The Amazing Discworld ^TM

Wellcome to Anke-Morporke, Citie of One Thousand Surprises.

Ankh-Morpork has always had a fine tradition of welcoming people of all races, colours and shapes, if they have money to spend and a return ticket.
– According to the Guild of Merchants' famous publication, Well-come to Anke-Morporke, Citie of One Thousand Surprises, "you the visitor will be asurred of a Warm Wellcome in the countless Ins and hostelries of the Ancient Citie, where many specsialise in catoring for the taste of guest from distant part. So if you are a Manne, Trolle, Dwarfe, Goblin or Gnomm, Annk-Morporke will raise your Glass convivial and say: Cheer! Here looking, you Kid! Up, You Bottom!"

Drop in at the Bucket in Gleam Street, and meet the City's Finest in the persons of her extremely put-upon but essentially honest Watch-men (except for Nobby, aka Corporal C.W. St John Nobbs, who has a special certificate from the Patrician stating that Nobby may, in fact, be a human male. However, he might have been disqualified from the human race. For shoving. Hahaha.) who spend most of their off-duty time in their favourite boozer trying to forget their on-duty experiences... You won't find Commander of the Watch His Excellency His Grace Sir Samuel Vimes, Duke of Ankh (and one-time blackboard monitor, to round out the titles in case of a tie-break - cf The Fifth Elephant) drinking here, however; one drink is one too many - and besides, it might upset his dear wife, Sybil, the city's most prolific dragon-breeder, amateur dwarf-opera singer and full-time mother of Sam Junior.

Lady Sybil's bosom, which she was allowed to have, grew as she took a deep breath; it seemed to lift her slightly off the ground.
"Sir Reynold," she said, with a side order of ice, "in the Year of the Lice my great-grandmother once cooked, personally, a full dinner for eighteen in a military redoubt that was entirely surrounded by bloodthirsty Klatchians, and she felt able to include sorbet and nuts. My grandmother, in the Year of the Quiet Monkey, defended our embassy in Pseudopolis against a mob, with no assisstance save that offered by a gardener, a trained parrot and a pan of hot chip fat. My late aunt, when our coach was once held up at bow-point by two desperate highwaymen, gave them such a talking-to that they actually ran away crying for their mothers, Sir Reynold, their mothers. We are no strangers to danger, Sir Reynold. May I also remind you that quite probably half the dwarfs who fought at Koom Valley were ladies? No one told them to stay at home!"

Head up Short Street (the longest street in the city) and towards Sator Square, while carefully avoiding the Shades, where you have every chance of being set upon and mugged to death. Be particularly careful to keep clear of Sweetheart Lane (a misnomer if ever there was one), where Mrs Palm has set up the headquarters of the Seamstresses' Guild (who don't do anything in the way of embroidery, mind you... And darning? forget it...). Fall afoul of the Seamstresses, and you will probably fall into the hands of the Agony Aunts, Dotsie and Sadie, who are dab hands at knitting and the Spring sales, and can reduce the impertinent to a bubbling heap of moaning flesh simply by the correct use of a parrot-headed umbrella. It's the innocuous way they move around the neighbourhood that's so terrifying, really. And the way the most hardened criminals scream and battle to get away from their kindly "Good morning, Dearie...". The most dangerous creatures in the city. Even counting the Assassins.

It is probably accurate to say that Lesson One in the Assassins's Guild is "How to Avoid the Agony Aunts", thus leaving "Proper Usage of the Poisoned Dart" and "Scaling Barbed Fences without Tearing your Expensive Black Trousers" for Lesson Two. (Lord Downey, the chief Assassin, rather frowns on torn designer trousers - feels it lowers the tone of the guild, y'know. It being a gentleman's occupation, y'see. The lower classes needn't bother to apply... although there are a few scholarship positions open to young men of sober habits who may have to be very good at Elementary Garotting or Intermediate Disembowelment - cf The Fifth Elephant).

People kept telling him that Ankh-Morpork was a lot more civilised these days, that between them the Watch and the Guilds had settled things down enough to ensure that actually being attacked while going about your lawful business in Ankh-Morpork was now merely a possibility instead of, as it once was, a matter of course. And the streets were so clean now that you could sometimes even see the street.
But the Mended Drum could be depended upon. If someone didn't come out of the door backwards and fall down in the street just as you passed, there was something wrong with the world.

