sam_storyteller (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-09 08:45 am
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-09 08:45 am
Entry tags:
The Patrician's Papers: PG-13; 3 of 3. Vetinari/Margolotta.
Now that the lilacs are in bloom
She has a bowl of lilacs in her room
And twists one in her fingers while she talks.
"Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do not know
What life is, you who hold it in your hands";
(slowly twisting the lilac stalks)
--TS Eliot
SIX: ON SERVITUDE
Editor's Note: It is well known that Vetinari, who may at the best of times have been considered an iconoclast, did not keep servants in his private home during the years before his rise to power. Such things are not entirely unknown. Many lords have depended entirely on the loyalty of a single retainer, or the secrecy of an elderly family servant. To have none at all, however, may be considered slightly strange.
In this case, it is doubtful that this is, as some have suggested, an unusual form of paranoia. Once installed in the Oblong Office, Vetinari often depended implicitly on servants, agents, and spies. He never appeared to be suspicious of the impressively large staff at the Palace, and rarely fired a clerk or servant without sufficient cause.*
* A highly subjective term, of course, but applying in this case to thieves and saboteurs, rather than a maid who's spilled the milk.
This chapter seems to indicate that Vetinari looked on his staff not only as an integral part of his ruling power, but as a sort of experiment in social order.
***
It is in the nature of humanity to form structures. We invariably begin to create hierarchies and organisations, when more than three or four gather together. This is the urge of Civilisation, and if conducted properly, it is a just and commendable thing. A division of labour; a prioritisation of those things which are most important to us, such as food and shelter; a rule of law.
Eventually, with these structures, comes the rule of Tradition as well, and the largest slave to the Traditional life is the nobleman. One who is well-provided for begins to develop slight quirks to assure himself that he need not worry about his overabundance of wealth in the face of the less fortunate. Soon these quirks become habits, and then crippling requirements, of the noble classes.
One to be addressed here is the keeping of servants. Even a small family, with no need for a legion of people to care for them, would rather have useless employees than be looked down upon for keeping only one upstairs maid. Households do not discern the good servants from the bad, and the results are often of great interest to a student of human nature.
The good servant is at once admiring and disdainful; until a man's judgement is questioned, he has no reason to defend it and no methodology for examining if it is sound. The good servant is loyal but not foolish, has little care for his pay, and works for the love of work. Such men are rare and invaluable, and should be cultivated when found. Discretion, of course, is a desirable trait, but an indiscreet servant may do much good, if his master is careful about what he reveals.
To serve is a pleasurable thing, when one serves properly; we are all employed in the household of the human race, and while many may serve badly, there are some few who are worth the time taken to find them. They cannot be paid highly enough, and therefore, generally, are not paid at all. Such is the tragedy of human existence.
***
Drumknott was not a drinking man. He admired Vetinari greatly, and strove to be like him, in his own little ways; he therefore did not drink, though he liked other people to.
Which was why the kitchen staff were terrified. The clerk had gone up to bring the Patrician his breakfast -- dry toast and some sliced cheese, garnished with a pile of sausages because Cook believed that one day he would eventually try them, out of sheer desperation. He'd returned not five minutes later, made up another tray with tea, a couple of muffins, and some jam, and taken that up, too. Then he'd come back down, sat down in a corner, and calmly poured himself a small glass of brandy.
One of the scullery maids, who'd lost the draw, sidled up to him.
"That's Lord Vetinari's brandy, that is," she said, somewhat reproachfully. Drumknott gave her a weary look.
"I know," he said.
She scurried back to the other side of the room, where the staff were watching the Patrician's secretary anxiously.
"Erm..." said Cook, hesitantly crossing the floor. "Drumknott old man..."
"Yes?" Drumknott asked, through dazed eyes.
"His Lordship all right?"
"Hm?"
"Is his Lordship all right?" Cook repeated.
"Ye...well..." Drumknott swallowed. "The Patrician is...that is..."
He was a man for whom words were stock-in-trade. Having run out of them, he panicked. Fortunately, his Clerking instincts overrode the clangings in his brain.
"The Patrician is not to be disturbed!" he said defiantly. "No one is to go into his office or chambers until further notice. He's...he's ill," he finished lamely. People were staring. "Nothing serious. A...a headache."
The maids looked at each other worriedly. Drumknott drained his glass and stood up. He caught the eye of Ellen, who oversaw the domestic side of the Palace -- something of his counterpart, outside of politics. She was a discreet woman (she had to be) and he had to tell someone.
"Just a word with you, Ellen, please..." he said, taking her by the arm and hauling her out into the hallway. He led her along until he was sure they were alone, then dropped his voice to almost a whisper.
"The Patrician's still in bed!" he hissed.
"Well, you said he was -- "
"With a woman!"
Ellen gaped. "But he's never -- "
"I know!"
"What did you do?"
"I put his breakfast on the table and went and got some for her, what was I supposed to do?"
"You went in twice?"
"I had to! It'd've been rude not to!"
Ellen giggled. "Ruder than walking in on the ruler of Ankh-Morpork after he's spent the night making passionate -- "
"Stop it!" Drumknott cried. "Don't talk like that!"
"Who is she?"
"I think it's...Ellen, I'm sure it's Lady Margolotta."
"The vampire?"
"Yes!"
She laughed again. Ellen was somewhat older than Drumknott; she'd worked in other great houses before the Palace, and had grown used to the fact that even the Patrician might at some point desire a private life.
"She's not going to want much breakfast then, is she?" Ellen asked.
Drumknott looked crushed.
"I don't know, you try to do the polite thing, you work hard and take his breakfast up to him for nearly six years and then one day there's a woman in his bed."
Ellen patted his shoulder. "You did just fine, Rufus. You did exactly what I would have done. It was very considerate of you." Curiosity, bred into her Ankh-Morpork soul, got the better of her. "Rufus..."
"What is it?"
"Were they...well, I mean..."
"I didn't look," he answered primly. "They had blankets." He paused. He was also an Ankh-Morpork native. "He looked rather happy," he said.
"Did she?"
"Ellen!"
"I'm only asking."
"I couldn't tell."
"Oh really."
"Listen, we can't let anyone know."
"Why not? Lordship obviously doesn't seem to mind word getting out -- all right, Rufus, it was only a joke. Listen, you clear his schedule and I'll make sure you're told when he does wake up. About time he had a little fun. If he'd asked me, I'd have -- " she broke off, because now was obviously not the time to tease Rufus Drumknott any further. "You run along and handle his morning appointments. I'm sure he'll call for you when he's ready for you, he always does."
Drumknott, brightened considerably by this thought, wandered off towards the Oblong Office.
***
Havelock Vetinari overslept.
He knew it as soon as he woke up, knew in the way that compulsive early-risers always do. It wasn't much longer before he knew that he was not alone in his bed.
His right hand was free, dangling over the edge of the mattress. He raised it, quite slowly, and covered his face with it.
When he looked out through a crack between his fingers, the world was still there, still real.
Damn.
He was lying on his back, so he took advantage of the position to stare up at the ceiling while he gathered his thoughts. It had been a long time since it had been necessary to actually gather them. Usually they were just there, all the time. Thoughts. Lying around in his head, waiting to be used. Now they were scattered. Several of them were devoting themselves entirely to self-congratulation, while several more were throwing rocks at the others. Tribal wars were beginning in his subconscious.
He was not wearing any clothing.
Vetinari thought in corkscrews, and this was a little one, but it was still a big step towards re-organising his life around a few recent events. It is much easier to refer to oneself as "not wearing clothing" than to call oneself "naked". He wasn't sure why this was so, but it was.
Margolotta, who was also not-wearing-clothing, was asleep, curled against him, her face pressed into the hollow of his neck. One of her arms rested on his chest, fingers touching his collarbone. His left arm was crooked behind her, wrapped around her shoulders.
All right, then. This wasn't so unusual. People woke up this way every day. Well, not with Margolotta, obviously, but with someone or other. And it wasn't as though it was the first time he and Margolotta had woken up this way. The first time in decades, but not the first time ever.
He turned his head, squinting a little. There was a breakfast tray -- two breakfast trays -- one with tea things on it. Drumknott had been here, then. But Drumknott was circumspect. He would arrange things. At least the blankets on the bed preserved some amount of decency.
He ought to...he ought to be doing something. He had a city to run. But it was so difficult to get out of this bed...
All right then. Just untangle yourself.
He slowly slid his arm out from under the sleeping Margolotta, and gently lifted her head onto the pillow with the deftness of an Assassin*. So strange, how her face hadn't really changed at all, even in his memory.
* Though with considerably less murderous intent.
Good, now, let's find that dressing gown...
Dangling from a hook on the wall, where it usually was. He crept out of the bed entirely, and pulled it on. At some point, possibly, he ought to locate actual clothing, but that could wait.
Tea.
His hands were steady as he removed the cover from the pot of hot water, dropped the infuser into it, swirled gently. Margolotta gave a sleepy sigh while he was inspecting the rest of the tray.
Poor Drumknott. He'd brought up enough food for both of them. He really would have to see about getting the man a raise.
"Tea?" he asked, without turning round. He poured two cups, and spooned sugar into one of them, adding a little milk to the other to cool it.
"Please," came Margolotta's drowsy reply.
When he turned, he almost dropped the cups. She was propped up on one elbow, looking at him through loose tendrils of hair, a small smile on her face, blankets rumpled around her hips. She was, in fact, the most beautiful thing he could ever remember seeing.
Unfamiliar thoughts began to race through his head, setting fire to the huts of the thoughts he'd so carefully gathered a few minutes previous. She shifted to sit upright, pulling some of the bedclothes with her, and accepted the sweetened tea calmly.
"Did you sleep well?" he asked, as she tried the tea.
"Very. Have you been avake long?"
"Not at all." He sipped contemplatively. She smiled, and reached out to touch his cheek. He fought the urge to draw back; he was unused to caresses. When her fingers finally did stroke his face, he leaned into it, momentarily.
"Ve must never deal vith things except as they are, remember?" she said gently.
"Very well," he murmured. "You actually took away my control, Margolotta. Do you know the last time it happened? The last time I didn't want to give it up and someone came and took it anyway?"
"Too long, I think," she said, with another laugh.
"And now," said Vetinari, between sips of tea, "Will you tell me why you came to Ankh-Morpork? No," he held up a hand, calmly, when she opened her mouth to protest. "I have been remarkably even-handed in our dealings, Margolotta. I expect nothing less from you."
"Iz everyzing to be about politics?" she asked plaintively.
"Everything is about politics, whether we like it or not."
She was silent for a moment. Then, finally, "There vos...a man."
He lifted an eyebrow.
"Antonei Zhalien."
"A man you killed."
She gave him a feral smile. "One of zem. To be fair, he did try to kill me first."
"Some people have no sense of timing," he said.
"Vos that a joke?"
"Very nearly. Go on."
"He had an infant son. I did not know zis, or I should have killed the child too. Not anymore," she said contemplatively, "but dead mens' children should not be allowed to survive."
"Oh dear."
