Glamourhammer - 4. A Dance of Death and Other Revelations

It began, like many unforeseen tragedies in Ankh-Morpork, with an enthusiastic twirl of questionable skill. The crowd gathered outside The Ring & Forge had been upgraded from ‘a few onlookers’ to ‘a developing situation’—men, women, dwarfs, trolls, and even a couple of bewildered Igors—bobbing along to the disco beats emanating from Helmhold’s pink trunk and his imp orchestra. The dwarfish smith hammered to the rhythmic four-on-the-anvil thud of the music, while sparks shot across the workshop in shimmering arcs.

But Ankh-Morpork crowds, being an excitable lot with minimal regard for personal boundaries, always risk calamity. One fellow, thoroughly carried away by the music’s thrumming energy, attempted a daring spin. He spun, wobbled, lost his footing, and collided with three more dancers. The resulting domino effect involved a tray of hot sausages, a donkey, and, alas, a heart condition.

Thus, a certain Mr. Pennythorn, of No. 9, Treacle Street, breathed his last, collapsing in a flustered heap of disappointment and mustard stains.

I HAVEN’T HEARD MUSIC LIKE THIS IN CENTURIES, a tall figure remarked, apparently to no one—although Mr. Pennythorn’s shade twitched an ear. THERE WAS A TIME, LONG AGO, WHEN A GROUP OF FOOLISH YOUNG MEN DANCED AMONG THE STANDING STONES AND THOUGHT THEMSELVES UNTOUCHED BY CONSEQUENCES.

He paused, head tilted.

THEY WERE NEVER QUITE SEEN AGAIN.

The ghost of Mr. Pennythorn blinked, uncertain how to respond. Death’s tone held a whisper of nostalgia. He remembered that night, the echo of laughter turning to something else, and the moment when the stones had reshaped the world just a fraction to let something in. But the Reaper, by profession, did not dwell.

THERE ALSO WAS THIS REGRETTABLE INCIDENT WITH THE GUITAR… LET’S JUST SAY, SOME APPOINTMENTS NEEDED TO BE RESCHEDULED.

As Death observed the scene before him, lost in memory, he turned to Mr. Pennythorn. Gently, he said,

WHICH REMINDS ME, YOUR APPOINTMENT IS DUE. PLEASE STEP THIS WAY. Guiding Mr. Pennythorn away from the swirl of neon sparks and bustling onlookers, he added, I HOPE THIS DANCE PROVES LESS… LETHAL.

And in that discreet, timeless manner, Death vanished from the forge, leaving the living none the wiser, while the music thundered on.

***

Naturally, the Watch had to investigate. The unstoppable build-up at Helmhold’s forge had begun causing minor riots, and the Patrician did not approve of unregulated chaos. Captain Carrot was occupied with official city business, Sergeant Angua was out tracking a particularly smelly suspect, and Fred Colon had discovered an urgent need to maintain a safe distance from anything involving “all that prancin’ about.”

That left Nobby Nobbs—private, cynic, connoisseur of second-hand picks from other people’s pockets (though he’d disclaim that, of course). He had a short and wiry frame, was unshaven in an undetermined pattern, and sported an overall look that suggested evolution had taken a half-hearted lunch break. No one doubted he had human ancestors, but no genealogical record had proven it conclusively. Of course, the same genealogical research once suggested he was the rightful heir to the throne. This explained his cavalier attitude toward ownership, but, thankfully, the city had long since abolished kings.

So here he was, approaching The Ring & Forge with the air of someone about to open a suspicious package. The crowd jostled, music boomed, and glitter rained from the eaves in improbable amounts. Somewhere near the entrance, a pink trunk tapped its high-heeled feet. The sight might have unnerved even a seasoned watchman, but Nobby—accustomed to the city’s every brand of odd—merely twitched.

