sam_storyteller (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-09 06:00 am
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-09 06:00 am
DISCWORLD: Short Fics
These are unrated but generally in the PG range.
Warnings: None.
Blue - Eyed Boy
Havelock's eyes, as a child, were more than simply blue; they were startlingly blue, like falling into new snow. There was an intelligence about them which only grew hooded, rather than disappearing, as he entered school.
Havelock was first generation. His father hadn't been an Assassin. The father whose money had paid for his schooling, anyhow.
He stood over the former Patrician, Lord Snapcase, cleaning his blade. Snapcase's eyes stared at nothing.
His eyes were startlingly blue.
His eyes had never bothered to look back at Havelock's mother.
"How do you like your blue-eyed boy now?" he asked softly.
Out On A Limb
"But it's a proven fact!" Ponder wailed. "You've seen Great A'Tuin yourself!"
Rincewind held up a hand, which wavered gently.
"S'right. S'right. But. Suppose. Just, suppose. Right? That the world does, right, NOT rest on the back of a giant tortoise."
"But WHY?" Ponder asked. Ponder, when drinking with Rincewind, often became needlessly agitated. He was a Nervous Drunk. A nervous everything, really.
"For...argument's sake," Rincewind replied, vaguely. "And say it spun...y'know...around...the sun..."
"Daft. Everything'd fall off everything else," Ponder exclaimed. "Like...er..."
He watched as Rincewind gently toppled off his barstool.
"...you," he said sadly.
Shiny
"Well. He's nobility." Gunilla had said. "They like...drink? Horses? Shiny things."
Sacharissa, who could spell subtlety but never really grasped it, used Cheri Littlebottom's dressmaker. William, pacing the darkened office, didn't notice.
"It's all there. The Great Morporkian Novel. The idea and all."
"I thought you didn't write lies," Sacharissa replied.
"Well, when the muse strikes, you don't question. Besides, it's almost the truth. But I can't write! I should be writing -- "
Sacharissa grabbed him by the collar and kissed him.
"Ooh," he said. His eyes drifted downward. "Shiny."
He forever associated their first kiss with the second time she slapped him.
Badge
Vetinari had, as a peace offering after some irritation that Vimes no longer recalled, ordered new Watch badges. They were nicer than the old ones, shiny and durable. They were the symbol of the new Watch.
He looked at the older, simpler badge on his desk. Sybil was always saying it was time for something new; perhaps she was right, but he couldn't replace the old one. It'd been given to him for as long as he was a copper.
Whenever he thought about trading it in, #177 or not, he remembered that this was the badge he'd carried before.
Ability
It was not generally acknowledged by the Assassins that Havelock Vetinari was an accomplished edificeer. Mainly because it didn't need to be. It was the theory of inverse plaque size; the more famous your victim, the smaller your name-plaque under their portrait in the hall, because, well, everyone already knew.
Ivy, they said, was deceptively difficult to climb because most ivy was not firmly anchored to the wall, and wasn't very durable to begin with. In his seventh year, Vetinari had supposedly scaled the infamous Ivy Wall on the south side of the Palace; eight floors of pure vegetation, slick, bug-infested, and impossible to climb. How did it support his weight? the other students asked. Sure, he's a skinny little bastard, but even a first-year would have trouble not tearing off leaves.
Vetinari just smiled, and made a mental note to remove the camoflagued ropes he'd lowered down among the ivy, later.
After all, it wasn't the ability that counted, in politics, it was the appearance, and young Havelock was planning on being a very good politician indeed.
Juxtapose
It wasn't that Sam and Havelock were opposites, Sybil reflected; if that had been the case, Sam would have been just as exquisitely emotionless and composed as Havelock, because in order to be opposite a certain amount of symmetry had to be maintained. Or so Detritus had told her, on one of his Cold days.
No, they were too different to be opposites. Havelock was pale, like a marble statue, and dark-haired; Sam had tanned skin and hair slowly going from dust-brown to ash-grey; he was the sort to have scrawled naughty sayings on statues at some point in his delinquent past.