"Yes. Zis grown infant son -- he vould not try anyzing in Ubervald, I am too powerful there. Und in Ankh-Morpork I vould have some protection. I had hoped he vould attempt somezing here, and ve could end it. The law is a bit more formal about zis sort of thing than the Lore."
"You hoped to depend upon the Watch?"
"Ach, Vimes dislikes me, but he vould be personally offended if I vere killed in his city."
"That does not, however," he pointed out, "do you much good."
"No. But he iz not the only one who iz...defensive of his city."
They looked at each other for a long minute.
"I've overslept. I have business to attend to," Vetinari announced. He didn't move.
"Ah yes. The running of the city. Ve politicians, Havelock, ve understand each other. Ve vill talk later. Go."
"I don't want to," he said, half rebellious, half apologetic. "Not right now."
"I know. But you must. I shall sleep, I think, a vhile longer," she added.
He forced himself not to think as he washed and dressed, forced his mind to focus only on the little mundane duties of the morning routine. It had the desired effect; he did not brood, nor did he linger. Before he knew it, he found himself in the Oblong Office, sifting through a pile of paper that had been laid down on his desk sometime in the night. He was rather proud of this.
After about ten minutes, a rather harassed-looking Drumknott entered, carrying another pile.
"Good morning, sir," he said, remarkably evenly. "Glad to see the headache's gone away."
"The headache, Drumknott, is still asleep. I imagine she'll find her own way out, however."
Drumknott looked shocked. "Sir, I didn't mean to call -- "
Vetinari waved his hand. "Neither did I. A turn of phrase, nothing more. I see the city has not crumbled to dust, despite my...headache."
"No, sir. I've cleared your morning schedule, except for Commander Vimes. He's been waiting about ten minutes."
"Excellent. Keep him five more, and then I shall be ready to see him."
Drumknott nodded. "My lord...I would like to say, sir..."
Vetinari looked at him. He Looked at him, really.
"The staff don't know, sir. But we all like Lady Margolotta," Drumknott blurted. He looked horrified at himself, but plunged onward. "Will you be having Lady Margolotta to dinner again tonight, my lord?"
The Look remained. Finally, a small smile crept over his face.
"I'm afraid I don't know, Drumknott. Lady Margolotta may have other plans. Please send someone round to the embassy with an invitation, however. Perhaps a bit...later in the day."
"Yes sir," Drumknott said. And fled.
***
Vimes, when he was shown in, saluted, and looked vaguely worried. And a little more than vaguely angry.
"Good morning, Commander. Sorry to have kept you waiting," Vetinari said, indicating that he was not, in fact, sorry in the slightest. "Our weekly meeting is not scheduled for today, is it? I was sure it was on Monday."
"Thought I'd best bring the news up," Vimes said. "Lady Margolotta's gone missing."
"Has she?"
"Almost twelve hours now, sir."
"You don't seem too concerned, Commander."
"She's a vampire," Vimes said simply. "You don't seem too concerned, either."
"I am sure Lady Margolotta can take care of herself, as you say."
"We'd like to question the Palace staff. Last person who saw her was Carrot, leaving her off at the front gate. She didn't come out again," Vimes added. "I've got Detritus down in the scullery asking questions now, but nobody wants to say anything."
"Perhaps there is nothing to say."
"When did you see her last?"
"We had dinner together, which ended around eight-thirty or so," Vetinari said, hoping that Vimes -- who was unused to the Patrician lying about women, though well accustomed to him lying about anything else -- wouldn't notice that her leaving the Palace was implied, rather than announced. "Have you been keeping tabs on her, Vimes?"
"She's a diplomatic ambassador in a foreign city."
"That does not answer my question."
"Sir?"
"Are you spying on the Uberwaldean vampire?"
"There's a lot of them here, now."
"Lady Margolotta."
"Sir."
Vetinari sighed. "You know, it is not easy for a man to carry on a one-sided conversation, but I believe, with your help, I may have finally mastered it. If I were ever to be locked away without intellectual stimulation, I should simply pretend you were there, and I am sure I could entertain myself for hours." He met Vimes' eyes. "Lady Margolotta has her own bodyguards -- "
"An Igor and a couple of -- "
"She has her own bodyguards, and she is under my personal protection. Leave her alone, Vimes. Do not have her followed, do not have the gargoyles keep an eye on her, and do not have the Uberwaldean embassy watched. It is a waste of your time."
"Did you hear what I said? She's missing!"
"Good morning, gentlemen!"
Vimes whirled as Margolotta entered, through the anteroom doorway. "Such a promisingly pleasant day, Lord Vetinari! I though I vould come see the grounds today. Sir Samuel, alvays a pleasure to see you."
"We've been looking for you all night!" Vimes snarled.
"I vish you'd found me," Margolotta answered. "I got terribly lost. I ended up in some ghastly tavern vhen I couldn't find my vay home. I spent zer night, too, and I can tell you, paying anyzing for von of those beds is paying too much."
Vimes turned back to Vetinari, who spread his hands in an innocent gesture.
"Good to know the city Vatch is so diligent, however. I shall certainly call upon you in the future if I lose my purse," Margolotta continued. Vimes looked like he was ready to either slap her or accuse her of something, so Vetinari took the floor.
"Was there anything else, Sir Samuel? No? Then I think you had best call off the search. Good day."
Vimes saluted, scowled, and stalked out.
"Ah, Lady Margolotta, I -- " he broke off abruptly. The door had closed, and Margolotta had moved with unerring and uncanny speed to kiss him. It was not a pleasant kiss of greeting. It threatened him with suffocation.
"Good morning," she said, when they'd finished.
"Yes, quite -- "
She didn't really let him get much in edgewise before the second kiss. Or the third. Around about the fifth he registered that this was probably not something that ought to be happening in the Oblong Office.
"Margo -- " he said. "Margolotta, I have work -- "
Hands on his jaw, in his hair.
"I...work...the city -- "
Warm curves in his arms.
"Listen to me -- "
The collar of his robes undone.
"No -- oh..."
Tongue, a tongue in quite an inappropriate place --
"I can't...just..." he finally managed to pull back enough to grasp her by the shoulders. "I..." he waved a hand at the papers on his desk. "I can't, I have...work to do..."
She reached around him, pressing close as she did so, and he closed his eyes in an effort to keep some modicum of self-restraint. When he opened them, she was holding a tedious report from one of the under-clerks between her thumb and third finger. Still holding it, she snapped the fingers. It burst into flames.
He smiled, and pressed his palms around the burning paper, putting out the fire.
I'm not the one who goes up like a thatched roof around fire, he thought. Remember that, Margolotta...
"Damn the paperwork," she said softly.
"One hour, Margolotta. Just give me an hour and I'll be finished here. I'll meet you in the garden -- " sudden silence while she kissed him again. "I promise, only give me an hour."
"Von hour," she said, agreeably. "Und if I find you still here, I shall be forced to use feminine viles."
"What have you been using up until now?" he asked. She laughed.
"Von hour," she repeated. She was gone before he felt he could conceivably catch his breath.
***
I keep my countenance,
I remain self-possessed
Except when a street piano, mechanical and tired
Reiterates some worn-out common song
With the smell of hyacinths across the garden
Recalling things that other people have desired.
--TS Eliot
SEVEN: METAPHORS
Editor's Note: Havelock Vetinari, as a man, was particularly fond of metaphors, and quite imaginative when it came to their use. He has variously referred to the city of Ankh-Morpork as a clock, a machine, a topiary, a gyroscope, and a Great Rolling Sea of Evil. He has spoken of Clacks technology in terms of prawns, and the City Watch, before its expansion, as an appendix. He has been heard to remark that one must handle a metaphor carefully; they can kill a man if used improperly.
In chapter seven he seems to have succumbed to the temptation to employ metaphoric devices to his heart's content; rather, one single metaphoric device, the Dragon. It is somewhat taken as a given that this chapter was written during his tenure in the Palace dungeon, at the time of the brief and busy rule of the only dragon ever to be crowned king.
***
Dragons, as a colleague once had reason to remark, are a metaphor of human existence. And as if that wasn't enough, they are also a great big hot blowing flapping thing.
Of course, we are speaking here of Draco Nobilis, the noble dragon that no longer inhabits our sphere of existence. but let us consider, as long as we find ourselves upon the subject, the Vulgaris breed also, or common swamp dragon.
The noble dragon bears many likenesses to the human romantic mind, and indeed, if one were to summon a dragon, one might say that it would be a dragon of the mind -- of the fantasy. A dragon with all the petty ambition, or dangerous honesty, of the man who summoned it, wrapped in scales and claws and flame ducts. A large, beautiful thing, but without regard for law, either of common physics or of human civilisation. A viciously merciless predator, sleeping on a bed of greed.
The swamp dragon, on the other hand, is a sad case. Domesticated, they are entirely dependent upon humans; even the most stable of breeds has a tendency to defensive explosion*.
* Editor's Note: Vetinari obviously assumes that the reader understands the evolutionary physiology of the swamp dragon; ie, its tendency to self-destruction is a defence mechanism on behalf of the species, and not the dragon currently laminated to your ceiling.
They amble through the world trying not to eat anything that might cause premature expiration; their life is spent avoiding the opportunity to experience anything more than pleasant boredom and, every few months, the opportunity to breed.
Draw your own conclusions.
It seems strange to think that a dragon of fantasy should also be more cunning and vicious than a sensible, real, domestic swamp dragon. And indeed, why any intelligent, almost political creature should devote its entire existence to the acquisition of gold and beautiful young women -- however briefly, in the latter case -- is something of a mystery.
It would be an intriguing experiment, would it not, to mold the cunning and fantasy of the noble dragon with the sensible, domestic, and one might say explosively selfless attitudes of the swamp dragon. Although it may be said that a twenty-ton dragon, exploding in any civilised area, is probably not the best of ideas. Still, to temper a vicious sensibility with the more common desires for stability and peace is a difficult thing, and for a human, a constant struggle.
It would be much easier if there were only two breeds of people, and one could tell them apart at a glance.
Still, such is not the world we live in.
***
Margolotta had probably needed the hour as much as he had; she'd gone back to the Embassy, and changed out of the dreadfully flowered dress, into a far more sensible one for a walk in the gardens. She had, however, retained the sun-hat; it was probably a necessity, for her.
Surely the city could survive an hour without his supervision. After all, it'd survived centuries without him. Not very well, it was true, and probably not for much longer, but he had a firm grasp on it now, and could afford sixty minutes of freedom from office.
Couldn't he?
She gave him a bright, cheerful smile when he appeared on the grounds, and tactfully took his arm. There were guards about the place, after all, and servants, and all kinds of concealed eyes. She understood the need, at least for now, for discretion. He was the ruler of the city, and his life was not his own.
We politicians, she'd said. Yes; she understood. Curse her, she understood.
They didn't speak much; both sensed that, unlike yesterday, there was no need to fill the world with noise today. The things they'd been covering with meaningless conversation were no longer very well covered. Memory, and a sort of yearning for the old feeling of being students of one another, and the idea that perhaps rather than being students, they could now be equals without fear of the other's power. He would occasionally point out some especially depressing aspect of the landscaping, and caught her by the arm before she slipped into the hoho; in a split second, both were floating about six inches above the ground.
