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An exclusive collection of twenty early short stories by one of the world's best loved authors, these are rediscovered tales that Pratchett wrote under a pseudonym for newspapers during the 1970s and 1980s. Whilst none of the stories are set in the Discworld, they hint towards the world he would go on to create in his award-winning and globally bestselling series, containing all of his trademark wit, satirical wisdom and fantastic imagination. These are tales which entertain, enlighten and, most importantly, make you laugh.

Insurrection is in the air in the city of Ankh-Morpork. The Haves and Have-Nots are about to fall out all over again. Captain Sam Vimes of the city's ramshackle Night Watch is used to this. It's enough to drive a man to drink. Well, to drink more. But this time, something is different - the Have-Nots have found the key to a dormant, lethal weapon that even they don't fully understand and they're about to unleash a campaign of terror on the city. Time for Captain Vimes to sober up.

Religion is a competitive business in the Discworld. Everyone has their own opinion and their own gods, of every shape and size - all fighting for faith, followers, and a place at the top.

When the neighbours in question are the proud empires of Klatch and Ankh-Morpork, those are going to be some pretty large garden tools indeed. Of course, no-one would dream of starting a war without a perfectly good reason...such as a 'strategic' piece of old rock in the middle of nowhere. It is after all every citizen's right to bear arms to defend their own. Even if it isn't technically their own. And even if they don't have much in the way of actual weaponry.

They say that diplomacy is a gentle art. That mastering it is a lifetime's work. But you do need a certain inclination in that direction. It's not something you can just pick up on the job. A few days ago Sam Vimes was a copper - an important copper, true - chief of police - but still, at his core, a policeman. But today he is an ambassador - to the mysterious, fat-rich country of Uberwald. Today, Sam Vimes is also a man on the run. At some point during his ambassadorship, things went very wrong. It's snowing. It's freezing.

Fischer has everything he needs in life: blossoming friendships, a menagerie of cute animal companions, a waterfront property with easy access to fishing, and enough coffee to take out a small elephant or a really big dog. Unfortunately, Fischer can’t catch a break. Cosmic forces? Still throwing curveballs. The bigwigs in the capital? Starting to sniff around his business. Cults? Still culting. Plus, awakened beings are washing up on his shores like flotsam after a storm. And worst of all? His coffee guy ghosted him!

Try as he might, Fischer still can't catch a break. Tropica's forces have just perpetrated the fantasyland equivalent of crashing the king's party, kicking over the punch bowl, and making a series of rude gestures on their way out. Unfortunately, they're about to learn firsthand that when you take a bully down to the mat, it's best to make sure they don't get back up. Because their enemies are unearthing long-forgotten powers, and if those dabbling in the resulting destructive chi succeed, they could become even more annoying than the time Corporal Claws hid all of Fischer's pants.

Tamsyn Muir’s Gideon the Ninth unveils a solar system of swordplay, cut-throat politics, and lesbian necromancers. Her characters leap out of the audio, as skillfully animated as arcane revenants. The result is a heart-pounding epic science fantasy. Brought up by unfriendly, ossifying nuns, ancient retainers, and countless skeletons, Gideon is ready to abandon a life of servitude and an afterlife as a reanimated corpse.

Somewhere on the frontier between thought and reality exists the Discworld, a parallel time and place that might sound and smell very much like our own, but which looks completely different. Particularly as it’s carried though space on the back of a giant turtle (sex unknown). It plays by different rules. But then, some things are the same everywhere. The Disc’s very existence is about to be threatened by a strange new blight: the world’s first tourist, upon whose survival rests the peace and prosperity of the land.

Death comes to us all. When he came to Mort, he offered him a job. Death is the Grim Reaper of the Discworld, a black-robed skeleton with a scythe who ushers souls into the next world. He is also fond of cats and endlessly baffled by humanity. Soon Death is yearning to experience what humanity really has to offer, but to do that, he'll need to hire some help. It's an offer Mort can't refuse. As Death's apprentice he'll have free board, use of the company horse—and being dead isn't compulsory. It's a dream job—until Mort falls in love with Death's daughter, Ysabell.

