Yn Faire Morporkia Where We Lae Our Syne

Your name is Erskin Aspera Von Uberwald, and you are very, very von Uberwarld, at the moment. You're slightly von the fair(ly disgusting) city of Ankh-Morpork, as of two weeks today, and the black ribboners who've been kind enough to put you up and ply you with many informative pamphlets have also given you a number of unsubtle hints about money, and how you don't have any (at the moment), and how jobs are this excellent thing that ordinary people do for a living as well as an... un... living, if they don't want to unlive in a relative stranger's attic forever.

You adjust your tie, square your (distastefully shabby) jacket, and push into the fourth shop of the day. Yarn and lace, that's nice. Moths could be a real problem in a place like this.

"Hallo, sir!" you announce to the nearest gentleman, trying to mind your accent. "Is this your establishment?"

 

"Sure is," you drawl amiably, deliberately not minding your accent, as is your habit these days to put people at ease. "Help you find something?"

Your name is Jethro Makwaa, and you are a perfectly ordinary shopkeeper. You have never been anything else, nor do you personally know Lord Vetinari or any of the palace staff. If the criminal element of this charmingly rough-around-the-edges neighborhood leaves you and your shop alone, maybe it's simply that you remind them of some kindly uncle or eccentric brother they remember fondly from back home. Definitely not the survival instinct that allows a predator to recognize an extremely poisonous prey item and avoid it.

The young gentleman who just walked into your yarn and needlework supply store is taller than you (which isn't hard), thinner than you (which is getting easier every year, but still noteworthy), and dead as a doornail. You resolve not to hold this against him.

 

"Er, excellent, that's very good. I mean, yes. I'm going around offering pest control services, er, as in for insects and things, and I was wondering, that is to say if you might— not to insult your—" you look around, "—completely stellar maintenance skills— be in need of assistance with, insects. A-and things. Especially moths."

You bite your lip, remember not to bite your lip, and are extremely glad that you can't really blush anymore. Four shops in, you're mostly running off what hadn't worked any of the previous times, but you're still not sure what will. A neighborhood like this is crawling with pests, though no one seems to like that pointed out. A lady hit you with a broom for it, actually.

This gentleman isn't anywhere near a broom, though, which is good. He's near several dozen very pointy wooden implements, though, which is not good.

 

You notice him noticing the vase of hand-carved walnut needles on the counter, and give him a reassuring smile. "A wool shop's always gotta worry about moths, no matter how clean I keep it," you agree. "Ain't fond of the smell of mothballs though, so it just comes down to shakin' out all the skeins every so often to make sure nobody's hiding in there. You got a better method?"

 

"Er, yes! Actually!" You shake your sleeve, twist your wrist— you used to do this with a bit of candy to make the stable boys laugh— and produce a bat. "Clean and efficient, no poisons, shouldn't disturb your stock. We— I— also take care of stinging insects and flies. Just about anything. Er, except termites. They chew those little tunnels, you know..."

 

You're not listening anymore. You're squishing your face. "Oh my god it's adorable," you squeal.

 

"Really?" you ask, surprised. Another of your bats peers out from underneath your collar, pulsing inquisitive sonar, and you're— it's— they're fluttering over to the shopkeeper before you can control them. One circles and comes back but the other lands on his head.

"Er. Sorry. I can—" you stretch a hand out to scoop it up.

It burrows down the back of his jumper. You want to die again. "I can get out— get it out— please don't squash it!"

In your distress, three more bats have fluttered loose from your sleeves. This is a disaster.

 

You squirm, laughing. "I'll be careful!" you promise. "That tickles! Oh my gosh, how many are there? Do they have names?" The sweater-diver has discovered your sleeve and burrows out along it, sticking its tiny head out at your wrist, seeming confused that it's up the wrong sleeve. "Hello!" you tell it, delighted.

 

"They don't have names, they're bats, I turn into bats, er, about nine stone of bats. I don't even know how many bats are in a pound of bats. But that's too many to name."