"Put us down, Margolotta," he said quietly. She smiled, and kissed him, and he felt his feet on solid ground again. That was probably allegorical, he thought. Metaphoric, at any rate.
"Do you know," she said, when they were walking again, "Ve have been discovering some very interesting things about beetotal vampires?"
"Oh yes?"
"Yes! As you can see, ve are able to tolerate sunlight rather better than before. Though of course, stronk light still hurts us."
"I've seen Mr. Chriek's vanishing act," he said absently.
"Indeed. Und vhile ve still retain various...manipulative talents, of course, other problems have arisen. Vampires who do not drink human blood, they can...vell, they can die."
"Die? Do you mean, they age?" he asked. He had not had reports of this.
"No, no. But it is possible to...to vish to die, und to die. From things other than zer usual," she added. "Ve've lost two so far. They just didn't have the vill to survive. A carriage accident, very tragic. They could have healed up, but they veren't very interested. People get bored vith life, apparently."
"Do they?"
"So I'm told."
"Interesting," he said. He felt a vague concern for the direction this conversation was taking.
"You, also, vill die," Margolotta murmured. "Perhaps vhen you do...I vill come to see zer monument they vill raise..."
"Margolotta, stop this instant."
"I could szimply sztand zere...und die," she added.
"I asked you -- "
"Fade avay into dust. It vould be very...gothic, as you say."
"Why are you telling me this?"
She gave him another sunny smile. "Oh, just letting my mind vander."
"Don't," he said shortly. They came around a curve in the path, and began making their way back towards the entrance to the grounds, following the ornamental trout pond. "Perhaps we should discuss our situation," he continued, after a while.
"Vot is there to discuss?" she asked.
"You know what there is to discuss. I'd like to know how long you will be staying in the city. And, incidentally, if you are planning on accepting my dinner invitation. If you expect me to return your visit, I'm afraid you're rather out of luck. I suppose, in a year or two, I could arrange things so that the city temporarily did not explode into disaster in my absence -- "
"Are you really that important to the city, Havelock?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied, without pride. "I am. The problem with taking a wild city and taming it, is that you take an object balancing on the blade of a knife, and balance it on the point. Stability requires more risk than chaos, and therefore it is more dangerous to leave a stabilised city than a chaotic one. It has further to fall."
"All too true. But have no fear, I have no desire for you to come to Uberwald. As for how long I am to stay in the city...I do not know, yet. Uberwald, unlike Ankh-Morpork, does not require a fine controlled touch. Subtlety is lost on most verevolves, I'm afraid. And most vampires, for that matter." Her hand, resting on his arm, slid down to cover his fingers. "As for your invitation, I vould invite you to the Embassy insztead. Ve can't have your staff constantly in uproar. I'm sure ve could rustle up some valnuts."
"Don't you think -- " he began, then stopped. There were guards standing at the entrance to the grounds. More than there ought to have been. He could see Vimes, and another officer holding someone by the arm.
Oh, dear. It had happened, then.
"Morning, sir," Vimes called, as Vetinari disentangled his arm from Margolotta's, and walked up the slight incline to reach the knot of City Watch officers. "You were right."
Drumknott and an under-clerk stood behind him, hovering anxiously. Vimes put his hands on his belt. Next to him, Corporal Ping tightened his grip on Margolotta's Igor.
"Margolotta von Uberwald, you are under arrest for conspiracy to commit robbery, abetment of theft, abetment of criminal trespass, and espionage," Vimes said, his tone entirely even and, Vetinari noticed, conspicuously free of smugness. Guards moved to stand on either side of the vampire.
"I don't understand," she said. "Vot is going on? Igor, vot have you told zem?"
"All he needs to, I'm afraid," Drumknott said. "We put a clerk on guard in your office like you said, sir, and sent a message down to the Yard. He showed up not ten minutes after you'd left. Through one of the...less-used passages," he added. Vetinari examined Igor.
"Yes, Igors are very good at...less-used passages," he replied. "I'm very sorry, Margolotta. I don't like deceiving people*. But I like being deceived even less."
* This was, technically speaking, a little white lie; it wasn't that he enjoyed deception, but he would admit that occasionally it was greatly satisfying.
"Havelock, vot are you talking about?" Margolotta asked. The guards weren't touching her; they were sensible men, and knew exactly what their job was worth.
"You'd come to Ankh-Morpork because the Patrician asked?" Vetinari said. "Because you needed defending? I am many things, Margolotta, but a fool I am not. A good opportunity for you, wasn't it?"
"Probably wanted to lay hold of the Sto Plains trade route plans," Vimes said. "They'll cut right through Uberwald. Or maybe get a peek at some of those Genuan diplomatic letters that I happen to know you don't have."
"We caught Igor going through your desk," Drumknott added. He looked as though his faith in the world had been restored.
"It's not true! Havelock, tell zem! I vould not do zomezing like zis!" Margolotta said, managing not to shout.
"Tell them? Who do you think told them to set the trap in the first place?" Vetinari asked. "I am not a man who is lightly toyed with, Margolotta. Vampires work by subterfuge. Whether it is blood or diplomatic secrets that you steal."
"I've got a couple of Uberwaldeans on the force," Vimes said. "One of 'em's got a saying -- I think the phrase is Kvealin bostrovaki kre kvea* -- "
* Literally translated, "you are stepping on my eagle", but if Vimes' pronunciation had been better, it would have been "A well-dressed whore is still a whore". The spirit was willing, at any rate.
Vetinari was in front of him faster than anyone could blink, far too close for anyone's comfort, eyes inches from the Commander's.
"If you say that again, Vimes," he said, in the same low, even, cultured tones he always used, "With regard to Lady Margolotta, I will personally ensure that the brief remainder of your life is filled with interesting and painful incident. She is a diplomat, not a common street thief."
Several Watchmen put hands on their swords. Vimes' eyes widened in surprise, but he kept his head.
"I hadn't noticed much difference between the two," he said. Vetinari moved a few inches closer, then, and against his will, Vimes stumbled backwards. He'd heard the Patrician make many threats, some more oblique than others, but he'd never seen anything other than icy cold in the man's blue eyes. Now they flared like a gas fire.
Vetinari turned to Margolotta, who was staring -- whether at Vimes' rudeness or his own threat, he couldn't tell.
"Igor will be taken to the cells. Lady Margolotta, I realise that if you choose to leave the city there is very little we can do to restrain you, but I would ask that you remain in your rooms at the Embassy," he said, each word like the crack of an iceberg breaking apart.
"I didn't do zis!"
"Investigations will proceed. The innocent have nothing to fear," Vetinari said coldly. Margolotta looked at him, pleading.
Nothing. A dead wall behind those eyes.
"I am not a monster," she said softly. "Ve don't do zat, ve of the Temperance League. I vill sztay. You vill see. I vill make sure you szee." She held out her arms, and the guards took them, very gingerly. "I vould like to szpeak to Otto, pleaze," she added. "He is zer only friend I have in zer city," she added, looking at Igor, who looked away.
"Very convincing," Vetinari added. "I will see that he is allowed to visit you. We are not barbarians."
"Oh?" she asked. He stepped forward.
"We do not trade love for power, Margolotta," he said softly. Only anyone observing him very closely indeed would see the small flicker of regret in his closed expression, or the sudden stillness in Margolotta's body.
***
While Otto was bringing a carton of fresh -- best to think of it as 'ethnic food' -- to Lady Margolotta, as well as a comforting shoulder and sympathetic ear*, her Igor also had a visitor. It surprised Vimes; he didn't think that Igor knew anyone other than the Watch's Igor, in the city.
* His own, unfortunately; he couldn't scare up any loose ones at short notice.
Vimes hated surprises. He was still angry he'd missed a perfect opportunity to punch Vetinari in the nose, when the man swept down on him during Margolotta's arrest.
The dark-haired visitor spoke with an Uberwaldean accent, and so Vimes assumed that he had probably been an acquaintance from the Old Country. He let the man into the cells, and left them alone; because he wasn't a stupid cop, and hated narrative convenience except when it ran his way, he left them 'alone' with Buggy Swires lurking behind a table leg, across the room.
If Swires had been the sort of copper who was particularly observant, rather than the sort who was able to lift a man off his feet and slam him into a wall, he might have noticed that one of the empty shadows in the cells seemed more shadowy and empty than it ought to.
"I told you Vetinari's not a fool," the young man said. "Not ven it comes to espionage, anyhow."
"But enough of a fool...?"
"Lady Margolotta is a veakness. I'm doing him a favour, really," the young man said. "It does him no real harm, and me a vorld of good."
"I thee. And what about me?" Igor asked.
"Oh, you're just a pawn, they'll give you a slap on the wrists and send you on your way. I imagine Vetinari's enraged enough to do a whole lot more against Margolotta. He might be Patrician, but he's a man, and men don't like being tricked in the bedroom."
"Tho you're pleathed."
"Very," the man said. "Sit tight and stick to your story, Igor. Ubervald is being taken care of. I've got to pay a few visits, and then I'll be off. Don't vorry. Vhat goes around comes around."
"That'th what worrieth me," Igor said despondently.
As the man left, a shadow seemed to detach itself and move across the floor. Swires, while not the most observant of coppers, knew a suspiciously mobile shadow when he saw one. He kept still.
A grey-clad and surprisingly muscular arm reached through the bars, picked Igor off his feet, and pulled him against the cold iron.
"If you scream, you will only scream once," said a calm voice. "I want his name."
Igor considered matters. There was an iron bar pressing into his nose, which would crunch quite loudly, with another few inches of pressure.
"Edvard Zhalien," he said, very cautiously, distinctly not looking at the man's face. Swires watched in fascination.
"Where is he staying?"
"I don't -- "
"Deny me again and you will be sewing your liver back in. With your toes."
"It'th true. Thomewhere in the Thades," Igor added, his terror ratcheting up a notch.
"He's a son of the Zhalien clan?"
"Yeth!"
The man sighed. Igor, wisely, said nothing. A moment later, he found himself dropped into a heap on the cell floor.
"If you tell the Watch about this conversation, I will come for you," the man said. And vanished. Igor gibbered.
Swires waited until a good count of three hundred before leaving the cells.
***
Havelock Vetinari, Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, stood on the roof of the Watch House, and let himself pause for thought. Up until then, everything he had done had been done on Assassins' Guild instinct.
He didn't often go out over the rooftops these days. He didn't have the time, and he wasn't young anymore. Besides, it is much harder to be unnoticed when you are the Patrician of the city. After ten years of cultivating a habit of invisibility at school and during his early political days, he'd finally had to start building a presence. He'd been very good at it. It was difficult to put that presence away.
But he remembered the emperor Chordian, during the time of Ankh-Morpork's military expansion, who was one of his personal heroes as a child*. Choridan had spent one day every year, dressed as a beggar, walking the streets of the Forum, where Sator Square now stood, with another man as his guide. Unusually, he hadn't decreed that he would do it, either; people apparently hadn't known until he died, and his companion revealed it. Vetinari knew the value of walking among the people. So he still did occasionally venture out.
