It was a dwarf's dream. Captain Vimes of the Watch was retiring. That put Corporal Carrot in charge of the new recruits guarding Ankh-Morpork, Discworld's greatest city, from the Barbarian Tribes, Miscellaneous Marauders, unlicensed Thieves, and such. It was a big job, particularly for an adopted dwarf who was so homesick for the gold mines of Ramtop that he often locked himself in the dark room and hit himself on the head with an axe-handle, just for fun.

It was a young lord's nightmare. Edward, the 37th Lord d'Eath, newly graduated from the School for Assassins (the ideal institution for those whose rank is higher than their intelligence), had made an astonishing discovery. Ankh-Morpork, kingless for generations, and ruled by Disorganized Crime, had a sovereign! The new king just had to be convinces that he was, in fact, a king.

Corporal Carrot had a job.

Lord d'Eath had a Task.

And so began the most awesome epic encounter of all time, or at least all afternoon, in which good and evil, greed and honor, trolls and dwarves, dogs and bells and swamp dragons would clash, crash, toll, bark, shimmer, and simmer. The fate of a city, indeed a kingdom--nay, a very universe!--was to depend on a young man's courage, an ancient sword's magic, and three-legged poodle's bladder.

Don't look so surprised. This is Discworld, where anything can happen.

Which means that everything always does.