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‘He says to get on with it, it’s long past dawn!’ said the clerk.

‘Oh,’ said Moist, staring at the black coach. That damn Vetinari had a warder’s sense of humour, too.

‘Come on, Mr Spangler, you don’t want me to get into trouble, do you?’ said the hangman, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Just a few words, and then we can all get on with our lives. Present company excepted, obviously.’

So this was it. It was, in some strange way, rather liberating. You didn’t have to fear the worst that could happen any more, because this was it, and it was nearly over. The warder had been right. What you had to do in this life was get past the pineapple, Moist told himself. It was big and sharp and knobbly, but there might be peaches underneath. It was a myth to live by and so, right now, totally useless.

‘In that case,’ said Moist von Lipwig, ‘I commend my soul to any god that can find it.’

‘Nice,’ said the hangman, and pulled the lever.

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It was generally agreed that they had been good last words.

‘Ah, Mr Lipwig,’ said a distant voice, getting closer. ‘I see you are awake. And still alive, at the present time.’

There was a slight inflection to that last phrase which told Moist that the length of the present time was entirely in the gift of the speaker.

He opened his eyes. He was sitting in a comfortable chair. At a desk opposite him, sitting with his hands steepled reflectively in front of his pursed lips, was Havelock, Lord Vetinari, under whose idio-syncratically despotic rule Ankh-Morpork had become the city where, for some reason, everyone wanted to live.