* His mother had decided a boy ought to get a good solid education in the important things before he went off to school, and hence young Havelock had a very unusual childhood indeed.
Never like this, though. Never with such purpose. Never with such unusual anger inside him.
Seduced and betrayed, what did they take him for? It was the oldest diplomatic game in the books, and he knew those books by heart. He'd written some of them.
He had not intended for some things to happen, of course; had not intended to give in to Margolotta so soon, nor had he intended to...to feel the things he'd felt. But his rational mind ruled him, had done since he was old enough to be conscious of it, and his rational mind said that when you take a walk in the garden with a beautiful foreign diplomat, odds are your desk is being rifled.
Really now. Not a fool, but that foolish? Edvard Zhalien had no idea who he was tangling with. The boy could hardly be twenty-five.
He'd find out, however. Terminally. Of that, Vetinari was quite certain.
Still, there were one or two things to investigate first.
He knew the roof was booby-trapped in several places, as were the pipes and tiles below, leading on a direct path to the Commander's office window. Still, there were ways to get around that. He let himself down to ground level, circled, and climbed the decidedly spiky decorative railings on the floor below. A tall man, if he put his foot here...and here...and balanced very carefully, would not be able to actually reach the ledge -- or if he did, for balance, he would find himself unceremoniously dumped into the shrubbery. But he could hear the office's occupants perfectly. Vimes never closed his window.
He listened to Swires give his report. The gnome, like most humans, had not really paid attention to his face; he'd been too shocked at his presence to do so.
He listened delightedly to Vimes' reaction.
He listened to the orders being given.
Vimes would scour the city for Edvard Zhalien. He would also look for the grey-clad man who abused Igor so terribly, but he wouldn't find him. Most importantly, his investigation of Margolotta herself would come to a screeching halt until he found Zhalien and the grey man.
Vetinari would find Zhalien first. He would consider options then, but the most appealing one was beating the young man within an inch of his life.
And then he'd let Vimes have a go.
He smiled grimly to himself, dropped down silently, and made his way back to the Palace.
***
The October night comes down; returning as before
Except for a slight sensation of being ill at ease,
I mount the stairs and turn the handle of the door
And feel as if I had mounted on my hands and knees.
--TS Eliot
EIGHT: THE RITES OF MAN
Editor's Note: Chapters Eight and Nine are the most difficult to place in time; coming somewhere between the brief rule of the dragon and Vetinari's death, they are the fully-realised writings of a mature statesman, and apparently, considering the goodly length of time over which they were written, are the cautious and well-measured thoughts of a man uninclined to hurry.
Chapter Eight has been tentatively linked to the period right before the Assassins' Guild put Vetinari's contract into abeyance, and some scholars have determined that parts may have been written during his Lordship's brief illness from arsenic poisoning. Although his writing is as keen and intellectual as ever, there is a certain dramatic quality about some of it which has not been seen since his earliest chapters.
***
Concerning Truth, that which may be spoken as events dictate, but should be heard on every occasion:
Man is raised in our free society to believe that he has certain rights; the right to make his own decisions, the right to trade with whom he wishes and for what, the right to worship as he pleases, to marry and procreate. But no right does he hold in as high regard as the right to be told the truth. If his version of the truth is betrayed, he will leave his wife, forswear his gods, part with his business associates, or make rash, foolish choices.
A man will accept that he has been told a half-truth, a literal truth, or a lie of omission, if the end result justifies the deception; he will snarl about honour and honesty, but he will not forsake the human race because of them. Half-truths are, at any rate, preferable to lies, because they hold parts of the truth and are therefore easier to remember. But a man who believes he has a right to know the truth is a dangerous man.
Because Truth is not immutable. It is not entirely knowable. And the rights of man, unfortunately, do not exist outside man's small sphere of influence. Rights are products of civilisation. The only natural right a man has is the right to an attempt at survival. And death, of course. But every living creature has the right to death.
So why this born-in yearning for truth? Why do we seek to quantify the world? Without mystery, would not this be a dull, colourless life? But then some people prefer the extraordinary boredom of the known.
That is one true, uncorrupting priviledge of political gamesmanship; it is never boring.
We yearn for the truth because we think the truth will comfort us, but what we really want is to find a comforting statement and call it truth. The two are very different. A man well-used to understanding the way things work is never truly betrayed, because he has come to expect the essential ill-will of the world. It is a dour existence, though punctuated by the occasional surprise when a man, expected to do things typical of baser human nature, rises above to do something noble and good.
The tincture of night suffuses civilisation, and we light candles to keep it at bay. We never consider that to embrace the night is to control it.
***
Havelock Vetinari was not a man given to chasing after people, tracking them down, or locating them through investigation. He had the City Watch for that. If he wished to speak to someone, Vetinari preferred that they come to him. It seemed less...desperate, somehow. And quite a bit less time-consuming.
When he returned to the Palace he gave orders. It was what he did. Within twenty minutes, three under-clerks, all of them what he would consider "scholarship boys" -- clever youngsters from the poorer parts of the city, who could incidentally spell correctly and keep their mouths shut -- were in his office.
They were used to taking orders that they didn't understand. They nodded, and looked at each other, and each made their own individual way out of the Palace, down to the Shades. There was no particular hurry. If the rumour did not spread until evening, that was fine; Zhalien could hardly expect to make a move before then, at any rate.
He arranged for someone to pester Vimes, every hour or so, about the case and what he was doing about it. He took reports on how the Times was covering the scandal. Apparently they'd dubbed it "Gardengate" because Margolotta had been arrested at the gates to the grounds. Vetinari thought it was mildly dramatic, but then he was not Sacharissa's copyeditor.
And then he went back to his job.
Very calmly.
It had been years since anyone was really in earnest about trying to kill him. Poisoned candles, that was showy, and gonnes, well, that was bloodlust. It was a long time since anyone had thoughtfully and entirely selflessly wanted him dead for the sheer joy of seeing him dead, rather than for some greater political ideal. Vimes was right. It made one feel quite alive.
If a man wants you dead badly enough, of course, there is no defence in the world which is effective. The only way to defend against a murderer is to discover who he is. In this case, Vetinari had the advantage of already knowing. That was something.
A really determined man would get past the guards with no trouble, and into the Palace with very little. If he was clever, he'd make it as far as the fifth floor, where the Oblong Office and his chambers were, with smooth sailing. And even an Assassin-trained politician was probably not much of a match, after all these years, for a determined young Uberwaldean. The forest bred stern souls; to survive being human in Uberwald, you had to be strong.
If Edvard Zhalien knew himself -- and Vetinari doubted greatly that he did -- he would know that even though he was determined to kill the Patrician, the person he really passionately wanted dead was Margolotta von Uberwald. Not just dead, but dishonourably dead, and eternally so. He wanted there to be no possibility that she would rise, and a betrayed Patrician would make very sure that his enemies, no matter how resilient, did not get a second chance to betray.
Pity, really. Edvard could have been of use.
The sun had set, and Vetinari was standing at the window, back to the door, when it burst open. It was a bit of drama, he knew, but sometimes drama was irresistable. Edvard Zhalien came for him with a hunter's speed and accuracy.
The long, heavy walking-stick whipped out from Vetinari's side as he turned. Who needed a sword inside a stick, when you had the stick? Just as effective and far less messy. It smacked against the boy's chest, stopping him in mid-leap. There was a sudden crunch, a sound like a drowning man's gasp for air, and a thump.
The head of the cane swung around and connected neatly with Zhalien's.
"Igor is in the cells, and Margolotta is secure in the Embassy. You have no allies," Vetinari said calmly. Edvard Zhalien, glassy-eyed, stared up at him. "I'd call it a day, if I were you."
He leapt again.
This time Vetinari did not use the merciful edge-on approach; the brass cane-head slammed into the boy's neck, knocking him sideways.
"You are not a spy or a patriot, Edvard, no matter how much the Baroness has paid you," Vetinari continued. "You're just a boy, and you're after the wrong man. If you stop now, you probably won't get hurt. Much."
He had expected a knife at some point, but he was not quite fast enough to stop it. It cut through robe, shirt, and shoulder, cleanly, before he brought the cane up and shoved Edvard back.
Yes; twenty-five was about right. An infant still when Antoni Zhalien, his father, had been killed. A thick shock of black hair, dark eyes. Standing, panting, still in a hunter's crouch, though one eye was bloodshot and bruises were beginning to form.
Vetinari felt the blood flow down his arm, and realised that he was enjoying himself. This was worrying. He should have incapacitated the boy with the first blow. Instead he had let him have his go, and had...well, he'd sneered at him.
He was enjoying making a wreck of the youngster. At his own personal risk.
First beat him within an inch of his life...and then let Vimes have a go...
This was not the Vetinari way.
He shook his head and moved quickly when Edvard sliced again -- dodging, throwing the cane, and grasping both wrists with his hands. He pushed Edvard against the window. The knife clattered to the floor.
"Tell me," he said, in Edvard's ear as the boy struggled to free himself. "Look out the window and tell me what you see, boy."
"Your end," the boy replied, and tried to butt his head backwards. Vetinari dodged.
"One day," he said agreeably. "But not today. A personal vendetta, Zhalien? Supported by the good Baroness and her fortune?"
"That vampire murdered my father."
"Your father was a vampire hunter -- "
"A historian!"
"As a hobby, perhaps. He came after her in cold blood. She gave me his book, you know. Antonei Zhalien, the last man who tried to kill her. As a warning to me."
"Son of a bitch!"
"Easy, boy. You waited a remarkably long time to have your try. She has too many allies in Uberwald, eh? But in Ankh-Morpork, especially after setting her up as a spy...she has no one." Vetinari considered things. "Well. Almost no one."
"I'll kill you, old man."
"Oh, I very much doubt that. I'm sure you wanted to, when you heard the rumour. Margolotta von Uberwald, spy and seductress, pardoned because of diplomatic immunity? You must have seen red. You should have simply killed her, if you were suicidally bent. Strategy never works at times like this, and not against me. You certainly should have gone after her before you came for me."
"I did," said Zhalien. And laughed.
Havelock Vetinari had a moment of temporal uncertainty.
His body, acting without instructions from his brain, slammed Zhalien's face directly through the glass window, and snapped his neck.
At least, that was what he was sure had happened. He was therefore mildly surprised to discover that, after a few confused seconds, instead he had neatly applied pressure to a very important vein in the back of the head, which caused unconsciousness fairly rapidly.
All control begins with the self.
He walked swiftly to the doorway. He never put guards on his office door, and no-one had been about. He picked up the speaking tube, and made a few requests.
Drumknott arrived, carrying a crossbow, around the same time Ellen did, carrying bandages.
"Ah. Good," Vetinari said. He was back in his chair; he didn't feel that was the dramatic thing to do, but the blood loss convinced him it was rather the wise thing to do. "Ellen, my arm, if you would be so kind. Drumknott, summon the Watch, would you? I'm sure they'll want to meet Mr. Zhalien."
Drumknott, for the second time that day, had the sensation that perhaps life would have been easier if he'd been a priest like his mother wanted.