A shadow looms over the border. To the north, the Loerstadt Gate stands as the Kingdom of Tirea's bastion against the ambitions of the Grand Duchy of Granholtz. Yet its walls shake as attacks within the volatile border region threaten the fragile peace that exists between the two nations. Watched by the eyes of the continent, Juliette Contzen, 3rd Princess and sometimes adventurer, strives forth to secure her kingdom's borders against the wiles of the Grand Duchess.

A call from an old colleague has DI Adams off her patch and out of her depth, dealing with a mysterious new beer that has unexpected side effects. Side effects that are much more dangerous and far-reaching than a simple hangover. Missing brewers. Inexplicable superpowers. Erratic behaviour. And it's not just the punters. Half the police in Yorkshire seem to have fallen under the beer's spell, and she's barely keeping a step ahead of them.

Moist von Lipwig is a con artist and a fraud and a man faced with a life choice: be hanged, or put the ailing postal service of Ankh-Morpork back on its feet. It's a tough decision. The post is a creaking old institution, overshadowed by new technology. But there are people who still believe in it and Moist must become one of them if he's going to see that the mail gets through, come rain, hail, sleet, dogs, the Post Office Workers Friendly and Benevolent Society, an evil chairman...and a midnight killer. Getting a date with Adora Bell Dearheart would be nice, too.

Erin Solstice trusts a lot of people—even some lost Redfangs survivors of Esthelm—but can she handle being friends with Goblins when every hand is turned against them and the tribes are on the rampage? Liscor is in the path of Goblin Lord's inexorable march north, and the fates of Rags, Garen Redfang, and Tremborag's Goblin tribes are all tied to an impending war. Who will survive?

Kaz Wolfe has everything he needs to prevent a Convergence that would allow gods and monsters from the Nether to invade our world. Everything, other than a single clue about what a Convergence is. Or how it works. Or how to stop it. To get answers, he might have to take a fun-filled family road trip to the last place he wants to go: the Netherworld.

William de Worde is the accidental editor of the Discworld's first newspaper. Now he must cope with the traditional perils of a journalist's life - people who want him dead, a recovering vampire with a suicidal fascination for flash photography, some more people who want him dead in a different way and, worst of all, the man who keeps begging him to publish pictures of his humorously shaped potatoes.

Being 16 is always difficult, even more so when there's a Death in the family. After all, it's hard to grow up normally when Grandfather rides a white horse and wields a scythe. Especially if he decides to take a well-earned moment to uncover the meaning of life and discover himself in the process, so that you have to take over the family business, and everyone mistakes you for the Tooth Fairy.

Wildlife and monsters have been stirred from their homes by intruders, both in the continent of Chandrar and the Empire of Tiqr, led by Nsiia, the Empress of Beasts, and in Liscor's dungeon, where a certain skeleton continues to help both friend and foes in the only way he knows how. In Liscor, the election will result in a new group of leaders for the city. But is that for the better or worse?

Death has been fired by the Auditors of Reality for the heinous crime of developing…a personality. Sent to live like everyone else, Death takes a new name and begins working as a farmhand. He's got the scythe already, after all. And for humanity, Death is just…gone. Which leads to the kind of chaos you always get when an important public service is withdrawn. If Death doesn't come for you, then what are you supposed to do in the meantime? You can't have the undead wandering about like lost souls—there's no telling what might happen.

Time is a resource. Everyone knows it has to be managed. You mess with it at your peril. You can let it move fast or slowly, but what you mustn't do is allow it to stop. The Monks of History have the glamorous job of time management in the Discworld. They store it and pump it from the places where it's wasted (like underwater—how much time does a codfish need?) to places like cities, where there's never enough time. But the construction of the world's first truly accurate clock starts a race against, well, time for Lu Tze and his apprentice Lobsang Ludd.