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Discworld Daemons

Summary:

This crossover idea just came to me whilst I was reading La Belle Sauvage, and I could not help but run with it for the fun of it. What if the Discworld characters had daemons? This is just a fun fic which mostly involves squeezing too many people in and tormenting Vimes.

Notes:

Edited because in my enthusiasm to post I made a few errors and missed a footnote out!

Work Text:

Floating through the immensity of space, swims great A’Tuin, the giant turtle upon whose back stand four colossal elephants. And on those elephants, the Discworld. But you know all this. Probably you also know that this is one amongst many worlds. Perhaps, though, you do not know that, in the meandering course that A’Tuin takes amongst the stars, some of those worlds pass close by. Close enough, almost, to touch. Close enough, certainly, for certain fundamental parts of those worlds to become attracted to each other…and to interact.

 

Where does it begin? Probably out near the Hub, where the magic concentrates. It is perhaps first noticed out in the Ramtops, where a number of witches suddenly wake up and find themselves with a new familiar, particularly those who never had one in the first place. Certainly Nanny Ogg is not used to being woken by such a raucous noise first thing in the morning.

 

“Ere, where did you spring from?” she demands, of the magpie that is perched impertinently on the end of her bed. Then she peers a bit closer. “Oh. I sees.” She made a clucking noise. “Esme is going to go spare.”

 

 It takes some time before the phenomenon reaches the sprawling city of Ankh-Morpork, and, as with most things, it comes almost immediately to the attention of the Patrician, even before, as it were, it intrudes into his own, personal reality…

 

*             *             *

 

Lord Vetinari was reading a precis of the current magical phenomena manifesting in his city when he became aware of strange noises coming through his door from the outer office. There was the voice of his secretary, which was, of course, quite familiar to him, although Drumknott sounded uncharacteristically startled. But there was another, female voice, almost too quiet to hear at all. And a strange skittering sound. He carefully put his pen to one side, selected a suitable knife from the top desk drawer, and walked calmly towards the outer office, where he took in the scene before him.

“Mr Drumknott, you appear to be holding a mouse,” he pointed out, possibly a little unnecessarily, because Drumknott was very gently stroking said mouse upon the head with his little finger, a look of enchantment upon his face.

“Yes sir, a harvest mouse, to be precise.” Lord Vetinari raised an eyebrow.

“I shall take your word for it, not being entirely familiar with all the countryside species of mouse.” (1)

“Her name is Fletter,” Drumknott added, earnestly. Lord Vetinari allowed the eyebrow to rise a fraction more. “She’s not my pet,” Drumknott clarifies, “She can talk. She says she’s my daemon.”

“An attendant spirit of a supernatural nature, at a level between gods and humans,” Vetinari said, stroking his beard thoughtfully.

“Um, yes, something like that. She says she’s…part of me.”

“I see.” Lord Vetinari briefly raised his eyebrows heavenward and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like Wizards under his breath. “I have received reports of these…animal spirits beginning to appear this past week. I see they were not mere hyperbole.”

 “Um, sir…” Drumknott ventured, his eyes gone wide, “Um…you might want to look behind you.”

 

*             *             *

 

Three things in life are certain: death, taxes, and complaints. Like Lord Vetinari, the first Vimes hears of it is the complaints. After a few days, people’s daemons start appearing at an alarming rate. Apart from causing consternation amongst the populace, it leads to numerous…incidents…that the Watch is forced to deal with.

“So, to summarise. The gentleman in the holding cell who still refuses to give his name, was with a Seamstress when she says his…pet snake attacked her…pet rabbit.”

“Not quite sir. The animals seem to be some sort of spirit,” Cheery said, “The gentleman maintains that they were just, um, getting into the spirit of things…sorry sir, and the seamstress misconstrued.” Vimes ran his hands over his face.

“Anything else?”

“Well, Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler is complaining that his sales are down.”

“Why? And why is it my problem?”