***
Night had well and truly fallen. There was no moon.
This was, Vetinari thought, appropriate, though also mildly worrying; perhaps the influx of Uberwaldeans into the city was causing Ankh-Morpork, also, to develop a psychotropic landscape. He was not having with lightning flashes every time someone did something maniacally evil; for one thing, it'd never stop.
No doubt Zhalien had wanted Vetinari to kill him. That would be scandal at the least and murder at the most. Vicious murder, too. But now Zhalien was going to live to tell his story to the Watch. Sooner or later. Vimes had a way of making even the most reluctant, honour-bound wretch talk. And Igor was certainly not all that honour-bound.
He hadn't spoken of Zhalien's promise that he'd gone for Margolotta first.
He didn't really believe it.
But he'd vanished from the office, nonetheless, as soon as Ellen was finished with the bandage. And come here.
The Uberwaldean embassy was a stark, imposing building, which seemed taller than it actually was. Only one window was lit -- that would be the guards on Margolotta's room. They gave him no trouble. If he did not want to be seen, he was not seen; even if he was, he was the Patrician.
Margolotta's room was pitch black, too dark; the darkness that is conspicuous for its absence of light. He closed the door behind him, locking in the gloom.
"Margolotta," he said quietly.
No answer.
"I am sorry, Margolotta," he continued, moving forward. Forward, but slowly. "It was necessary to say what I said. Else how could we have drawn Zhalien out?"
Still silence? Or the whisper of breath, indrawn to speak? Too quiet to tell.
"I know you understood me. Love for power -- oh, such a dramatic phrase. You know me better than that. Even now."
His stick clicked against something -- the wood of a chair, or perhaps the leg of a bed. Yes; he could feel the bedpost, if he reached out.
"Edvard said he came for you first. No doubt he did a thorough job, if so. But I think he lied."
Yes, now he was sure there was movement, somewhere in the room.
"When he said that, I nearly broke his neck with my bare hands."
"You should have."
Relief flooded through him. "Margo -- "
"Do not speak to me, Havelock Vetinari," came the voice. Two yellow pinpricks of light glowed, far off and slightly to his left. "How long had you known? Since I arrived? Since before? You invited me into your confidences, into your -- "
"I invited you? Only to my city."
"You vere vaiting even then?"
"Not so."
"Vhen, then?"
"Does it matter?"
"It does to me."
"Since a little before our dinner together. I knew I was going to be robbed. Whether it was you or someone else."
"You believed it vos me."
"Yes."
"I vos a fool."
"Not so very much." The glowing yellow eyes hadn't moved. "Let us have some light, Margolotta."
"I prefer zer darkness."
"We certainly pick our times, don't we?" he asked. "Easier to fight than to say goodbye, eh?"
"I vos not zer von who picked zer fight last time. Nor did I lie zis time."
"Do you expect me to feel guilty that I lied to help you? Is not embarrassment better than death at the hands of a clever young man?"
There was a long pause.
"Margolotta?"
A candle flared to life.
Two yellow pinpricks of light, far off and slightly to his left, turned out to be a cat sitting on a far window ledge.
Margolotta stood about three inches in front of him.
"Zere is a first time for everyzing," she said sadly.
She was wearing pajamas, with a bunny on the pocket. It had fangs, and red eyes, and a little cape.
"Do you know something strange, Margolotta?" he asked.
"I know many strange things," she replied.
"I believe I do love you." He gave her a small smile. "I certainly hope I should not lose my temper, risk my life, and beat a man nearly to death for anything less. As you say. A first time for everything." And then, in Uberwaldean: "Forgive."
She nodded. "Zat vos all I vos vaiting for," she said.
A leaden pause.
"Zhraoi."
I forgive.
***
Not knowing what to feel or if I understand
Or whether wise or foolish, tardy or too soon...
Would she not have the advantage, after all?
This music is successful, with a "dying fall"
Now that we talk of dying --
And should I have the right to smile?
--TS Eliot
NINE: THE SECOND PARABLE
Editor's Note: This final chapter comes out of a much longer one, but obvious edits and margin notations have indicated that the Patrician, a man who knew the value of words, wished only this part to be made public. His other, more private musings, at his own request, have been given into the care of a colleague for safekeeping.
***
It is as with all things that men understand stories better than they do plain speech; is it not strange? A symbol is instinctively comprehended, while a plain fact is often thrust aside as being "untrue", either because the witness does not, or cannot, bear to face its truth. It was wise to begin with a parable; it was the instinct of a child, a most natural instinct.
In the city of Ankh-Morpork there was a Man who took to traveling, so that he might see the world and the wonders that were in it. Of all the art and culture to be offered outside of his beloved city, there was only one place he was sorry to leave. He did not dwell upon it, as the years passed, but it was never very far from his thoughts.
Power was the Man's for the taking, but he did not want power; riches were offered, but he did not want riches. He took control, whether it was for the taking or not, but control was not what he sought.
The Man loved the city more than any other thing. So he sought to make it a city worthy of the love that every man must feel for the place he was born.
He was very good at it.
He learned his lessons quickly and well, and survived and thrived upon change, but never uproar -- good, orderly, progressional change, the acceptance of ideas whose time has come.
Men who would rule, know this: there is no tide against which one can stand with impunity. Every battle takes its toll, and some will pull the sand from beneath your feet. Choose the ones worth fighting, or you find yourself drenched to the bone.
First the city, then the people, then one's servants, then oneself.
It is the only sensible way to live.
But the man forgot, as time went on, that all four must be served. The self, lastly, yes; but serve it all the same, otherwise it is not life, but merely existence.
That is all the knowledge that I have to give. If the reader has learned all he could, the world is a better place. If the reader has learned nothing, at least take this advice:
Be kind to dogs.
And the world will still be a better place.
***
Vetinari was already sitting at his little table in the corner room, writing, when Drumknott brought up his dinner, and a few late letters. It was soup night; on a little plate, next to the clear broth and the correspondence, were a few buttery, iced pastries, because Cook was an eternal optimist.
The Patrician ate as he wrote, spilling not a drop of ink or soup. The past four months had been busy ones; Drumknott knew that his master was planning something out of the ordinary, but he hadn't seen enough of any one part of the plan to discover just what. If it had been anyone other than Vetinari, he might have thought war, but he knew that the Patrician was very much against war; it was simply too expensive to be practical.
One never really mastered how to read Vetinari. Even Sir Samuel, who seemed to understand the man, was just as much in the dark as Drumknott. But it was obvious, since the Zhalien scandal had broken, that Vetinari was...different. He didn't actually smile more, but he seemed to have an especial zeal for his duties. It was as though, for years, he'd been doing them because someone had to; now he was doing them because it was...
Drumknott's mind rebelled at the thought of "Havelock Vetinari" and "fun" in the same sentence.
He was simply grateful that the Lady Margolotta's stay in Ankh-Morpork had been mercifully brief. He could adjust himself to many things, but he did not think he would ever have adapted to serving her breakfast in bed. Especially Vetinari's bed.
Headache, indeed.
His Lordship seemed to spend a lot more time on correspondences, too. Odd, that, what with the clacks going further and faster every day.
Vetinari handed him a stack of papers, absently eating with his other hand, and dismissed him. Drumknott smiled.
Yes. Good to be back to normal.
***
My dear Havelock,
I did not think, at the time, that you could possibly be right. For that you must have some tolerance; I am a woman long used to the idea that romance is something held at close quarters. But you know this.
Perhaps for us it is more than romance. If you had tried to teach me, when you were nineteen, that an affair of the mind could satisfy more than affairs of a more physical nature, I should not have respected your intellect in the slightest. You must, at the moment, have rather little respect for mine. To write to you is the most satisfying hour of my week, and to read your letters almost as good. I do not feel I miss anything; there is pragmatism and poetry to be had, and what more could either of us desire?
You protest that love is a weakness, and as such must be defended. I disagree. I think it is your strength. For me you lied and fought; your life would be far less exciting without me in it, is that not true? In Uberwald, where one stands a good chance of being staked even now, my life was rather more dull when I did not have your letters to look forward to.
Now, as to our discussions of politics. Do you believe that to foster an existing system of governance is always correct? Granted that the system is functional on a majority level, but if it is an oppression to some measure of the population --
There was a rap at the window.
Vetinari looked up from the letter he was reading. Smiled. Stood up, and walked to the floor-to-ceiling glass panes, five stories in the air.
"I thought you didn't do this sort of thing anymore," he said.
Margolotta, on the other side, shrugged. "For old times' sake," she said, slightly muffled by the glass.
"The letters were not enough?"
"They vere enough. But I do so love a holiday."
"I am planning a holiday."
"You are not."
"I am indeed. In a year's time, I will take a short diplomatic trip to visit the Low King."
"Ah, I see she has seduced you."
"Very amusing, Margolotta. I wonder, should I let you in?"
"I vish you vould, it's rather cold out."
He flicked a latch on the window, and pulled it inward. Margolotta stepped gracefully out of the air, and into the little room.
"Wait," he said, putting a hand up before she could move too close. He walked swiftly into the main entrance-room of his chambers, and pulled a bolt across the door. Drumknott, if he found a locked door, would know better -- this time, at any rate -- than to go any further.
Margolotta had shut the window, and was trying one of the pastries, when he returned. She put it down and dusted off her fingers daintily. And smiled at him.
"Now," the Patrician said, moving forward, "About your theories of governance..."
END
She has a bowl of lilacs in her room
And twists one in her fingers while she talks.
"Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do not know
What life is, you who hold it in your hands";
(slowly twisting the lilac stalks)
--TS Eliot
SIX: ON SERVITUDE
Editor's Note: It is well known that Vetinari, who may at the best of times have been considered an iconoclast, did not keep servants in his private home during the years before his rise to power. Such things are not entirely unknown. Many lords have depended entirely on the loyalty of a single retainer, or the secrecy of an elderly family servant. To have none at all, however, may be considered slightly strange.
In this case, it is doubtful that this is, as some have suggested, an unusual form of paranoia. Once installed in the Oblong Office, Vetinari often depended implicitly on servants, agents, and spies. He never appeared to be suspicious of the impressively large staff at the Palace, and rarely fired a clerk or servant without sufficient cause.*
* A highly subjective term, of course, but applying in this case to thieves and saboteurs, rather than a maid who's spilled the milk.
This chapter seems to indicate that Vetinari looked on his staff not only as an integral part of his ruling power, but as a sort of experiment in social order.
***
It is in the nature of humanity to form structures. We invariably begin to create hierarchies and organisations, when more than three or four gather together. This is the urge of Civilisation, and if conducted properly, it is a just and commendable thing. A division of labour; a prioritisation of those things which are most important to us, such as food and shelter; a rule of law.
Eventually, with these structures, comes the rule of Tradition as well, and the largest slave to the Traditional life is the nobleman. One who is well-provided for begins to develop slight quirks to assure himself that he need not worry about his overabundance of wealth in the face of the less fortunate. Soon these quirks become habits, and then crippling requirements, of the noble classes.
