and the rest," said Nobby.

"No, that was all I said."

"Then you must have a really convincing tone of voice."

"Ah. Well, make the most of it, lads, while it lasts," said Colon.

They drank thoughtfully. It was a moment of su­preme peace, a few minutes snatched from the reali­ties of real life. It was a brief bite of stolen fruit and enjoyed as such. No one in the whole city seemed to be fighting or stabbing or making affray and, just for now, it was possible to believe that this wonderful state of affairs might continue.

And even if it didn't, then there were memories to get them through. Of running, and people getting out of the way. Of the looks on the faces of the horrible palace guard. Of, when all the thieves and heroes and gods had failed, of being there. Of nearly doing things nearly right.

Nobby shoved the pot on a convenient window sill, stamped some life back into his feet and blew on his fingers. A brief fumble in the dark recesses of his ear produced a fragment of cigarette.

"What a time, eh?" said Colon contentedly, as the flare of a match illuminated the three of them.

The others nodded. Yesterday seemed like a lifetime ago, even now. But you could never forget something like that, no matter who else did, no matter what hap­pened from now on.

"If I never see any bloody king it'll be too soon," said Nobby.

"I don't reckon he was the right king, anyway," said Carrot. "Talking of kings: anyone want a crisp?"

"There's no right longs,'' said Colon, but without much rancour. Ten dollars a month was going to make a big difference. Mrs Colon was acting very differently towards a man bringing home another ten dollars a month. Her notes on the kitchen table were a lot more friendly.

"No, but I mean, there's nothing special about hav­ing an ancient sword," said Carrot. "Or a birthmark. I mean, look at me. I've got a birthmark on my arm."

"My brother's got one, too," said Colon. "Shaped like a boat."

"Mine's more like a crown thing," said Carrot.

"Oho, that makes you a king, then," grinned Nobby. "Stands to reason."

"I don't see why. My brother's not an admiral," said Colon reasonably.

"And I've got this sword," said Carrot.

He drew it. Colon took it from his hand, and turned it over and over in the light from the flare over the Drum's door. The blade was dull and short, and notched like a saw. It was well-made and there might have been an inscription on it once, but it had long ago been worn into indecipherability by sheer use.

"It's a nice sword," he said thoughtfully. "Well-balanced."

"But not one for a king," said Carrot. "Kings' swords are big and shiny and magical and have jewels on and when you hold them up they catch the light, ting. "

"Ting, " said Colon. "Yes. I suppose they have to, really."

"I'm just saying you can't go round giving people thrones just because of stuff like that,'' said Carrot. "That's what Captain Vimes said."

"Nice job, mind," said Nobby. "Good hours, king­ing."

"Hmm?" Colon had momentarily been lost in a lit­tle world of speculation. Real kings had shiny swords, obviously. Except, except, except maybe your real real king of, like, days of yore, he would have a sword that didn't sparkle one bit but was bloody efficient at cut­ting things. Just a thought.

"I say kinging's a good job," Nobby repeated. "Short hours."

"Yeah. Yeah. But not long days," said Colon. He gave Carrot a thoughtful look.

"Ah. There's that, of course."

"Anyway, my father says being king's too much like hard work," said Carrot. "All the surveying and as­saying and everything." He drained his pint. "It's not the kind of thing for the likes of us. Us," he looked proudly,"guards. You all right, Sergeant?"

"Hmm? What? Oh. Yes." Colon shrugged. What about it, anyway? Maybe things turned out for the best. He finished the beer. "Best be off," he said. "What time was it?"

"About twelve o'clock," said Carrot.

"Anything else?"

Carrot gave it some thought."And all's well?'' he said.

"Right. Just testing."

"You know," said Nobby, "the way you say it, lad, you could almost believe it was true."

Let the eye of attention pull back . . .

This is the Disc, world and mirror of worlds, borne through space on the back of four giant elephants who stand on the back of Great A'Tuin the Sky Turtle. Around the Rim of this world the ocean pours off end­lessly into the night. At its Hub rises the ten-mile spike of the Cori Celesti, on whose glittering summit the gods play games with the fates of men...

... if you know what the rules are, and who are the players.

On the far edge of the Disc the sun was rising. The light of the morning began to flow across the patch­work of seas and continents, but it did so slowly, because light is tardy and slightly heavy in the presence of a magical field.

On the dark crescent, where the old light of sunset had barely drained from the deepest valleys, two specks, one big, one small, flew out of the shadow, skimmed low across the swells of the Rim ocean, and struck out determinedly over the totally unfathomable, star-dotted depths of space.

Perhaps the magic would last. Perhaps it wouldn't. But then, what does?

All this was untrue. The truth is that even big collections of ordinary books distort space, as can readily be proved by anyone who has been around a really old-fashioned secondhand bookshop, one of those that look as though they were designed by M. Escher on a bad day and has more staircases than storeys and those rows of shelves which end in little doors that are surely too small for a full-sized human to enter. The rele­vant equation is: Knowledge = power = energy = matter = mass; a good bookshop is just a genteel Black Hole that knows how to read.

A figgin is defined in the Dictionary of Eye-Watering Words as 'a small short-crust pasty containing raisins'. The Dictionary would have been in­valuable for the Supreme Grand Master when he thought up the Society's oaths, since it also includes welchet ('a type of waistcoat worn by certain clock-makers'), gaskin ('a shy, grey-brown bird of the coot family'), and moules ('a game of skill and dexterity, involving tortoises').