Civilisations are always founded on rivers. It is a common fact, and a design created by the animal kingdom, not by Man as might be thought (Man would tell you He invented it if you asked, anyway - He likes to make everything His own). It was on the river Ankh that one particular civilisation grew, though the Ankh was hardly recognisable as a river any more. Often muddy, thick with sticky peat and sand, it crawled along rather than flowed. Some said that here it wasn’t a miracle to walk on water, and once one set eyes on the Ankh, one knew why that was. But this story isn’t about a river… it’s about a family, a small family thrown together by chance, created by fortune (or misfortune, depending on your point of view) and put through such a manner of trials and tribulations, it’s a wonder they put up with the author’s whim. So, welcome to the savannah - yes, a civilisation, albeit not one commonly recognised as one - a savannah called Ankh-Morpork, two communities merged together by outstanding growth. These savannahs are filled with creatures, not men, with burrows and plains, not houses and streets. This is a natural civilisation, in the middle of nowhere, somewhere in the world (which may or may not be flat, and which may or may not be on the back of a turtle… your decision).

This Ankh-Morpork is a rather organised community. The animal kingdom always makes its own hierarchies and social standings - this one is little different. At the bottom are the herbivores, omnivores hover round the middle, and the carnivores, as always, rule the lot. But the hierarchy isn’t quite that straight forward… scavengers are unwelcome, and are often forbidden from the society; herbivores with intelligence serve the carnivores, rather than become their victims, as the slow herd creatures often do. Everyone has a role, a place, and you are placed in the hierarchy according to that as well as to your dietary preference. Therefore, a hornbill with a sharp brain may find himself above a dull-witted crocodile.

Still, one thing that never changed was the fact that the backbone of this society was the lion. The Big Cats. They’d be Kings (and Queens) of the Jungle if they ever lived in one. The lions were the structure - they were the councillors, the business…‘beasts’ and the politicians. They were the police, the traders, the law. In a manner of speaking, they were literally ‘it’. But lions too had their hierarchy. There were simple pride members, then there were the leaders of the various guilds, specialising in certain ‘topics’, and then, after the level of aristocracy (who did something though no one was ever quite sure what) there was the cherry on top of the cake - the Patrician. The Patrician ruled over Everyone (with a capital ‘E’), though he was not in any ways a tyrant (Kings had been abolished as the overriding power long ago) - he had to have the backing of his council before decisions were made, and whatnot. He was still very much the one who made the city work, however, and even if you didn’t like him, you had to respect anyone brave enough to accept the job.

And now, with a basic knowledge of the social order in which the story takes place, we can begin. And we start with the Patrician. He’s a lion, of course, rather tall and thin, his face gaunt, his mane thick and black. His body is covered in a morbidly grey coat of fur, whilst tidy tufts of black form around his mouth, giving the impression of a beard. His eyes are a terrifyingly brilliant blue and his voice is of a velvety, almost soothing quality - belying the nature of the lion within. He looks ever bit the aristocrat, for that is what he was, a cub born and bred by the most privileged in the savannah. His past is shrouded in mystery, however, and no one really knows anything about him. It is said that he was trained to be a smooth and swift killer by the Assassin’s Guild of the plains, though no one’s actually witnessed anything to prove this; they say that no one has lived to. In a world of dominating, female hunters, though, a male killer is a rarity, and an unwelcome one…

His name his Havelock.

He’s ruled Ankh-Morpork for a good fifteen years now - a long time by anyone’s standards, but a record breaking period round here. The fact is, he’s good at it. And he’s good at staying alive, too, which is a fortunate gift for a leader. He’s got a healthy enough following of hatred, too, though, and he nurtures this like a plant, feeding, prodding and pruning it whenever he feels the need. He feels that a slightly flawed society is better than a perfect one - perfection never lasts forever, so better not to have a community expecting such. His latest endeavour has been to try and curb the hatred and plotting from going too far, though, and for this he’s done the most unexpected thing - he’s taken a Preener into his midst.

Now, a Preener suggests little out of the ordinary, and especially nothing lewd; and that is the name’s purpose. A Preener is not, in fact, a mobile groomer for the wealthy, but a lioness trained to pander to the whim and wills of the lonely lions of Ankh-Moorpark (and those willing to ‘pay’ for their company, too). They were said to be of negotiable affection, and that was basically the deal. But the Patrician’s Preener was more than just a companion on those cold nights. In fact, she was a lot more than that. She was a silencer of the conspirators. The Patrician made every decision carefully, and this one was no different. He had taken in this Preener because she had served more of the influential noble-lions in his council than any other of her kind, and therefore she knew more than he felt was safe for him and his position. To silence the conspirators, to make them think twice about what they trusted to their hired lovers, he hired her. And her name was Hanna.

These two ‘H’s are a well known pair in the Ankh-Morpork hierarchy now, and seem to have grown together more than anything else over the past couple of years. It’s a contract and that alone which ties Hanna to Havelock. Or it was that. But now the lioness carries something more which binds her to her contractor, and it’s around this that the story grows…

The Patrician has no weaknesses. Well, he must, in fact - no one’s utterly flawless - but he keeps these ‘weaknesses’, his ‘Achilles’ Heels’ well and truly covered. Hanna knows some of his weaknesses, but these are ones she likens to all males, and well known by those in her profession. That aside, this flawlessness actually causes quite a lot of aggravation amongst the aristocratic ranks - there’s nothing worse than having a boss with no weaknesses to exploit. Many have tried going about his downfall, but all of them have failed. Miserably.

Sometimes, though, life happens to throw up weaknesses for certain felines, and life decided to do just that on behalf of the Patrician, with all its heart. This was called a daughter.

--End of Notes