Two of the bats have come back together with you, though one is in your hair, one's rummaging around the ceiling beams for spiders, and the fifth is getting its stupid little noggin scritched by the shopkeeper, which is just a little distracting.

 

You hesitate in your bat-petting. "Uh-oh, am I being weird? Am I like... scratching your elbow, here?"

 

"I don't think it's anything so specific," you say uncertainly. "Just sort of a... a bit of my...me." You flap your elbows to demonstrate you still have both of them. You sort of feel frayed around the edges and hollow in the middle when too many of you is bats, but you always seem to tip over into the full swarm before anything really seems to be missing.

You smile gamely and offer, "I suppose if you're being weird, I was weird first. I'm aware it's all trifle, er, unusual. Possibly distasteful. I do assure you they're very clean."

 

"Exactly as clean as you, I reckon," you smile. "Tell you what, I'll make you a deal, if bits of you go down my sweater I get to pet their fuzzy little heads."

You're teasing him, but only to see what he'll do about it. He reminds you of some of the more hapless lords you encountered in your previous line of work, and you were always pleased when you could sort those out gently instead of having to Deal With Them.

 

"Well, I suppose what happens inside a gentleman's shirt is his own personal business, isn't it?" You grin broadly, then remember not to do that.

"Oh! I forgot! Here—" you thrust out your hand, "—I'm Aspera, Erskin Aspera v— er— very pleased to meet you."

 

You gently hook the bat to your jumper front like a corsage so you can shake his hand. It's not as cold as you expected. "Jethro Makwaa," you return. "Erskin Aspera von what? It's a little obvious," you prompt apologetically.

 

"Oh! Well, yes, I don't suppose I look, er, particularly Klatchian." You wave a corpse-white hand. "Erskin Aspera, von Meeresentenkrieg, von Uberwald."

 

"Welcome to Ankh-Morpork," you say cheerfully. You think you may have heard the name mentioned once or twice, but not in connection with anything interesting. Whatever reason Aspera has for leaving home, it's probably personal rather than political. "Well, I'll give your moth control bats a try. Not long til closing time anyhow, might as well hang around, want a coffee?"

 

"And five dollars," you say. "For the service, I mean. If you don't mind."

 

"Coffee before, dollars after," you say. You don't begrudge him the money even if he cocks it up, but an Ordinary Shopkeeper doesn't pay for services unless those services are actually performed. You soften it with a smile, and beckon him around behind the counter, where you have a little pot bellied stove for warming your hands and simmering a kettle.

You're careful not to squash or scald your sweater ornament as you prepare the coffee. You spoon powdered grounds into the little copper pot, add hot water from the kettle, then hold the pot over your desk lamp for a minute or two until it comes back up to a simmer. Stir in the sugar, pour it into two tiny cups. "Let the grounds settle," you tell him as you nudge his along the counter at him. You're guessing even an educated Uberwaldian is probably unacquainted with Klatchian coffee, and funny as it would be to watch him choke on a mouthful of grounds, you're not unkind.

 

You hold the coffee close, enjoying the warmth. The smell is unfamiliar-- your father didn't much care for importing foreign foods and drinks, so you've grown up on tisanes and small beer--but the heat is tremendously welcome. It's not that you're cold, like this, really, it's that you're just sort of... not... warm. Permanently. Your last bat has its thumbs and feet firmly clasped against Mr Makwa's wrist, and the heartbeat heat against its stomach is likewise pleasant.

Though, you remind yourself, only the coffee is for drinking. You take a careful sip... and try very hard not to yelp or throw the cup across the room. Most liquid tastes different and strange to you now, filtered through a different sort of mouth and all, but this is absolutely not due to that! It's due to how coffee tastes like getting punched in the mouth by a brick made of wasps.

"Gngh," you comment, bewildered.

 

"It's strong," you agree. Studying his face a little more, you add, "You don't like it. More sugar? I like mine bittersweet, but..." You nudge the sugar bowl toward him.