“His animal’s a rat sir. A pretty ugly one too. It’s putting people off the sausages.”

“Will wonders never cease. Are the Dwarves getting any of these…spirit animals?” he asked.

“Oh yes. Mostly moles and badgers. It’s causing rather a lot of alarm because of the gender thing.” Vimes resisted the urge to drop his head into his hands.

“What gender thing?”

“Well, most of the daemons so far seem to be the opposite gender to their, um, person, which most Dwarves don’t actually want to know about.”

“But some aren’t?”

“No, so you can’t be sure.”

“Huh.” Vimes got up, opened his office door, and looked down at the melee below. Captain Carrot was being followed by an overly-enthusiastic dog, one of those big handsome ones that rescued kiddies lost on snowy mountains. Sergeant Colon had a tortoise, which he didn’t look too happy about, and Nobby…Vimes frowned.

“Is that a swamp dragon?”

“Think so sir.” Vimes stared a moment longer, then shook himself out of it.

“What about the undead?”

“Seems to be a bit variable. All the werewolves seem to have…sort of split, so they’re being followed around by an actual wolf all the time and can’t change. Sergeant Angua looked even more cross about that than Carrot’s dog, to be honest. Some of the vampires have bats, but not all. They’re usually ones that have been black ribboners for a while, if that means anything.”

“It’s bloody magic again isn’t it? Has anyone spoken to the wizards yet? And what does the Patrician have to say?”

“I would imagine he’s probably asking the wizards, sir.” But Vimes wasn’t listening; he was looking down at his own ankles, at something that seemed to be coalescing out of the air beside him…

 

*     *     *

“Archchancellor Ridcully is here for his appointment sir,” Drumknott said, “And he’s brought Ponder Stibbons with him. Um, plus their companions. Um, about Ridcully’s daemon…”

“Just send him in,” Vetinari said, with a lazy wave of the hand.

“Very good sir.”

Ridcully walked urgently into the room, in his usual brusque manner, but he was rather overshadowed by the enormous grizzly bear behind him. Both of them stopped dead when they saw the Patrician’s daemon lounging by the desk, however. She flicked her tail, once.

“Ah, Havelock, I see you’ve got one too. Yes, well, erm…” Ridcully began.

“Archchancellor, am I to conclude that the root cause of these…emanations is the Unseen University?” Lord Vetinari inquired, mildly, steepling his hands before him.

“Certainly not! We’re just as surprised as you are.”

“But you can do something about it, I assume? After all, magic is your field of expertise, is it not?”

“Well, not quite yet. Need to do a few more…studies and things. Stibbons?” Lord Vetinari allowed his gaze to fix upon Ponder Stibbons, who was lurking behind the bear; he had a squirrel monkey hugging onto his back.

“Mr Stibbons? Not anything to do with quantum, I hope.”

“No, your lordship,” Stibbons said quickly, “At least, not as we understand it. There does seem to be a type of elementary particle involved. Hex thinks that large quantities of it have been attracted by the Disc’s magical field.”

“From where?”

“Well, another world, we think, one passing very close to ours.” Lord Vetinari closed his eyes briefly.

“So can we expect these…daemons…to dissipate once we are no longer close to this world?”

“I’m not sure, sir,” Ponder replied, honestly, “It depends on whether the, um, particles are drawn back to their own world, or if, once we are past and they are not being replenished, whether they will dissipate on their own. It’s possible the Disc’s magical field will keep them here in sufficient quantity for this to be a…lasting occurrence.”

“And there’s nothing that can be done to remove them ourselves?”

“Not that I can see, sir, and I wouldn’t recommend it. The daemons appear to be aspects of one’s own personality. As you have probably noticed, it’s extremely uncomfortable to be even a small distance away from them. If we try to force the issue…well, it would be like trying to destroy part of oneself.”

“An undesirable outcome, indeed.”