One to be addressed here is the keeping of servants. Even a small family, with no need for a legion of people to care for them, would rather have useless employees than be looked down upon for keeping only one upstairs maid. Households do not discern the good servants from the bad, and the results are often of great interest to a student of human nature.
The good servant is at once admiring and disdainful; until a man's judgement is questioned, he has no reason to defend it and no methodology for examining if it is sound. The good servant is loyal but not foolish, has little care for his pay, and works for the love of work. Such men are rare and invaluable, and should be cultivated when found. Discretion, of course, is a desirable trait, but an indiscreet servant may do much good, if his master is careful about what he reveals.
To serve is a pleasurable thing, when one serves properly; we are all employed in the household of the human race, and while many may serve badly, there are some few who are worth the time taken to find them. They cannot be paid highly enough, and therefore, generally, are not paid at all. Such is the tragedy of human existence.
***
Drumknott was not a drinking man. He admired Vetinari greatly, and strove to be like him, in his own little ways; he therefore did not drink, though he liked other people to.
Which was why the kitchen staff were terrified. The clerk had gone up to bring the Patrician his breakfast -- dry toast and some sliced cheese, garnished with a pile of sausages because Cook believed that one day he would eventually try them, out of sheer desperation. He'd returned not five minutes later, made up another tray with tea, a couple of muffins, and some jam, and taken that up, too. Then he'd come back down, sat down in a corner, and calmly poured himself a small glass of brandy.
One of the scullery maids, who'd lost the draw, sidled up to him.
"That's Lord Vetinari's brandy, that is," she said, somewhat reproachfully. Drumknott gave her a weary look.
"I know," he said.
She scurried back to the other side of the room, where the staff were watching the Patrician's secretary anxiously.
"Erm..." said Cook, hesitantly crossing the floor. "Drumknott old man..."
"Yes?" Drumknott asked, through dazed eyes.
"His Lordship all right?"
"Hm?"
"Is his Lordship all right?" Cook repeated.
"Ye...well..." Drumknott swallowed. "The Patrician is...that is..."
He was a man for whom words were stock-in-trade. Having run out of them, he panicked. Fortunately, his Clerking instincts overrode the clangings in his brain.
"The Patrician is not to be disturbed!" he said defiantly. "No one is to go into his office or chambers until further notice. He's...he's ill," he finished lamely. People were staring. "Nothing serious. A...a headache."
The maids looked at each other worriedly. Drumknott drained his glass and stood up. He caught the eye of Ellen, who oversaw the domestic side of the Palace -- something of his counterpart, outside of politics. She was a discreet woman (she had to be) and he had to tell someone.
"Just a word with you, Ellen, please..." he said, taking her by the arm and hauling her out into the hallway. He led her along until he was sure they were alone, then dropped his voice to almost a whisper.
"The Patrician's still in bed!" he hissed.
"Well, you said he was -- "
"With a woman!"
Ellen gaped. "But he's never -- "
"I know!"
"What did you do?"
"I put his breakfast on the table and went and got some for her, what was I supposed to do?"
"You went in twice?"
"I had to! It'd've been rude not to!"
Ellen giggled. "Ruder than walking in on the ruler of Ankh-Morpork after he's spent the night making passionate -- "
"Stop it!" Drumknott cried. "Don't talk like that!"
"Who is she?"
"I think it's...Ellen, I'm sure it's Lady Margolotta."
"The vampire?"
"Yes!"
She laughed again. Ellen was somewhat older than Drumknott; she'd worked in other great houses before the Palace, and had grown used to the fact that even the Patrician might at some point desire a private life.
"She's not going to want much breakfast then, is she?" Ellen asked.
Drumknott looked crushed.
"I don't know, you try to do the polite thing, you work hard and take his breakfast up to him for nearly six years and then one day there's a woman in his bed."
Ellen patted his shoulder. "You did just fine, Rufus. You did exactly what I would have done. It was very considerate of you." Curiosity, bred into her Ankh-Morpork soul, got the better of her. "Rufus..."
"What is it?"
"Were they...well, I mean..."
"I didn't look," he answered primly. "They had blankets." He paused. He was also an Ankh-Morpork native. "He looked rather happy," he said.
"Did she?"
"Ellen!"
"I'm only asking."
"I couldn't tell."
"Oh really."
"Listen, we can't let anyone know."
"Why not? Lordship obviously doesn't seem to mind word getting out -- all right, Rufus, it was only a joke. Listen, you clear his schedule and I'll make sure you're told when he does wake up. About time he had a little fun. If he'd asked me, I'd have -- " she broke off, because now was obviously not the time to tease Rufus Drumknott any further. "You run along and handle his morning appointments. I'm sure he'll call for you when he's ready for you, he always does."
Drumknott, brightened considerably by this thought, wandered off towards the Oblong Office.
***
Havelock Vetinari overslept.
He knew it as soon as he woke up, knew in the way that compulsive early-risers always do. It wasn't much longer before he knew that he was not alone in his bed.
His right hand was free, dangling over the edge of the mattress. He raised it, quite slowly, and covered his face with it.
When he looked out through a crack between his fingers, the world was still there, still real.
Damn.
He was lying on his back, so he took advantage of the position to stare up at the ceiling while he gathered his thoughts. It had been a long time since it had been necessary to actually gather them. Usually they were just there, all the time. Thoughts. Lying around in his head, waiting to be used. Now they were scattered. Several of them were devoting themselves entirely to self-congratulation, while several more were throwing rocks at the others. Tribal wars were beginning in his subconscious.
He was not wearing any clothing.
Vetinari thought in corkscrews, and this was a little one, but it was still a big step towards re-organising his life around a few recent events. It is much easier to refer to oneself as "not wearing clothing" than to call oneself "naked". He wasn't sure why this was so, but it was.
Margolotta, who was also not-wearing-clothing, was asleep, curled against him, her face pressed into the hollow of his neck. One of her arms rested on his chest, fingers touching his collarbone. His left arm was crooked behind her, wrapped around her shoulders.
All right, then. This wasn't so unusual. People woke up this way every day. Well, not with Margolotta, obviously, but with someone or other. And it wasn't as though it was the first time he and Margolotta had woken up this way. The first time in decades, but not the first time ever.
He turned his head, squinting a little. There was a breakfast tray -- two breakfast trays -- one with tea things on it. Drumknott had been here, then. But Drumknott was circumspect. He would arrange things. At least the blankets on the bed preserved some amount of decency.
He ought to...he ought to be doing something. He had a city to run. But it was so difficult to get out of this bed...
All right then. Just untangle yourself.
He slowly slid his arm out from under the sleeping Margolotta, and gently lifted her head onto the pillow with the deftness of an Assassin*. So strange, how her face hadn't really changed at all, even in his memory.
* Though with considerably less murderous intent.
Good, now, let's find that dressing gown...
Dangling from a hook on the wall, where it usually was. He crept out of the bed entirely, and pulled it on. At some point, possibly, he ought to locate actual clothing, but that could wait.
Tea.
His hands were steady as he removed the cover from the pot of hot water, dropped the infuser into it, swirled gently. Margolotta gave a sleepy sigh while he was inspecting the rest of the tray.
Poor Drumknott. He'd brought up enough food for both of them. He really would have to see about getting the man a raise.
"Tea?" he asked, without turning round. He poured two cups, and spooned sugar into one of them, adding a little milk to the other to cool it.
"Please," came Margolotta's drowsy reply.
When he turned, he almost dropped the cups. She was propped up on one elbow, looking at him through loose tendrils of hair, a small smile on her face, blankets rumpled around her hips. She was, in fact, the most beautiful thing he could ever remember seeing.
Unfamiliar thoughts began to race through his head, setting fire to the huts of the thoughts he'd so carefully gathered a few minutes previous. She shifted to sit upright, pulling some of the bedclothes with her, and accepted the sweetened tea calmly.
"Did you sleep well?" he asked, as she tried the tea.
"Very. Have you been avake long?"
"Not at all." He sipped contemplatively. She smiled, and reached out to touch his cheek. He fought the urge to draw back; he was unused to caresses. When her fingers finally did stroke his face, he leaned into it, momentarily.
"Ve must never deal vith things except as they are, remember?" she said gently.
"Very well," he murmured. "You actually took away my control, Margolotta. Do you know the last time it happened? The last time I didn't want to give it up and someone came and took it anyway?"
"Too long, I think," she said, with another laugh.
"And now," said Vetinari, between sips of tea, "Will you tell me why you came to Ankh-Morpork? No," he held up a hand, calmly, when she opened her mouth to protest. "I have been remarkably even-handed in our dealings, Margolotta. I expect nothing less from you."
"Iz everyzing to be about politics?" she asked plaintively.
"Everything is about politics, whether we like it or not."
She was silent for a moment. Then, finally, "There vos...a man."
He lifted an eyebrow.
"Antonei Zhalien."
"A man you killed."
She gave him a feral smile. "One of zem. To be fair, he did try to kill me first."
"Some people have no sense of timing," he said.
"Vos that a joke?"
"Very nearly. Go on."
"He had an infant son. I did not know zis, or I should have killed the child too. Not anymore," she said contemplatively, "but dead mens' children should not be allowed to survive."
"Oh dear."
"Yes. Zis grown infant son -- he vould not try anyzing in Ubervald, I am too powerful there. Und in Ankh-Morpork I vould have some protection. I had hoped he vould attempt somezing here, and ve could end it. The law is a bit more formal about zis sort of thing than the Lore."
"You hoped to depend upon the Watch?"
"Ach, Vimes dislikes me, but he vould be personally offended if I vere killed in his city."
"That does not, however," he pointed out, "do you much good."
"No. But he iz not the only one who iz...defensive of his city."
They looked at each other for a long minute.
"I've overslept. I have business to attend to," Vetinari announced. He didn't move.
"Ah yes. The running of the city. Ve politicians, Havelock, ve understand each other. Ve vill talk later. Go."
"I don't want to," he said, half rebellious, half apologetic. "Not right now."
"I know. But you must. I shall sleep, I think, a vhile longer," she added.
He forced himself not to think as he washed and dressed, forced his mind to focus only on the little mundane duties of the morning routine. It had the desired effect; he did not brood, nor did he linger. Before he knew it, he found himself in the Oblong Office, sifting through a pile of paper that had been laid down on his desk sometime in the night. He was rather proud of this.
After about ten minutes, a rather harassed-looking Drumknott entered, carrying another pile.
"Good morning, sir," he said, remarkably evenly. "Glad to see the headache's gone away."
"The headache, Drumknott, is still asleep. I imagine she'll find her own way out, however."
Drumknott looked shocked. "Sir, I didn't mean to call -- "
Vetinari waved his hand. "Neither did I. A turn of phrase, nothing more. I see the city has not crumbled to dust, despite my...headache."
"No, sir. I've cleared your morning schedule, except for Commander Vimes. He's been waiting about ten minutes."
"Excellent. Keep him five more, and then I shall be ready to see him."
Drumknott nodded. "My lord...I would like to say, sir..."
Vetinari looked at him. He Looked at him, really.