Still, though asymmetrical, they made a striking portrait; Sam, uncomfortably, holding his son on his lap, while Vetinari examined the boy, head bent, with an almost calculating expression on his face. After all, godfathering was a serious business. Havelock was investigating everything thoroughly first.
The juxtaposition between what her husband would give his son and what the Patrician could teach him was an eerie one; perhaps she'd been wrong to invite Havelock to tea.
Then young Sam cheerfully threw up on the Patrician's robes.
Trust a Vimes to put things in proper perspective.
Equal Rights
"We've a Witch on the force now, you know," Carrot said. "It's only equal rights."
Vimes, next to him, was glowering. Vetinari steepled his fingers.
"This witch. Lance-Constable Ogg?"
"Yessir."
"Is Ms. Ogg in the habit of eating young children?" he asked.
Carrot shifted uncomfortably. "No, sir, but her Gran, Nanny Ogg, does have a bit of a stare -- "
"But she doesn't lure children into her house with promises of sweets? For the purpose of eating them?"
"I don't think so, sir. She just likes children, sir."
"But not in any gastronomic capacity."
"No, sir."
Vetinari nodded. "So our Lance-Constable doesn't consume, in any form, the youth of Ankh-Morpork."
"No, sir."
"And this new recruit, Lance-Constable Bunny -- "
"Chocolate Bunny, sir. I just think it's important if we have someone from the magical comestibles community as well as the magical baking community, sir."
"And the fact that he might melt in the daylight?"
"Night duty, sir."
Vetinari sighed. Times like this tried mens' souls. He nodded at Vimes, who rolled his eyes.
"Right," Vimes said. "Swear him in. And put out a memo saying nobody's to nibble his ears."
Inhuman Rights
"This is police discrimination!" the man cried. "And I won't stand for it!"
Sir Samuel Vimes, who once in a while worried about how bland he'd grown over people shouting in his office, looked up from his paperwork. "Are you lodging a formal complaint, Mr...?"
"Nichlaus!"
Vimes smiled. It was a smile he had learned from Vetinari, and it was terrifying. "I see. What is your complaint, Mr. Nichlaus?"
"I'm bein' discriminated against! You lot have no respect for the rights of nonhumans!"
"Nonhumans?"
"M'a werewolf," Nichlaus said, sulkily. "I've been mistreated!"
"Have you now? By whom?"
"That rock and that woman and that other rock! Police brutality, I call it!"
Vimes set down his pen. "Sergeants Detritus, Angua, and Dorfl, it would appear?"
"Those're the ones!"
Vimes' smile widened.
"Congratulations, Mr. Nichlaus," he said. "You have officially been brutalised entirely by nonhumans. I'm sure they respect your right not to fall down any stairs, don't they, Detritus?"
Detritus' craggy grin matched his commander's. "Right you are, sir," he said, taking custody once more of the flabbergasted Nichlaus.
Labyrinth
Angua'd had the nightmare since she was a child.
Trapped in a labyrinth; the goal wasn't escape, but just to find the centre. She could see it, filled with fruit trees one never saw in Uberwald. Find it before the wolf at her heels got her. Until she left Uberwald she never succeeded.
Carrot and his unconditional love helped. Most of the time, she found the centre, though the wolf snapped and snarled at her. Still, she was safe, and could eat fruit, and be human.
But there was still the chase, and the labyrinth walls.
Then one day she was working in the canteen when Vimes entered, poured himself some tea, and sat, rubbing his eyes. She knew the gesture; she usually knew what caused it, too.
"Got four people on the Turnwise Street fire," she said. "I've reworked the rotas and got Detritus to growl at insubordinates."
Vimes gave her a grateful grin. "Angua, I often wonder what I'd do without you."
"Carrot and I -- "
"Not Carrot and you, you're not the same person. I meant you," he corrected. Something warm blossomed inside her.
That night she dreamed the walls fell in on the wolf, and the fruit trees spread out across the wreckage.
Dominoes
Sam Vimes was not a man who enjoyed complicated games. It took him a good run-up for anything more involved than checkers. He was rather keen on dominos, however. Carrot knew this, and he'd mentioned it once, unwisely in Vimes' opinion, but on rainy days it wasn't so bad to have a bit of a game in the canteen.