“Right, what’s all this then?” he mumbled, elbowing his way to the front. Given his height, this meant several kidneys and at least one unfortunate groin took collateral damage. People glanced at him, recognized the Watch badge, and promptly ignored him—except for one man, who was still curled up on the floor, wheezing, and another who instinctively checked his pockets.

The bass-line thrummed. Helmhold swung his hammer, sparks danced, and Nobby found himself involuntarily swaying.

He scowled. Nobby Nobbs didn’t sway. He sidled around to scold the smith—only to find his path blocked by the pink trunk, which had somehow maneuvered itself right at his feet. Its lid cracked open, revealing a wardrobe’s worth of flamboyant outfits. Silk, satin, sequins—colors so bright they could sear retinas at twenty paces. Before Nobby could protest, the trunk spat out a swirl of fabric and an entire cosmetic kit. It all landed with improbable precision in his arms.

“Wha—? Hey! Oi, you—!” Nobby spluttered, but the trunk glistened in triumph. It hopped in place, apparently confident that it had chosen its next fashion victim.

Moments later—no one was quite sure how it happened—Nobby found himself engulfed in swirling cloth and the unholy glimmer of eyeshadow. A crowd gathered, part enthralled, part horrified, to watch the trunk forcibly make over one of the city’s least likely subjects.

Then it happened. Something like a faint shimmer rippled across the air around Nobby, a subtle surge of very old, very potent magic. The watchers gaped. Bit by bit, Nobby’s stubbled cheeks smoothed, his pot-like belly drew taut, and his entire simian stance shifted into one of effortless grace. Where had the unkempt watchman gone? In his place stood… a vision of absolute, jaw-dropping beauty. Her hair was golden (or possibly chestnut or black—people argued about it later, but all agreed it was stunning). Her lips curved in a shape that could launch a thousand palpitations, and her gown clung in all the right places.

A hush fell.

It stretched.

Nobby burned with embarrassment.

The imp orchestra shuffled awkwardly. Then, as if sensing its cue, it launched into the next disco track—a thumping bass line and something about an inferno. And a lot about burning, actually. A whole lot about burning.

Nobby blinked—he wasn’t used to eyelashes this long—and stared in alarm at the mass of admirers suddenly pressing forward.

“‘Scuse me, love, can I—”
“Oh, Miss, you’re gorgeous—”
“Marry me! Or at least… have some coffee with me?”

“AHH!” squeaked Nobby, newly soprano, as he realized the entire city block was leaning in, starry-eyed. With the agility born from a lifetime of quick getaways, he scuttled backwards and ducked past the workshop door, fleeing the throng of admirers. Those brave enough to chase him were foiled by the lunging trunk, which closed its lid with a definitive snap, as though proud of its day’s work.

***

All of Ankh-Morpork was in an uproar. People crowded around Helmhold’s forge from dawn until the small hours, hoping to catch a glimpse of the infamous disco show—or, better yet, the newly minted beauty who’d been a scruffy watchman only a heartbeat ago. Buskers sprang up to serenade the crowds, hawkers sold “Genuine Dwarf Disco Buns” (which were standard meat pies with glitter on top), and pickpockets enjoyed the best business spree of their careers.

Amid the noise and laughter, doorways that once led to everyday shops were now lined with improvised barricades, proprietors demanding a cover charge from curious passersby. Chaos soared higher than the city’s smoky rooftops, and few even tried to contain it anymore.

But one figure watched from the shadows, partially hidden beneath a discreet hood. Tall, lean, and possessed of a dangerous grace. An elf—a creature from the twilight realm beyond the standing stones. And while humans might see only an impossibly handsome figure you wish to worship in all the proper ways, the faint glint in his eyes revealed a colder, sharper interest.

He had come at the behest of the Queen of Elves, to prowl the city and report on any pockets of raw magic or vulnerability. The swirling glamour that had enveloped Nobby gave off an unmistakable taste of enchantment, and the elf’s thin lips curved in a predatory smile. He stood near the entrance of a dingy alley, watching the disco lights and flurries of glitter as if studying a newly discovered weapon.