Beside Sator Square is the imposing campus of Unseen University, dominated by the sillouette of Old Tom (the magical bell that gives forth measured silences instead of chimes), the massive dome of the Library and the awe-inspiring edifice of the High Energy Magic Building, where young, earnest members of the faculty conduct serious experiments in thaumic uncertainty (ie, if I do this, what will happen? Will I still have legs? Will I exist, per se, en petite or in potentia? Etc...). This allows older Wizards to get on with the important task of lecturing in room 3B; as it doesn't actully exist anywhere on campus, it can be said to be of infinite size - thus it is quite possible to snooze in your own chair in the Staff common room at the same time - cf Interesting Times. Because of quantum, I suppose... Mustrum Ridcully is the extrovert Arch-chancellor, an inveterate hunter and fisher - if it moves, he'll kill it, probably with the latest Burleigh and Stronginthearm Viper Mk 2 crossbow - who has long since driven the poor, harmless and completely befuddled Bursar quite insane. Due to the use of dried frog pills it is possible to make the Bursar hallucinate that he is sane, but he also hallucinates that he can fly, and being a wizard this means that there have been dark urban legends circulating Ankh-Morpork regarding giant bats flying around UU screeching "Good so be would you if, duff plum of helping second A!" and "Nap my for time it's think I!" (cf The Truth, Interesting Times).

   Very occasionally a frog was removed from the vivarium and put into a rather smaller jar where it briefly became a very happy frog indeed, and then went to sleep and woke up in that great big jungle in the sky.
   And thus the university got the active ingredient which it made up into pills and fed to the Bursar, to keep him sane. At least, apparently sane, because nothing was that simple at good old UU. In fact he was incurably insane and hallucinated more or less continuously but by a remarkable stroke of lateral thinking his fellow wizards had reasoned that in that case, the whole business could be sorted out if only they could find a formula that caused him to hallucinate that he was completely sane.
   This had worked well. There had been a few false starts. For several hours, at one point, he had hallucinated that that he was a bookcase. But now he was almost permanently hallucinating that he was a bursar, and that almost made up for the small side effect that also led him to hallucinate that he could fly.

I am exceedingly fond of the Librarian, who is an orangutan and proud of it - possibly because I spent half my school career in the library, and therefore I could probably run one all by myself, and everyone knows that librarians get to read all the good books first. I think I might need to hire some shelf-cleaners and a few people to put the books away and answer queries. Wouldn't want to cut into my reading time...

    There was the sound of someone snoring.
    The light from the shelves didn't so much as illuminate as highlight the darkness, but by it's violet flicker a watcher might just have identified an ancient and battered desk right under the central dome.
    The snoring was coming from underneath it, where a piece of tattered blanket barely covered what looked like a heap of sand-bags but was in fact an adult male orang-utan.
    It was the Librarian.
    Not many people these days remarked about the fact that he was an ape. The change had been brought about by a magical accident, always a possibility where so many powerful books are kept together, and he was considered to have gotten off lightly. After all, he was still basically the same shape. And he had been allowed to keep his job, which he was rather good at, although 'allowed' is not really the right word. It was the way he could roll his upper lip back to reveal more incredibly yellow teeth than any other mouth the University Council had ever seen before that somehow made sure the matter was never really raised.

I advise you very strongly to pay a small premium to the Thieves's Guild to ensure six month's immunity from burglaries and hold-ups; there is currently an offer of four wine glasses and a home barbeque kit, including an apron emblazoned with "Kiss the Cook!" (cf The Truth). Be The Envy Of Your Friends! (We-ell, I may be getting a commission here, but I assure you it's quite a small one, so do go away...). The Patrician has stated that if there is to be crime in the city, it may as well be organised crime. Incidentally, if you know any mime artists, advise them to stay well away from the city - the Patrician's one weakness is a hatred for silent street performers. They get thrown into the scorpion pit. Vetinari has in fact humourously painted "Learn The Words!" on the side of the pit, but on the whole he is Ankh-Morpork's most well-adjusted ruler. So far... (cf Men at Arms).