The playing piece clicked. Vimes looked satisfied. "All right, it's your turn."
It was a tough choice. There were several available moves, but the question was, which one did you choose? Could you think ahead and outwit your opponent? The strategy! The agony!
"Ook."
Bet
Out in the cosmos, bigger than life and twice as patient, soars Great A'Tuin, the star turtle. There are so many questions -- what does A'Tuin eat? What is A'Tuin's gender? What about A'Tuin's sex-life? For a world that stands on A'Tuin's back, this is an important consideration.
Even if the question was academic, humans would wonder. Orang-otans presumably care; they're not far removed from humans.
The Librarian eyed Carrot and Vimes over the check-out desk, suspiciously. "Ook?"
"Er..." Vimes said. "It's to settle a bet."
"We'd be most appreciative," Carrot added.
The Librarian sighed and made a gesture that vaguely implied that some things, not even books can teach us. The watchmen wandered off, still debating, and the Librarian went to make sure the Big Book Of Chelonian Reproduction was still under lock and key.
It'd only bother them if they knew. And Commander Vimes hated to lose bets.
The Rules of Latatian
Sybil Vimes-Ramkin had never marked her husband as an avid reader, but he plowed through books the same way he solved cases -- methodically, stubbornly, and constantly.
"Sam, what's the book you're reading?"
"Oh, I don't know," Sam said idly, glancing up at his wife. "It was sitting out. I liked the cover."
"It's in Latatian."
"What's wrong with Latatian?"
"Well," Sybil said, "it's not something you translate in your head. You have a dictionary and notes."
"I like it. It's got rules. Got to have rules, if you want to learn anything."
Sybil looked at her husband, curious. "You cold-read Latatian because it has rules?"
"Long as you remember the rules, you're fine."
Vimes gave his wife a small smile, and returned to his book with an easy mind.
Surprise
Lady Sybil Ramkin was an organiser.
You couldn't be slack when it came to breeding dragons, or you soon found yourself literally at ground zero. She kept her corner of the world neat, inasmuch as was possible when you spent half your time trying to stabilise a few dozen walking chemical disasters and the other half married to Sam Vimes.
Sam was a dis-organiser. Chaos followed him about like a puppy. Sybil treated it like a bad habit, akin to leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor.
He kept order in the Watch, but that was a self-regimenting system. The Sergeants kept the Corporals in place, who made sure the Lance-Corporals weren't skiving off, who showed they were Corporal material by bossing the Constables, who dumped on the Lance-Constables (who made their own entertainment, apparently).
But personally, vis-a-vis the universe, Sam Vimes was karmically Untidy. So she rarely told him when she was arranging certain things, which is why Sam didn't find out he was having a birthday party until it happened.
"Oh dear," she said. "It's a good thing we caught you by surprise, Sam."
"If you hadn't, I'd have shot Ridcully instead of his hat," Vimes sighed. "Please, Sybil. Don't surprise me."
"Please, Sybil," Mustrum Ridcully agreed, "Don't surprise him. My hat can't handle it."
Stand Up
"So let me get this straight," Vimes said slowly. "You're going to go down to the pub..."
"....right," came a voice, from somewhere underneath yards of chiffon.
"Dressed like a woman..."
"Yessir," the voice answered, as the unlikely face of Nobby Nobbs appeared in what Vimes hoped was the right part of the strangely filmy contraption. "On account of, they aren't likely to throw anything at a woman, are they, sir?"
Vimes looked dubious. "And once you've got their attention you're going to..."
"Tell them jokes, sir."
"He does tell a very good joke, sir," Sergeant Colon put in. "And much more appropriate than telling 'em in mixed company, Commander."
"I think the Mended Drum is about as mixed as one can get, personally," Vimes sighed. "You're just going to be a....a stand-up comedian?"
"Yessir, only don't worry sir. I won't let on who I really am," Nobby answered, nicking some of Cheri's lipstick. Vimes made a mental note to warn Cheri not to use it again. That was only one degree away from kissing Nobby Nobbs, which made even his own lips want to run away from his face.