“Don’t see the problem, myself,” Ridcully said, wanting to be part of the conversation again, “Makes things rather entertaining. Can’t wait to show up to Lord Selachi’s do with this lady on my arm, haha!”

“That is because you do not get the complaints across your desk,” Lord Vetinari said, pointedly, “I have thirty-three queries from various businesses regarding the legal position of spirit animals in the workplace alone.” Ridcully winced. “Well, do not let me detain you.”

After they were gone, Lord Vetinari leant back in his chair, staring thoughtfully at the clock. Drumknott entered silently; Fletter scampered briefly over to sniff noses with Lord Vetinari’s daemon, much to his consternation, but Vetinari only smiled, ever so slightly.

“Commander Vimes sends his apologies, he is dealing with a number of incidents. Captain Carrot is available for the weekly report if you prefer.”

“No, Drumknott, I think that can wait,” and Vetinari smiled again to himself. Drumknott was not sure why, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Vetinari’s daemon lean down and whisper something, ever so delicately, into Fletter’s ear, her tongue briefly flicking out. Fletter scampered nimbly back up Drumknott’s trousers and whispered in his ear in turn, before hopping into his shirt pocket.

“Very good sir,” he said, smiling himself, and left.

*     *     * 

 

It had been a very long day by the time Vimes got home, collapsed in a chair, and pulled off his boots. He hadn’t even thought of what Sybil’s daemon might be, until she entered the room with a graceful Klatchian hound trotting at her heels, its silky hair shining in the light from the hearth. He felt distinctly common by comparison.

“Oh, isn’t she darling!” Sybil exclaimed, reaching down to look at his own daemon, but she clearly knew, already, not to touch, and instead planted a kiss on his cheek. “Is it chaos out there?”

“A bit. Less than it was now people are getting over the shock. Mostly everybody is just really interested in it now. They’re all in the pub talking and comparing. Nobby got a swamp dragon, did you know?” Sybil laughed.

“Young Sam’s got a daemon too, but it doesn’t know what it is yet. She keeps changing from one thing to another. Currently she’s curled up as a puppy round him and they look so adorable.” Vimes smiled.

"Did you see Havelock yet?"                

“No,” Vimes said, reluctantly, “I’ve been too busy.”

“I wonder what his daemon is.”

“Probably something cold-blooded and venomous, like one of those giant snakes they’ve got in Hersheba,” Vimes groused, without thinking.

“Really Sam,” Sybil scolded lightly, “I’m sure you only say that because technically he’s your boss. He’s really quite a softie, on the inside.”

“If you say so dear,” Vimes said, unconvincingly. Sybil patted his cheek.

“Just like you are, only more refined.” And she laughed.

 

*    *     *

By the end of the week, people were, indeed, getting used to it, although it was still all anybody talked about. The Ankh-Morpork Times had started running a “Daemon of the Day” series, featuring the animal spirits of famous faces and well-known characters. William de Worde had gamely started it off with his wagtail, and the von Lipwig fellow had shown off his pretty golden fox. Vimes had turned them down twice already; he could only imagine Vetinari had done the same. Currently his officers were downstairs, looking like some sort of petting zoo, with Carrot’s friendly dog, Cheery’s squirrel and Colon’s tortoise. Not to mention Nobby’s cheeky little swamp dragon. Vimes couldn’t put it off anymore. He’d have to see Vetinari and make a long-overdue report, especially as the Patrician was running rings around Captain Carrot and getting him to agree to all sorts of things Vimes would never agree to. The bastard probably knew, Vimes thought, as he started to stomp angrily to the Palace.

“You’re not ashamed of me, are you?” his daemon, Daffale, asked.

“What? Of course not. You know that.” He was, in fact, secretly very proud of her.

“It’s just you’re worried what people will say.”

“Yes,” he admitted.

“They say it already,” Daffale pointed out, “And what do we care what people think?”

“I know.” But now they’ll say it even more, he thought.

