The black-clad thief hissed, and sheathed his sword. But he kept his hand on the hilt, and his eyes on the assassin.
That wasn’t easy. Promotion in the Assassins’ Guild was by competitive examination, the Practical being the most important—indeed, the only—part. Thus Zlorf’s broad, honest face was a welt of scar tissue, the result of many a close encounter. It probably hadn’t been all that good looking in any case—it was said that Zlorf had chosen a profession in which dark hoods, cloaks and nocturnal prowlings figured largely because there was a day-fearing trollish streak in his parentage. People who said this in earshot of Zlorf tended to carry their ears home in their hats.
He strolled down the stairs, followed by a number of assassins. When he was directly in front of Ymor he said: “I’ve come for the tourist.”
“Is it any of your business, Zlorf?”
“Yes. Grinjo, Urmond—take him.”
Two of the assassins stepped forward. Then Stren was in front of them, his sword appearing to materialize an inch from their throats without having to pass through the intervening air.
“Possibly I could only kill one of you,” he murmured, “but I suggest you ask yourselves—which one?”
“Look up, Zlorf,” said Ymor.
A row of yellow, baleful eyes looked down from the darkness among the rafters.
“One step more and you’ll leave here with fewer eyeballs than you came with,” said the thiefmaster. “So sit down and have a drink, Zlorf, and let’s talk about this sensibly. I thought we had an agreement. You don’t rob—I don’t kill. Not for payment, that is,” he added after a pause.
Zlorf took the proferred beer.
“So?” he said. “I’ll kill him. Then you rob him. Is he that funny looking one over there?”
“Yes.”
Zlorf stared at Twoflower, who grinned at him. He shrugged. He seldom wasted time wondering why people wanted other people dead. It was just a living.
“Who is your client, may I ask?” said Ymor.
Zlorf held up a hand. “Please!” he protested. “Professional etiquette.”
“Of course. By the way—”
“Yes?”
“I believe I have a couple of guards outside—”
“Had.”
“And some others in the doorway across the street—”
“Formerly.”
“And two bowmen on the roof.”
A flicker of doubt passed across Zlorf’s face, like the last shaft of sunlight over a badly plowed field.
The door flew open, badly damaging the assassin who was standing beside it.
“Stop doing that!” shrieked Broadman, from under his table.
Zlorf and Ymor stared up at the figure on the threshold. It was short, fat and richly dressed. Very richly dressed. There were a number of tall, big shapes looming behind it. Very big, threatening shapes.
“Who’s that?” said Zlorf.
“I know him,” said Ymor. “His name’s Rerpf. He runs the Groaning Platter tavern down by Brass Bridge. Stren—remove him.”
Rerpf held up a beringed hand. Stren Withel hesitated halfway to the door as several very large trolls ducked under the doorway and stood on either side of the fat man, blinking in the light. Muscles the size of melons bulged in forearms like floursacks. Each troll held a double-headed ax. Between thumb and forefinger.
Broadman erupted from cover, his face suffused with rage.
“Out!” he screamed. “Get those trolls out of here!”
No one moved. The room was suddenly quiet. Broadman looked around quickly. It began to dawn on him just what he had said, and to whom. A whimper escaped from his lips, glad to be free.
He reached the doorway to his cellars just as one of the trolls, with a lazy flick of one ham-sized hand, sent his ax whirling across the room. The slam of the door and its subsequent splitting as the ax hit it merged into one sound.
“Bloody hell!” exclaimed Zlorf Flannelfoot.
“What do you want?” said Ymor.
“I am here on behalf of the Guild of Merchants and Traders,” said Rerpf evenly. “To protect our interests, you might say. Meaning the little man.”
Ymor wrinkled his brows.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought I heard you say the Guild of Merchants?”
“And traders,” agreed Rerpf. Behind him now, in addition to more trolls, were several humans that Ymor vaguely recognized. He had seen them, maybe, behind counters and bars. Shadowy figures, usually—easily ignored, easily forgotten. At the back of his mind a bad feeling began to grow. He thought about how it might be to be, say, a fox confronted with an angry sheep. A sheep, moreover, that could afford to employ wolves.
“How long has this—Guild—been in existence, may I ask?” he said.
“Since this afternoon,” said Rerpf. “I’m vice-guildmaster in charge of tourism, you know.”
“What is this tourism of which you speak?”
“Uh—we are not quite sure…” said Rerpf. An old bearded man poked his head over the guildmaster’s shoulder and cackled, “Speaking on behalf of the winesellers of Morpork, Tourism means Business. See?”
“Well?” said Ymor coldly.