"The staff don't know, sir. But we all like Lady Margolotta," Drumknott blurted. He looked horrified at himself, but plunged onward. "Will you be having Lady Margolotta to dinner again tonight, my lord?"
The Look remained. Finally, a small smile crept over his face.
"I'm afraid I don't know, Drumknott. Lady Margolotta may have other plans. Please send someone round to the embassy with an invitation, however. Perhaps a bit...later in the day."
"Yes sir," Drumknott said. And fled.
***
Vimes, when he was shown in, saluted, and looked vaguely worried. And a little more than vaguely angry.
"Good morning, Commander. Sorry to have kept you waiting," Vetinari said, indicating that he was not, in fact, sorry in the slightest. "Our weekly meeting is not scheduled for today, is it? I was sure it was on Monday."
"Thought I'd best bring the news up," Vimes said. "Lady Margolotta's gone missing."
"Has she?"
"Almost twelve hours now, sir."
"You don't seem too concerned, Commander."
"She's a vampire," Vimes said simply. "You don't seem too concerned, either."
"I am sure Lady Margolotta can take care of herself, as you say."
"We'd like to question the Palace staff. Last person who saw her was Carrot, leaving her off at the front gate. She didn't come out again," Vimes added. "I've got Detritus down in the scullery asking questions now, but nobody wants to say anything."
"Perhaps there is nothing to say."
"When did you see her last?"
"We had dinner together, which ended around eight-thirty or so," Vetinari said, hoping that Vimes -- who was unused to the Patrician lying about women, though well accustomed to him lying about anything else -- wouldn't notice that her leaving the Palace was implied, rather than announced. "Have you been keeping tabs on her, Vimes?"
"She's a diplomatic ambassador in a foreign city."
"That does not answer my question."
"Sir?"
"Are you spying on the Uberwaldean vampire?"
"There's a lot of them here, now."
"Lady Margolotta."
"Sir."
Vetinari sighed. "You know, it is not easy for a man to carry on a one-sided conversation, but I believe, with your help, I may have finally mastered it. If I were ever to be locked away without intellectual stimulation, I should simply pretend you were there, and I am sure I could entertain myself for hours." He met Vimes' eyes. "Lady Margolotta has her own bodyguards -- "
"An Igor and a couple of -- "
"She has her own bodyguards, and she is under my personal protection. Leave her alone, Vimes. Do not have her followed, do not have the gargoyles keep an eye on her, and do not have the Uberwaldean embassy watched. It is a waste of your time."
"Did you hear what I said? She's missing!"
"Good morning, gentlemen!"
Vimes whirled as Margolotta entered, through the anteroom doorway. "Such a promisingly pleasant day, Lord Vetinari! I though I vould come see the grounds today. Sir Samuel, alvays a pleasure to see you."
"We've been looking for you all night!" Vimes snarled.
"I vish you'd found me," Margolotta answered. "I got terribly lost. I ended up in some ghastly tavern vhen I couldn't find my vay home. I spent zer night, too, and I can tell you, paying anyzing for von of those beds is paying too much."
Vimes turned back to Vetinari, who spread his hands in an innocent gesture.
"Good to know the city Vatch is so diligent, however. I shall certainly call upon you in the future if I lose my purse," Margolotta continued. Vimes looked like he was ready to either slap her or accuse her of something, so Vetinari took the floor.
"Was there anything else, Sir Samuel? No? Then I think you had best call off the search. Good day."
Vimes saluted, scowled, and stalked out.
"Ah, Lady Margolotta, I -- " he broke off abruptly. The door had closed, and Margolotta had moved with unerring and uncanny speed to kiss him. It was not a pleasant kiss of greeting. It threatened him with suffocation.
"Good morning," she said, when they'd finished.
"Yes, quite -- "
She didn't really let him get much in edgewise before the second kiss. Or the third. Around about the fifth he registered that this was probably not something that ought to be happening in the Oblong Office.
"Margo -- " he said. "Margolotta, I have work -- "
Hands on his jaw, in his hair.
"I...work...the city -- "
Warm curves in his arms.
"Listen to me -- "
The collar of his robes undone.
"No -- oh..."
Tongue, a tongue in quite an inappropriate place --
"I can't...just..." he finally managed to pull back enough to grasp her by the shoulders. "I..." he waved a hand at the papers on his desk. "I can't, I have...work to do..."
She reached around him, pressing close as she did so, and he closed his eyes in an effort to keep some modicum of self-restraint. When he opened them, she was holding a tedious report from one of the under-clerks between her thumb and third finger. Still holding it, she snapped the fingers. It burst into flames.
He smiled, and pressed his palms around the burning paper, putting out the fire.
I'm not the one who goes up like a thatched roof around fire, he thought. Remember that, Margolotta...
"Damn the paperwork," she said softly.
"One hour, Margolotta. Just give me an hour and I'll be finished here. I'll meet you in the garden -- " sudden silence while she kissed him again. "I promise, only give me an hour."
"Von hour," she said, agreeably. "Und if I find you still here, I shall be forced to use feminine viles."
"What have you been using up until now?" he asked. She laughed.
"Von hour," she repeated. She was gone before he felt he could conceivably catch his breath.
***
I keep my countenance,
I remain self-possessed
Except when a street piano, mechanical and tired
Reiterates some worn-out common song
With the smell of hyacinths across the garden
Recalling things that other people have desired.
--TS Eliot
SEVEN: METAPHORS
Editor's Note: Havelock Vetinari, as a man, was particularly fond of metaphors, and quite imaginative when it came to their use. He has variously referred to the city of Ankh-Morpork as a clock, a machine, a topiary, a gyroscope, and a Great Rolling Sea of Evil. He has spoken of Clacks technology in terms of prawns, and the City Watch, before its expansion, as an appendix. He has been heard to remark that one must handle a metaphor carefully; they can kill a man if used improperly.
In chapter seven he seems to have succumbed to the temptation to employ metaphoric devices to his heart's content; rather, one single metaphoric device, the Dragon. It is somewhat taken as a given that this chapter was written during his tenure in the Palace dungeon, at the time of the brief and busy rule of the only dragon ever to be crowned king.
***
Dragons, as a colleague once had reason to remark, are a metaphor of human existence. And as if that wasn't enough, they are also a great big hot blowing flapping thing.
Of course, we are speaking here of Draco Nobilis, the noble dragon that no longer inhabits our sphere of existence. but let us consider, as long as we find ourselves upon the subject, the Vulgaris breed also, or common swamp dragon.
The noble dragon bears many likenesses to the human romantic mind, and indeed, if one were to summon a dragon, one might say that it would be a dragon of the mind -- of the fantasy. A dragon with all the petty ambition, or dangerous honesty, of the man who summoned it, wrapped in scales and claws and flame ducts. A large, beautiful thing, but without regard for law, either of common physics or of human civilisation. A viciously merciless predator, sleeping on a bed of greed.
The swamp dragon, on the other hand, is a sad case. Domesticated, they are entirely dependent upon humans; even the most stable of breeds has a tendency to defensive explosion*.
* Editor's Note: Vetinari obviously assumes that the reader understands the evolutionary physiology of the swamp dragon; ie, its tendency to self-destruction is a defence mechanism on behalf of the species, and not the dragon currently laminated to your ceiling.
They amble through the world trying not to eat anything that might cause premature expiration; their life is spent avoiding the opportunity to experience anything more than pleasant boredom and, every few months, the opportunity to breed.
Draw your own conclusions.
It seems strange to think that a dragon of fantasy should also be more cunning and vicious than a sensible, real, domestic swamp dragon. And indeed, why any intelligent, almost political creature should devote its entire existence to the acquisition of gold and beautiful young women -- however briefly, in the latter case -- is something of a mystery.
It would be an intriguing experiment, would it not, to mold the cunning and fantasy of the noble dragon with the sensible, domestic, and one might say explosively selfless attitudes of the swamp dragon. Although it may be said that a twenty-ton dragon, exploding in any civilised area, is probably not the best of ideas. Still, to temper a vicious sensibility with the more common desires for stability and peace is a difficult thing, and for a human, a constant struggle.
It would be much easier if there were only two breeds of people, and one could tell them apart at a glance.
Still, such is not the world we live in.
***
Margolotta had probably needed the hour as much as he had; she'd gone back to the Embassy, and changed out of the dreadfully flowered dress, into a far more sensible one for a walk in the gardens. She had, however, retained the sun-hat; it was probably a necessity, for her.
Surely the city could survive an hour without his supervision. After all, it'd survived centuries without him. Not very well, it was true, and probably not for much longer, but he had a firm grasp on it now, and could afford sixty minutes of freedom from office.
Couldn't he?
She gave him a bright, cheerful smile when he appeared on the grounds, and tactfully took his arm. There were guards about the place, after all, and servants, and all kinds of concealed eyes. She understood the need, at least for now, for discretion. He was the ruler of the city, and his life was not his own.
We politicians, she'd said. Yes; she understood. Curse her, she understood.
They didn't speak much; both sensed that, unlike yesterday, there was no need to fill the world with noise today. The things they'd been covering with meaningless conversation were no longer very well covered. Memory, and a sort of yearning for the old feeling of being students of one another, and the idea that perhaps rather than being students, they could now be equals without fear of the other's power. He would occasionally point out some especially depressing aspect of the landscaping, and caught her by the arm before she slipped into the hoho; in a split second, both were floating about six inches above the ground.
"Put us down, Margolotta," he said quietly. She smiled, and kissed him, and he felt his feet on solid ground again. That was probably allegorical, he thought. Metaphoric, at any rate.
"Do you know," she said, when they were walking again, "Ve have been discovering some very interesting things about beetotal vampires?"
"Oh yes?"
"Yes! As you can see, ve are able to tolerate sunlight rather better than before. Though of course, stronk light still hurts us."
"I've seen Mr. Chriek's vanishing act," he said absently.
"Indeed. Und vhile ve still retain various...manipulative talents, of course, other problems have arisen. Vampires who do not drink human blood, they can...vell, they can die."
"Die? Do you mean, they age?" he asked. He had not had reports of this.
"No, no. But it is possible to...to vish to die, und to die. From things other than zer usual," she added. "Ve've lost two so far. They just didn't have the vill to survive. A carriage accident, very tragic. They could have healed up, but they veren't very interested. People get bored vith life, apparently."
"Do they?"
"So I'm told."
"Interesting," he said. He felt a vague concern for the direction this conversation was taking.
"You, also, vill die," Margolotta murmured. "Perhaps vhen you do...I vill come to see zer monument they vill raise..."
"Margolotta, stop this instant."
"I could szimply sztand zere...und die," she added.
"I asked you -- "
"Fade avay into dust. It vould be very...gothic, as you say."
"Why are you telling me this?"
She gave him another sunny smile. "Oh, just letting my mind vander."
"Don't," he said shortly. They came around a curve in the path, and began making their way back towards the entrance to the grounds, following the ornamental trout pond. "Perhaps we should discuss our situation," he continued, after a while.
"Vot is there to discuss?" she asked.