"He's going to use a stage name," Colon informed Vimes sagely.
"Beti," Nobby said, before Vimes could refuse to ask.
"Beti?" Vimes asked, unable to stop himself.
"Yessir. Beti Wizzard, sir."
Retired
The Patrician had retired.
The Patrician had retired.
Well, technically, Lord Vetinari had retired. The Patrician was a job, not a person, though this distinction was lost on the multitudes who had lived in Ankh-Morpork under what some might call his iron fist, for the past, oh, how long was it now? Thirty, forty years? Fifty?
The Patrician had retired and there had been a new Patrician appointed. None of those doing the appointing even knew who he was; they had been too terrified of the last Patrician, or too wise to his tricks, to disagree with his decision regarding his successor.
So it was with great anticipation on the part of Duke Vimes, and not a little fear on the part of the rest of the senior council, that the doors of the Palace were flung open so that they could enter and greet the new Patrician.
A young man was lounging in the wooden chair at the foot of the steps up to the gold throne, idly reading a report, one leg hooked over an arm, the cap of office slightly askew on his short brown hair.
He looked up.
Duke Vimes swore mightily.
"Hi dad," Viscount Vimes, Samuel the Second, said cheerfully.
"Samuel," his father roared.
"What? You keep telling me I should get a job..."
Hogswatch Surprise
Otto was very fond of the little demons in his iconograph box. He was kind to them, fed them promptly, and always kept them in paints; in return they were obedient and friendly, even if they weren't the brightest eels in the flashbox.
William shook his head, of course, and Sacharissa gave him the dread Sacharissa's Lifted Eyebrow, but Otto didn't care; he spent hours at his workbench with a pair of scissors, thread, and dozens of tiny matchsticks, until his fingers were tender and his eyes sore from the work.
It was worth it to hear the pleased squeaks and squeals of the little demons, when they woke that morning to a dozen delicate little paintbrushes, made with real vampire-hair, which was soft and downy and hard to come by. Each brush had a small black bow on it, of course, and a little tag attached.
The cheerful legend on each tag read Happy Hogsvatch!
Warnings: None.
Blue - Eyed Boy
Havelock's eyes, as a child, were more than simply blue; they were startlingly blue, like falling into new snow. There was an intelligence about them which only grew hooded, rather than disappearing, as he entered school.
Havelock was first generation. His father hadn't been an Assassin. The father whose money had paid for his schooling, anyhow.
He stood over the former Patrician, Lord Snapcase, cleaning his blade. Snapcase's eyes stared at nothing.
His eyes were startlingly blue.
His eyes had never bothered to look back at Havelock's mother.
"How do you like your blue-eyed boy now?" he asked softly.
Out On A Limb
"But it's a proven fact!" Ponder wailed. "You've seen Great A'Tuin yourself!"
Rincewind held up a hand, which wavered gently.
"S'right. S'right. But. Suppose. Just, suppose. Right? That the world does, right, NOT rest on the back of a giant tortoise."
"But WHY?" Ponder asked. Ponder, when drinking with Rincewind, often became needlessly agitated. He was a Nervous Drunk. A nervous everything, really.
"For...argument's sake," Rincewind replied, vaguely. "And say it spun...y'know...around...the sun..."
"Daft. Everything'd fall off everything else," Ponder exclaimed. "Like...er..."
He watched as Rincewind gently toppled off his barstool.
"...you," he said sadly.
Shiny
"Well. He's nobility." Gunilla had said. "They like...drink? Horses? Shiny things."
Sacharissa, who could spell subtlety but never really grasped it, used Cheri Littlebottom's dressmaker. William, pacing the darkened office, didn't notice.
"It's all there. The Great Morporkian Novel. The idea and all."
"I thought you didn't write lies," Sacharissa replied.
"Well, when the muse strikes, you don't question. Besides, it's almost the truth. But I can't write! I should be writing -- "
Sacharissa grabbed him by the collar and kissed him.
"Ooh," he said. His eyes drifted downward. "Shiny."
He forever associated their first kiss with the second time she slapped him.