In the distance, he saw Helmhold’s hammers rising and falling in time to that irresistible beat, saw ordinary folk losing themselves to the madness of the music, and he felt the intangible ripple of possibility. This place was ripe for infiltration. The queen would be very interested in a city that could be beguiled by a trunk full of glamour. If not for the iron.

A faint breeze ruffled the elf’s cloak. He stepped back, melting away like a shadow. A swirl of litter drifted in his wake. Another piece had shifted on the cosmic chessboard of Ankh-Morpork, and the game was only just beginning.

***

Meanwhile, somewhere in the labyrinth of side-streets and creatively unsafe housing behind the forge, Nobby Nobbs—still a ravishing woman—skulked in the shadows. Trying to stay out of sight was proving difficult, as every reflection in a puddle or shop window presented him with a face that might have graced a legend.

He hugged the sides of buildings, cursing under his breath. “I can’t go back to the Watch looking like this!” he wailed softly, in that lilting alto that made him cringe. He sounded like a cameo singer in an opera. If Sergeant Colon ever saw him now… if anyone ever saw him…

Before Nobby could finish that nightmare thought, someone cleared their throat behind him. He turned (or, more accurately, performed a graceful pirouette he had never known was in him), coming face to face with a most surprising sight.

“Good day, my lady,” purred a voice.

The dwarf standing before him had a thick mustache, kindly twinkling eyes, and a hat so elaborate it could have had its own address. He stood on tiptoes—or, somehow more accurately, struck a stance of effortless dashingness.

With a grandiose bow that nearly toppled his hat, he produced a small card, embossed in flowery script:

“Most Accommodating Lover to Women, Doors, and Occasional Obstacles—Casanunda.”

Nobby swallowed. He had survived bar brawls, crossbow fights, and a regrettable incident involving fermented yak’s milk. But nothing—nothing—had prepared him for the romantic attentions of a love-struck dwarf.

Nobby blinked, momentarily speechless. “I’m not… a lady,” Nobby tried to say, but his new voice turned the words into something silky and sultry.

Casanunda’s grin widened. “Oh, but you are, and so very enchantingly so.” He kissed the back of Nobby’s perfectly manicured hand. “May I assist you in any way you desire?”

Nobby tugged his hand free, cheeks burning. “Look, I don’t need that sort o’ assistance!” He tried to regain his usual swagger, but the effect was spoiled by the shape of his new hips.

Casanunda trailed after him anyway, spouting sonnets and improbable compliments. He promised serenades, candlelit dinners, and an array of dwarfish courtship customs (which mostly involved romantic boasts about one’s proficiency in tunneling and hammer swinging). Over the course of an hour, Casanunda tried to woo Nobby with:

1. A spontaneously composed love poem that rhymed “enchanted” with “underpant’d.”

2. A small, questionable gift of “moonlight diamonds” that were, in fact, lumps of quartz liberated from a Golem’s cart.

3. A demonstration of his alleged climbing saddle, which threatened to entangle them both in a pile of comedic flailing.

Despite himself, Nobby found that part of him—some ancient, seldom-awake sliver of vanity—thrilled at the attention. Sure, it was deeply unnerving that half the city was in pursuit, but a dwarf with the confidence of Casanunda was a rare creature. So what if Nobby was actually a scrawny watchman in a magically induced disguise?

Finally, the squeal of excited onlookers drifted up the alley, and Nobby tensed. “I gotta go,” he muttered.

“Allow me to escort you,” Casanunda offered, winking. “I can show you shortcuts that no city map can match.”

Nobby gave a shaky nod, uncertain whether to accept or flee in terror, but the approaching crowd made the decision. The pair darted down a side street, slipping away from the throngs of disco-crazed citizens. Despite everything, a small, bewildered part of Nobby’s mind wondered, Is this better or worse than being stuck behind the Watch desk all day?