It wasn't Ankh-Morpork's proper weather. It was by inclination a city of mists and drips, of slithers and chills. It sat panting on the crisping plains like a toad on a firebrick. And even now, around midnight, the heat was stifling, wrapping the streets like scorched velvet, searing the air and squeezing all the breath out of it.
High in the north face of the Assassins' Guildhouse there was a click as a window was pushed open.
Teppic, who had with considerable reluctance divested himself of some of the heavier of his weapons, took a deep draught of the hot, dead air.
This was it.
This was the night.
They said you had one chance in two unless you drew old Mericet as examiner, in which case you might as well cut your throat right at the start.
Teppic had Mericet for Strategy and Poison Theory every Thursday afternoon, and didn't get along with him. The dormitories buzzed with rumours about Mericet, the number of kills, the astonishing technique . . . He'd broken all the records in his time. They said he'd even killed the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork. Not the present one, that is. One of the dead ones.
Maybe it would be Nivor, who was fat and jolly and liked his food and did Traps and Deadfalls on Tuesdays. Teppic was good at traps, and got on well with the master. Or it could be the Kompt de Yoyo, who did Modern Languages and Music. Teppic was gifted at neither, but the Kompt was a keen edificeer and liked boys who shared his love of dangling by one hand high above the city streets.
He stuck one leg over the sill and unhitched his line and grapnel. He hooked the gutter two floors up and slipped out of the window.
No assassin ever used the stairs.
In order to establish continuity with later events, this may be the time to point out that the greatest mathematician in the history of the Discworld was lying down and peacefully eating his supper.
It is interesting to note that, owing to this mathematician's particular species, what he was eating for his supper was his lunch.
Gongs around the Ankh-Morpork sprawl were announcing midnight when Teppic crept along the ornate parapet four storeys above Filigree Street, his heart pounding.
There was a figure outlined against the afterglow of the sunset. Teppic paused alongside a particularly repulsive gargoyle to consider his options.
Fairly solid classroom rumour said that if he inhumed his examiner before the test, that was an automatic pass. He slipped a Number Three throwing knife from its thigh sheath and hefted it thoughtfully. Of course, any attempt, any overt move which missed would attract immediate failure and loss of privileges[2].
The silhouette was absolutely still. Teppic's eyes swivelled to the maze of chimneys, gargoyles, ventilator shafts, bridges and ladders that made up the rooftop scenery of the city.
Right, he thought. That's some sort of dummy. I'm supposed to attack it and that means he's watching me from somewhere else.
Will I be able to spot him? No.
On the other hand, maybe I'm meant to think it's a dummy. Unless he's thought of that as well . . .
He found himself drumming his fingers on the gargoyle, and hastily pulled himself together. What is the sensible course of action at this point?
A party of revellers staggered through a pool of light in the street far below.
Teppic sheathed the knife and stood up.
'Sir,' he said, 'I am here.'
A dry voice by his ear said, rather indistinctly, 'Very well.'
Teppic stared straight ahead. Mericet appeared in front of him, wiping grey dust off his bony face. He took a length of pipe out of his mouth and tossed it aside, then pulled a clipboard out of his coat. He was bundled up even in this heat. Mericet was the kind of person who could freeze in a volcano.
'Ah,' he said, his voice broadcasting disapproval, 'Mr. Teppic. Well, well.'
'A fine night, sir,' said Teppic. The examiner gave him a chilly look, suggesting that observations about the weather acquired an automatic black mark, and made a note on his clipboard.
'We'll take a few questions first,' he said.
'As you wish, sir.'
'What is the maximum permitted length of a throwing knife?' snapped Mericet.