 

Drumknott was filing away stacks of papers when Vimes arrived at the Palace. A tiny little sand-coloured mouse was similarly busy sorting paperclips on the desk. In spite of himself, Vimes smiled. He was just in time to see Lord Downey leave the Oblong Office: the master Assassin looked distinctly like a man who had got second prize when he’d thought he’d win, which was worrying, for someone with one of those venomous Hershebian snakes round his neck. What the hell had Vetinari got in there with him? 

The Patrician kept him waiting a good few minutes, as usual, so that by the time Vimes knocked on the door to the office, part of him was putting the smart money on a crocodile, whilst the less sensible part was hoping Sybil was right and looking forward to being greeted by a fluffy poodle.

“Ah Commander, how good of you to find the time to fit me into your busy schedule,” Lord Vetinari said, not at all pointedly, as he entered the Oblong Office. His attention was immediately drawn to the creature on the floor by the desk: a small, fluffy, silly little squash-nosed boggle-eyed dog. There were similarities, to be sure, between them, but Daffale was bigger, tougher, wire-haired and with a bite that just wouldn’t let go; a proper scrapper of a terrier. Not at all like Mr Fusspot.

“Sir,” said Vimes, who had been doing well in not staring at Lord Vetinari’s daemon until Daffale trotted over to the beast, tail wagging cheerfully. “Um..” said Vimes, whilst thinking Come back here! at his daemon, who for some inexplicable reason seemed to be doing her own thing, which was currently sniffing noses with an enormous black panther. The panther gave a low rumbling growl that almost segued into a purr.

“An interesting week,” Vetinari commented, looking almost fondly at Daffale, and damn the man for smiling like that, “But you had a report to make, I believe, and I have The Times calling in half an hour.”

“Yes sir,” Vimes said, automatically, and stared determinedly at the wall whilst he summarised the week’s events, all the while thinking: Of course it’s a black panther, the bloody sleek bastard! He would be a cat person! A scary cat person!

Apart from that, the meeting was tolerable, except that his daemon seemed to be having her own private chat with Lord Vetinari’s daemon, and they looked far too friendly, which was just inexplicable because he and Lord Vetinari were not friends and he was definitely in no way fond of the Patrician or even liked him. Of course he respected him. But that was it.

Finally, they were done, and Vimes got up to leave. Daffale, who had belatedly settled by his feet, jumped up and trotted back over to the damn panther. The cat made that almost-purr again, tipping her massive head to touch noses with his terrier. Up close, it was clear she wasn’t midnight black, but the deepest of shades just the other side of black, with the characteristic spotted pattern of the jaguar just visible in pure black beneath. She was absolutely beautiful, he had to admit.

The door opened just as his terrier daemon rolled onto her back. He spun round to see another cat – a regular house cat this time, a pretty tortoiseshell – which appeared to have jumped on the door handle to open it. Sacharissa Cripslock then poked her head around the door.

“So sorry!” she exclaimed, unconvincingly, “He’s so curious!”

“Quite all right, Ms Cripslock,” Vetinari said, genially, “The Commander and I were just finishing up. Do come in.” Vimes felt his face flame and Daffale quickly scuttled back to his heels. Ms Cripslock walked in, followed, inevitably by the iconographer, Otto, who had a confused looking bat flapping around his head.

“Oh your Grace, how fortunate you’re still here,” she said, “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind a photo for The Times, and a few words, for our daemon series?” Vimes sighed and met the Patrician’s amused gaze with resignation.

“By all means,” he said, less than graciously, and looked down at Daffale, who gave him sympathetic puppy eyes. The panther winked at him. As well she might. He was going to be Vetinari’s Terrier to the whole city forever now.

 

 

 

(1) By contrast to the seven known species of Ankh-Morpork mouse: the greater brown, the lesser brown, the Agatean grey, the piebald, the NoThingfjord ship mouse (actually a rat), the Unseen mouse (a magical sub-species) and the garden sewer mouse.