Badge
Vetinari had, as a peace offering after some irritation that Vimes no longer recalled, ordered new Watch badges. They were nicer than the old ones, shiny and durable. They were the symbol of the new Watch.
He looked at the older, simpler badge on his desk. Sybil was always saying it was time for something new; perhaps she was right, but he couldn't replace the old one. It'd been given to him for as long as he was a copper.
Whenever he thought about trading it in, #177 or not, he remembered that this was the badge he'd carried before.
Ability
It was not generally acknowledged by the Assassins that Havelock Vetinari was an accomplished edificeer. Mainly because it didn't need to be. It was the theory of inverse plaque size; the more famous your victim, the smaller your name-plaque under their portrait in the hall, because, well, everyone already knew.
Ivy, they said, was deceptively difficult to climb because most ivy was not firmly anchored to the wall, and wasn't very durable to begin with. In his seventh year, Vetinari had supposedly scaled the infamous Ivy Wall on the south side of the Palace; eight floors of pure vegetation, slick, bug-infested, and impossible to climb. How did it support his weight? the other students asked. Sure, he's a skinny little bastard, but even a first-year would have trouble not tearing off leaves.
Vetinari just smiled, and made a mental note to remove the camoflagued ropes he'd lowered down among the ivy, later.
After all, it wasn't the ability that counted, in politics, it was the appearance, and young Havelock was planning on being a very good politician indeed.
Juxtapose
It wasn't that Sam and Havelock were opposites, Sybil reflected; if that had been the case, Sam would have been just as exquisitely emotionless and composed as Havelock, because in order to be opposite a certain amount of symmetry had to be maintained. Or so Detritus had told her, on one of his Cold days.
No, they were too different to be opposites. Havelock was pale, like a marble statue, and dark-haired; Sam had tanned skin and hair slowly going from dust-brown to ash-grey; he was the sort to have scrawled naughty sayings on statues at some point in his delinquent past.
Still, though asymmetrical, they made a striking portrait; Sam, uncomfortably, holding his son on his lap, while Vetinari examined the boy, head bent, with an almost calculating expression on his face. After all, godfathering was a serious business. Havelock was investigating everything thoroughly first.
The juxtaposition between what her husband would give his son and what the Patrician could teach him was an eerie one; perhaps she'd been wrong to invite Havelock to tea.
Then young Sam cheerfully threw up on the Patrician's robes.
Trust a Vimes to put things in proper perspective.
Equal Rights
"We've a Witch on the force now, you know," Carrot said. "It's only equal rights."
Vimes, next to him, was glowering. Vetinari steepled his fingers.
"This witch. Lance-Constable Ogg?"
"Yessir."
"Is Ms. Ogg in the habit of eating young children?" he asked.
Carrot shifted uncomfortably. "No, sir, but her Gran, Nanny Ogg, does have a bit of a stare -- "
"But she doesn't lure children into her house with promises of sweets? For the purpose of eating them?"
"I don't think so, sir. She just likes children, sir."
"But not in any gastronomic capacity."
"No, sir."
Vetinari nodded. "So our Lance-Constable doesn't consume, in any form, the youth of Ankh-Morpork."
"No, sir."
"And this new recruit, Lance-Constable Bunny -- "
"Chocolate Bunny, sir. I just think it's important if we have someone from the magical comestibles community as well as the magical baking community, sir."
"And the fact that he might melt in the daylight?"
"Night duty, sir."
Vetinari sighed. Times like this tried mens' souls. He nodded at Vimes, who rolled his eyes.
"Right," Vimes said. "Swear him in. And put out a memo saying nobody's to nibble his ears."
Inhuman Rights
"This is police discrimination!" the man cried. "And I won't stand for it!"
Sir Samuel Vimes, who once in a while worried about how bland he'd grown over people shouting in his office, looked up from his paperwork. "Are you lodging a formal complaint, Mr...?"
"Nichlaus!"
Vimes smiled. It was a smile he had learned from Vetinari, and it was terrifying. "I see. What is your complaint, Mr. Nichlaus?"
"I'm bein' discriminated against! You lot have no respect for the rights of nonhumans!"
