Jack Vettriano along game a Spider

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could . . . maybe go up . . . maybe . . . a dollar,' he said, each word fighting its way out of the strongroom of his soul.
'If we go on stage now, I want us to do another performance,' said Buddy.
Glod glared suspiciously at the guitar.
'What? No problem. I smashed on the floor. A troll appeared in the doorway, or at least part of it did. It wouldn't be able to get into the room without ripping the door‑frame out, but it looked as though it wouldn't think twice about doing so.
'Mr Chrysoprase says, what's happening?' it growled.
'Er–' Dibbler began.can soon–’Dibbler began.'Free.''Free?' The word got past Dibbler's teeth before they could snap shut. He rallied magnificently. 'You don't want paying? Certainly, if–’Buddy didn't move.'I mean, we don't get paid and people don't have to pay to listen. As many people as possible.''Free?''Yes!''Where's the profit in that?'An empty beer bottle vibrated off the table and

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might get caught.'
'He can't stop us. We're on a mission from Glod.'
'Right.'
The piano tottered onward through the puddles for a little while, and then asked itself:
'Buddy?''Anyway, we are on a mission from Glod.'
'Yup.'
Glod sat in his lodgings, watching the guitar.
It had stopped playing when Buddy had gone out, although if he put his ear close to the strings he was sure that they were still humming very gently.'Yup?''Why did I just say dat?''Say what?''About us being on a mission . . . you know . . . from Glod?''Weeell . . . the dwarf said to us, go and get the piano, and his name is Glod, so–''Yeah. Yeah. Right . . . but . . . he could've stopped us, I mean, dere's nothing special about some mission from some dwarf–''Maybe you were just a bit tired.''Maybe dat's it,' said the piano, gratefully.

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reached out and picked up a glass, bit her lip thoughtfully, and started to turn the thing upside down . . .
SQUEAK!
She spun around. The Death of Rats was on the shelf behind her. It raised an admonitory finger.
'All right,' said ‑ the words: C. H. Lavatory & Son, Mollymog St, Ankh‑Morpork.
You didn't expect the rubber duck. It was yellow.
You didn't expect the soap. It was suitably bone­whiteSusan. She put the glass back in its place.SQUEAK.'No. I haven't finished looking.'Susan set off for the door, with the rat skittering across the floor after her.The third room turned out to be . . .. . . the bathroom.Susan hesitated. You expected hourglasses in this place. You expected the skull‑and‑bones motif. But you didn't expect the very large white porcelain tub, on its own raised podium like a throne, with giant brass taps and ‑ in faded blue letters just over the thing that held the plug chain

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parents of many of the gels were often abroad on business of one sort or another, and it was sometimes the kind of business where the chances of rich reward go hand in hand with the risks of meeting unsympathetic men.
Miss Butts knew how this sort of thing should go and was vaguely annoyed that it wasn't going.
'Er . . . if you would like to be alone, to have a cry–’ she'd prompted, in an effort to get things moving on the right track.
'Would that help?' Susan had said.
It would have helped Miss Butts.how to handle these occasions. It was painful, but the thing ran its course. There was shock and tears, and then, eventually, it was all over. People had ways of dealing with it. There was a sort of script built into the human mind. Life went on.But the child had just sat there. It was the politeness that scared the daylights out of Miss Butts. She was not an unkind woman, despite a lifetime of being gently dried out on the stove of education, but she was conscientious and a stickler for propriety and thought she knew

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want me to do next, sir?'
'Send them out in squads, sergeant. At least one human, one dwarf and one troll in each.'
'Yessir. What'll they be doing, sir?'
'They'll be being 'I know. It's not right. People ought to think for themselves, Captain Vimes says. The problem is, people only think for themselves if you tell them to. How do you spell "eventuality"?'
'I don't.'
'OK.' Carrot still didn't look around. 'We'll hold the city togethvisible, sergeant.''Right, sir. Sir? One of the volunteers just now . . . it's Mr Bleakley, sir. From Elm Street? He's a vampire, well. technic'ly, but he works up at the slaughterhouse so it's not really—''Thank him very much and send him home, sergeant.'Colon glanced at Angua.'Yessir. Right,' he said reluctantly. 'But he's not a problem, it's just that he needs these extra homogoblins in his bio—''No!''Right. Fine. I'll, er, I'll tell him to go away, then.'Colon shut the door. The hinge leered.'They call you sir,' said Angua. 'Do you notice that?'

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mud, more or less dry, made a path at the bottom of the tunnel. There was slime on the walls, too, indicating that at some point in the recent past the tunnel had been full of water. Here and there huge patches of fungi, luminous with decay, cast a faint a good business making fortune rats for dwarf restaurants. But I thought, this isn't a proper job for a dwarf.'
'Sound like easy job to me.'
'I had the devil of a time getting them to swallow the fortunes.'
Cuddy stopped. A change in the air suggested a vaster tunnel up ahead.
And, indeed, the tunnel opened into the side of a much larger one. There was deep mud on the floor, in the middle of which ran a trickle of water. Cuddy fancied he heard rats, or what he hoped were rats, scuttle away into the dark emptiness. He even thought he could hear the sounds of the city – indistinct, intermingleglow over the\Cuddy felt his spirits lift as he plodded through the darkness. Dwarfs always felt happier underground.'Bound to find a way out,' he said.'Right.''So . . . how come you joined the Watch, then?''Hah! My girl Ruby she say, you want get married, you get proper job, I not marry a troll what people say, him no good troll, him thick as a short plank of wood.' Detritus' voice echoed in the darkness. 'How about you?''I got bored. I worked for my brother-in-law, Durance. He's got

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I'm sure we always try to be of help to the community,' said Sendivoge. 'Do come in.'
Cuddy's steel-tipped boots kicked Detritus back into semi-sensibility, and he lumbered after them.
'Why the, erSound commercial venture.'
'I thought you were working on gold.'
'Ah, yes. Of course, you people know all about gold,' said Sendivoge.
'Oh, yes,' said Cuddy, reflecting on the phrase 'you people'.
'The gold,' said Sendivoge, thoughtfully, 'is turning out to be a bit tricky . . .'
'How long have you been trying?'
'Three hundred years.', why the crash helmet, mister?' said Cuddy, as they walked along the corridor. All around them was the sound of hammering. The Guild was usually being rebuilt.Sendivoge rolled his eyes.'Balls,' he said, 'billiard balls, in fact.''I knew a man who played like that,' said Cuddy.'Oh, no. Mr Silverfish is a good shot. That tends rather to be the problem, in fact.'Cuddy looked at the crash helmet again.'It's the ivory, you see.''Ah,' said Cuddy, not seeing, 'elephants?''Ivory without elephants. Transmuted ivory.