Take a turn past Morphic Street, and you will find Lady Sybil's Sunshine Sanctuary for Sick Dragons. Drop a penny or two into the slot of the little huge-eyed papier-mache dragon chained to the wall ("Don't Let My Flame Go Out!"), and perhaps Willikins the butler, back from his tour of duty in Klatch (cf Jingo), will give you a look-round. About twelve inches high toe-to-matlock, draco vulgaris cannot be mistaken for anything other than the common swamp dragon. Lady Sybil is always rescuing the stupid creatures, who are cute to use as fire-lighters when small, but when the furniture starts to melt and the house is filled with noxious fumes, out they go onto the street - unless they are taken in as a portable forge in someone's smithy.

Those two very large public buildings up ahead are the Patrician's palace and the Opera House (the denizens of the opera house are crazier, but only by a short head). Lord Vetinari is well known as the most stable Patrician ever to hold the position (anyone would be, compared to Howling Lord Winder or Mad Lord Snapcase...), and Ankh-Morpork has never looked more prosperous. Take a brief tour of the palace gardens; they were designed by Bloody Stupid Johnson and are quite the most bizarre creation ever attempted - besides the cruet set that houses four families in the salt shaker and all the city's grain in the pepper-pot - he seemed to think scale and accurate measurement happened to other people. I say "brief" because the garden furniture has a distressing tendency to melt, and the ornamental cherubs to explode without warning (cf Interesting Times). There is also... Oi!! Watch out... look where you're... oh, dear. You appear to have fallen into the hoho. Yes, I know it should be "haha" - viz, a trench to keep unwanted cattle and inconvenient poor people from traipsing across the front lawn - but Bloody Stupid built to last. Um, I'll get someone to bring the ladder... in the meantime, I'll get everyone else over to the ornamental fish pond. Unfortunately, while it's quite the longest on the Sto Plains, it is also the most narrow - a mighty two inches. Which is why there is only one fish; he's perfectly happy in there as long as he doesn't try to turn around (cf Men at Arms).

The temples to the various gods of the disc are to be found in Temple Street, oddly enough. Mustrum Ridcully's brother, Hughnon, is priest of Blind Io, a sort of Zeus-substitute. The gods hang out in Dunmanifestin, the Olympus of kitsch, with the celestial equivalent of three ducks flying up the wall and an interesting collection of ornaments from for'n parts... The terror of all priests, of course, is Mrs Cake, a sort of psychic medium on Full. All very creepy, especially the way she takes over all civic and religious functions within the temple structure. Even the priests of Offler, the crocodile god, are afraid of her. (A lot of social satire in there, and some sociological comment on animistic systems of religious thought, but rather blasphemous, all the same. But some things one can overlook...)

There were footsteps.
"No one's ever got past the dreaded guardian of the portals - "
The priests looked into one another's horrified faces.
"Hey," said the one who was not High. "You don't think it could be - "
"Here? Oh, come on. We're in the middle of a ... jungle." The High Priest tried to smile. "There's no way it could be - "
The footsteps got nearer.
The priests clutched at one another in terror.
"Mrs Cake!"

A new addition is a newspaper run by Mr de Worde and his wife, Saccharissa Cripslock, behind the Bucket in Gleam Street. It's called the Ankh-Morpork Times, and a revamped Post Office run by the amusingly-named Moist von Lipwig, and the Lady Sybil Free Hospital

The Rincewind saga

The Colour Of Magic; The Light Fantastic; Sourcery; Eric; Interesting Times; The Last Continent; The Last Hero.

The Lancre chronicles

Equal Rites; Wyrd Sisters; Witches Abroad; Lords and Ladies; Maskerade; Carpe Jugulum; The Wee Free Men; A Hatful of Sky.

The City Watch series

Guards! Guards!; Men At Arms; Feet of Clay; Jingo; The Fifth Elephant; Night Watch; Thud!

Death (and family)

Mort; Reaper Man; Soul Music; Hogfather; Thief of Time.

Miscellaneous

Pyramids; Moving Pictures; Small gods; The Truth; Monstrous Regiment; Going Postal; The Amazing Maurice.

Non-Discworld books

The Dark Side of the Sun
Strata
The Unadulterated Cat

Home Back Narnia Evil Pony Plot Mail

The Amazing Discworld TM

Non-Discworld books

The Amazing Discworld ^TM