"Nonhumans?"
"M'a werewolf," Nichlaus said, sulkily. "I've been mistreated!"
"Have you now? By whom?"
"That rock and that woman and that other rock! Police brutality, I call it!"
Vimes set down his pen. "Sergeants Detritus, Angua, and Dorfl, it would appear?"
"Those're the ones!"
Vimes' smile widened.
"Congratulations, Mr. Nichlaus," he said. "You have officially been brutalised entirely by nonhumans. I'm sure they respect your right not to fall down any stairs, don't they, Detritus?"
Detritus' craggy grin matched his commander's. "Right you are, sir," he said, taking custody once more of the flabbergasted Nichlaus.
Labyrinth
Angua'd had the nightmare since she was a child.
Trapped in a labyrinth; the goal wasn't escape, but just to find the centre. She could see it, filled with fruit trees one never saw in Uberwald. Find it before the wolf at her heels got her. Until she left Uberwald she never succeeded.
Carrot and his unconditional love helped. Most of the time, she found the centre, though the wolf snapped and snarled at her. Still, she was safe, and could eat fruit, and be human.
But there was still the chase, and the labyrinth walls.
Then one day she was working in the canteen when Vimes entered, poured himself some tea, and sat, rubbing his eyes. She knew the gesture; she usually knew what caused it, too.
"Got four people on the Turnwise Street fire," she said. "I've reworked the rotas and got Detritus to growl at insubordinates."
Vimes gave her a grateful grin. "Angua, I often wonder what I'd do without you."
"Carrot and I -- "
"Not Carrot and you, you're not the same person. I meant you," he corrected. Something warm blossomed inside her.
That night she dreamed the walls fell in on the wolf, and the fruit trees spread out across the wreckage.
Dominoes
Sam Vimes was not a man who enjoyed complicated games. It took him a good run-up for anything more involved than checkers. He was rather keen on dominos, however. Carrot knew this, and he'd mentioned it once, unwisely in Vimes' opinion, but on rainy days it wasn't so bad to have a bit of a game in the canteen.
The playing piece clicked. Vimes looked satisfied. "All right, it's your turn."
It was a tough choice. There were several available moves, but the question was, which one did you choose? Could you think ahead and outwit your opponent? The strategy! The agony!
"Ook."
Bet
Out in the cosmos, bigger than life and twice as patient, soars Great A'Tuin, the star turtle. There are so many questions -- what does A'Tuin eat? What is A'Tuin's gender? What about A'Tuin's sex-life? For a world that stands on A'Tuin's back, this is an important consideration.
Even if the question was academic, humans would wonder. Orang-otans presumably care; they're not far removed from humans.
The Librarian eyed Carrot and Vimes over the check-out desk, suspiciously. "Ook?"
"Er..." Vimes said. "It's to settle a bet."
"We'd be most appreciative," Carrot added.
The Librarian sighed and made a gesture that vaguely implied that some things, not even books can teach us. The watchmen wandered off, still debating, and the Librarian went to make sure the Big Book Of Chelonian Reproduction was still under lock and key.
It'd only bother them if they knew. And Commander Vimes hated to lose bets.
The Rules of Latatian
Sybil Vimes-Ramkin had never marked her husband as an avid reader, but he plowed through books the same way he solved cases -- methodically, stubbornly, and constantly.
"Sam, what's the book you're reading?"
"Oh, I don't know," Sam said idly, glancing up at his wife. "It was sitting out. I liked the cover."
"It's in Latatian."
"What's wrong with Latatian?"
"Well," Sybil said, "it's not something you translate in your head. You have a dictionary and notes."
"I like it. It's got rules. Got to have rules, if you want to learn anything."
Sybil looked at her husband, curious. "You cold-read Latatian because it has rules?"
"Long as you remember the rules, you're fine."
Vimes gave his wife a small smile, and returned to his book with an easy mind.
Surprise
Lady Sybil Ramkin was an organiser.
You couldn't be slack when it came to breeding dragons, or you soon found yourself literally at ground zero. She kept her corner of the world neat, inasmuch as was possible when you spent half your time trying to stabilise a few dozen walking chemical disasters and the other half married to Sam Vimes.
Sam was a dis-organiser. Chaos followed him about like a puppy. Sybil treated it like a bad habit, akin to leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor.
He kept order in the Watch, but that was a self-regimenting system. The Sergeants kept the Corporals in place, who made sure the Lance-Corporals weren't skiving off, who showed they were Corporal material by bossing the Constables, who dumped on the Lance-Constables (who made their own entertainment, apparently).
But personally, vis-a-vis the universe, Sam Vimes was karmically Untidy. So she rarely told him when she was arranging certain things, which is why Sam didn't find out he was having a birthday party until it happened.
"Oh dear," she said. "It's a good thing we caught you by surprise, Sam."
"If you hadn't, I'd have shot Ridcully instead of his hat," Vimes sighed. "Please, Sybil. Don't surprise me."
"Please, Sybil," Mustrum Ridcully agreed, "Don't surprise him. My hat can't handle it."
Stand Up
"So let me get this straight," Vimes said slowly. "You're going to go down to the pub..."
"....right," came a voice, from somewhere underneath yards of chiffon.
"Dressed like a woman..."
"Yessir," the voice answered, as the unlikely face of Nobby Nobbs appeared in what Vimes hoped was the right part of the strangely filmy contraption. "On account of, they aren't likely to throw anything at a woman, are they, sir?"
Vimes looked dubious. "And once you've got their attention you're going to..."
"Tell them jokes, sir."
"He does tell a very good joke, sir," Sergeant Colon put in. "And much more appropriate than telling 'em in mixed company, Commander."
"I think the Mended Drum is about as mixed as one can get, personally," Vimes sighed. "You're just going to be a....a stand-up comedian?"
"Yessir, only don't worry sir. I won't let on who I really am," Nobby answered, nicking some of Cheri's lipstick. Vimes made a mental note to warn Cheri not to use it again. That was only one degree away from kissing Nobby Nobbs, which made even his own lips want to run away from his face.
"He's going to use a stage name," Colon informed Vimes sagely.
"Beti," Nobby said, before Vimes could refuse to ask.
"Beti?" Vimes asked, unable to stop himself.
"Yessir. Beti Wizzard, sir."
Retired
The Patrician had retired.
The Patrician had retired.
Well, technically, Lord Vetinari had retired. The Patrician was a job, not a person, though this distinction was lost on the multitudes who had lived in Ankh-Morpork under what some might call his iron fist, for the past, oh, how long was it now? Thirty, forty years? Fifty?
The Patrician had retired and there had been a new Patrician appointed. None of those doing the appointing even knew who he was; they had been too terrified of the last Patrician, or too wise to his tricks, to disagree with his decision regarding his successor.
So it was with great anticipation on the part of Duke Vimes, and not a little fear on the part of the rest of the senior council, that the doors of the Palace were flung open so that they could enter and greet the new Patrician.
A young man was lounging in the wooden chair at the foot of the steps up to the gold throne, idly reading a report, one leg hooked over an arm, the cap of office slightly askew on his short brown hair.
He looked up.
Duke Vimes swore mightily.
"Hi dad," Viscount Vimes, Samuel the Second, said cheerfully.
"Samuel," his father roared.
"What? You keep telling me I should get a job..."
Hogswatch Surprise
Otto was very fond of the little demons in his iconograph box. He was kind to them, fed them promptly, and always kept them in paints; in return they were obedient and friendly, even if they weren't the brightest eels in the flashbox.
William shook his head, of course, and Sacharissa gave him the dread Sacharissa's Lifted Eyebrow, but Otto didn't care; he spent hours at his workbench with a pair of scissors, thread, and dozens of tiny matchsticks, until his fingers were tender and his eyes sore from the work.
It was worth it to hear the pleased squeaks and squeals of the little demons, when they woke that morning to a dozen delicate little paintbrushes, made with real vampire-hair, which was soft and downy and hard to come by. Each brush had a small black bow on it, of course, and a little tag attached.
The cheerful legend on each tag read Happy Hogsvatch!
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