"You know what there is to discuss. I'd like to know how long you will be staying in the city. And, incidentally, if you are planning on accepting my dinner invitation. If you expect me to return your visit, I'm afraid you're rather out of luck. I suppose, in a year or two, I could arrange things so that the city temporarily did not explode into disaster in my absence -- "
"Are you really that important to the city, Havelock?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied, without pride. "I am. The problem with taking a wild city and taming it, is that you take an object balancing on the blade of a knife, and balance it on the point. Stability requires more risk than chaos, and therefore it is more dangerous to leave a stabilised city than a chaotic one. It has further to fall."
"All too true. But have no fear, I have no desire for you to come to Uberwald. As for how long I am to stay in the city...I do not know, yet. Uberwald, unlike Ankh-Morpork, does not require a fine controlled touch. Subtlety is lost on most verevolves, I'm afraid. And most vampires, for that matter." Her hand, resting on his arm, slid down to cover his fingers. "As for your invitation, I vould invite you to the Embassy insztead. Ve can't have your staff constantly in uproar. I'm sure ve could rustle up some valnuts."
"Don't you think -- " he began, then stopped. There were guards standing at the entrance to the grounds. More than there ought to have been. He could see Vimes, and another officer holding someone by the arm.
Oh, dear. It had happened, then.
"Morning, sir," Vimes called, as Vetinari disentangled his arm from Margolotta's, and walked up the slight incline to reach the knot of City Watch officers. "You were right."
Drumknott and an under-clerk stood behind him, hovering anxiously. Vimes put his hands on his belt. Next to him, Corporal Ping tightened his grip on Margolotta's Igor.
"Margolotta von Uberwald, you are under arrest for conspiracy to commit robbery, abetment of theft, abetment of criminal trespass, and espionage," Vimes said, his tone entirely even and, Vetinari noticed, conspicuously free of smugness. Guards moved to stand on either side of the vampire.
"I don't understand," she said. "Vot is going on? Igor, vot have you told zem?"
"All he needs to, I'm afraid," Drumknott said. "We put a clerk on guard in your office like you said, sir, and sent a message down to the Yard. He showed up not ten minutes after you'd left. Through one of the...less-used passages," he added. Vetinari examined Igor.
"Yes, Igors are very good at...less-used passages," he replied. "I'm very sorry, Margolotta. I don't like deceiving people*. But I like being deceived even less."
* This was, technically speaking, a little white lie; it wasn't that he enjoyed deception, but he would admit that occasionally it was greatly satisfying.
"Havelock, vot are you talking about?" Margolotta asked. The guards weren't touching her; they were sensible men, and knew exactly what their job was worth.
"You'd come to Ankh-Morpork because the Patrician asked?" Vetinari said. "Because you needed defending? I am many things, Margolotta, but a fool I am not. A good opportunity for you, wasn't it?"
"Probably wanted to lay hold of the Sto Plains trade route plans," Vimes said. "They'll cut right through Uberwald. Or maybe get a peek at some of those Genuan diplomatic letters that I happen to know you don't have."
"We caught Igor going through your desk," Drumknott added. He looked as though his faith in the world had been restored.
"It's not true! Havelock, tell zem! I vould not do zomezing like zis!" Margolotta said, managing not to shout.
"Tell them? Who do you think told them to set the trap in the first place?" Vetinari asked. "I am not a man who is lightly toyed with, Margolotta. Vampires work by subterfuge. Whether it is blood or diplomatic secrets that you steal."
"I've got a couple of Uberwaldeans on the force," Vimes said. "One of 'em's got a saying -- I think the phrase is Kvealin bostrovaki kre kvea* -- "
* Literally translated, "you are stepping on my eagle", but if Vimes' pronunciation had been better, it would have been "A well-dressed whore is still a whore". The spirit was willing, at any rate.
Vetinari was in front of him faster than anyone could blink, far too close for anyone's comfort, eyes inches from the Commander's.
"If you say that again, Vimes," he said, in the same low, even, cultured tones he always used, "With regard to Lady Margolotta, I will personally ensure that the brief remainder of your life is filled with interesting and painful incident. She is a diplomat, not a common street thief."
Several Watchmen put hands on their swords. Vimes' eyes widened in surprise, but he kept his head.
"I hadn't noticed much difference between the two," he said. Vetinari moved a few inches closer, then, and against his will, Vimes stumbled backwards. He'd heard the Patrician make many threats, some more oblique than others, but he'd never seen anything other than icy cold in the man's blue eyes. Now they flared like a gas fire.
Vetinari turned to Margolotta, who was staring -- whether at Vimes' rudeness or his own threat, he couldn't tell.
"Igor will be taken to the cells. Lady Margolotta, I realise that if you choose to leave the city there is very little we can do to restrain you, but I would ask that you remain in your rooms at the Embassy," he said, each word like the crack of an iceberg breaking apart.
"I didn't do zis!"
"Investigations will proceed. The innocent have nothing to fear," Vetinari said coldly. Margolotta looked at him, pleading.
Nothing. A dead wall behind those eyes.
"I am not a monster," she said softly. "Ve don't do zat, ve of the Temperance League. I vill sztay. You vill see. I vill make sure you szee." She held out her arms, and the guards took them, very gingerly. "I vould like to szpeak to Otto, pleaze," she added. "He is zer only friend I have in zer city," she added, looking at Igor, who looked away.
"Very convincing," Vetinari added. "I will see that he is allowed to visit you. We are not barbarians."
"Oh?" she asked. He stepped forward.
"We do not trade love for power, Margolotta," he said softly. Only anyone observing him very closely indeed would see the small flicker of regret in his closed expression, or the sudden stillness in Margolotta's body.
***
While Otto was bringing a carton of fresh -- best to think of it as 'ethnic food' -- to Lady Margolotta, as well as a comforting shoulder and sympathetic ear*, her Igor also had a visitor. It surprised Vimes; he didn't think that Igor knew anyone other than the Watch's Igor, in the city.
* His own, unfortunately; he couldn't scare up any loose ones at short notice.
Vimes hated surprises. He was still angry he'd missed a perfect opportunity to punch Vetinari in the nose, when the man swept down on him during Margolotta's arrest.
The dark-haired visitor spoke with an Uberwaldean accent, and so Vimes assumed that he had probably been an acquaintance from the Old Country. He let the man into the cells, and left them alone; because he wasn't a stupid cop, and hated narrative convenience except when it ran his way, he left them 'alone' with Buggy Swires lurking behind a table leg, across the room.
If Swires had been the sort of copper who was particularly observant, rather than the sort who was able to lift a man off his feet and slam him into a wall, he might have noticed that one of the empty shadows in the cells seemed more shadowy and empty than it ought to.
"I told you Vetinari's not a fool," the young man said. "Not ven it comes to espionage, anyhow."
"But enough of a fool...?"
"Lady Margolotta is a veakness. I'm doing him a favour, really," the young man said. "It does him no real harm, and me a vorld of good."
"I thee. And what about me?" Igor asked.
"Oh, you're just a pawn, they'll give you a slap on the wrists and send you on your way. I imagine Vetinari's enraged enough to do a whole lot more against Margolotta. He might be Patrician, but he's a man, and men don't like being tricked in the bedroom."
"Tho you're pleathed."
"Very," the man said. "Sit tight and stick to your story, Igor. Ubervald is being taken care of. I've got to pay a few visits, and then I'll be off. Don't vorry. Vhat goes around comes around."
"That'th what worrieth me," Igor said despondently.
As the man left, a shadow seemed to detach itself and move across the floor. Swires, while not the most observant of coppers, knew a suspiciously mobile shadow when he saw one. He kept still.
A grey-clad and surprisingly muscular arm reached through the bars, picked Igor off his feet, and pulled him against the cold iron.
"If you scream, you will only scream once," said a calm voice. "I want his name."
Igor considered matters. There was an iron bar pressing into his nose, which would crunch quite loudly, with another few inches of pressure.
"Edvard Zhalien," he said, very cautiously, distinctly not looking at the man's face. Swires watched in fascination.
"Where is he staying?"
"I don't -- "
"Deny me again and you will be sewing your liver back in. With your toes."
"It'th true. Thomewhere in the Thades," Igor added, his terror ratcheting up a notch.
"He's a son of the Zhalien clan?"
"Yeth!"
The man sighed. Igor, wisely, said nothing. A moment later, he found himself dropped into a heap on the cell floor.
"If you tell the Watch about this conversation, I will come for you," the man said. And vanished. Igor gibbered.
Swires waited until a good count of three hundred before leaving the cells.
***
Havelock Vetinari, Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, stood on the roof of the Watch House, and let himself pause for thought. Up until then, everything he had done had been done on Assassins' Guild instinct.
He didn't often go out over the rooftops these days. He didn't have the time, and he wasn't young anymore. Besides, it is much harder to be unnoticed when you are the Patrician of the city. After ten years of cultivating a habit of invisibility at school and during his early political days, he'd finally had to start building a presence. He'd been very good at it. It was difficult to put that presence away.
But he remembered the emperor Chordian, during the time of Ankh-Morpork's military expansion, who was one of his personal heroes as a child*. Choridan had spent one day every year, dressed as a beggar, walking the streets of the Forum, where Sator Square now stood, with another man as his guide. Unusually, he hadn't decreed that he would do it, either; people apparently hadn't known until he died, and his companion revealed it. Vetinari knew the value of walking among the people. So he still did occasionally venture out.
* His mother had decided a boy ought to get a good solid education in the important things before he went off to school, and hence young Havelock had a very unusual childhood indeed.
Never like this, though. Never with such purpose. Never with such unusual anger inside him.
Seduced and betrayed, what did they take him for? It was the oldest diplomatic game in the books, and he knew those books by heart. He'd written some of them.
He had not intended for some things to happen, of course; had not intended to give in to Margolotta so soon, nor had he intended to...to feel the things he'd felt. But his rational mind ruled him, had done since he was old enough to be conscious of it, and his rational mind said that when you take a walk in the garden with a beautiful foreign diplomat, odds are your desk is being rifled.
Really now. Not a fool, but that foolish? Edvard Zhalien had no idea who he was tangling with. The boy could hardly be twenty-five.
He'd find out, however. Terminally. Of that, Vetinari was quite certain.
Still, there were one or two things to investigate first.
He knew the roof was booby-trapped in several places, as were the pipes and tiles below, leading on a direct path to the Commander's office window. Still, there were ways to get around that. He let himself down to ground level, circled, and climbed the decidedly spiky decorative railings on the floor below. A tall man, if he put his foot here...and here...and balanced very carefully, would not be able to actually reach the ledge -- or if he did, for balance, he would find himself unceremoniously dumped into the shrubbery. But he could hear the office's occupants perfectly. Vimes never closed his window.
He listened to Swires give his report. The gnome, like most humans, had not really paid attention to his face; he'd been too shocked at his presence to do so.
He listened delightedly to Vimes' reaction.
He listened to the orders being given.
Vimes would scour the city for Edvard Zhalien. He would also look for the grey-clad man who abused Igor so terribly, but he wouldn't find him. Most importantly, his investigation of Margolotta herself would come to a screeching halt until he found Zhalien and the grey man.
Vetinari would find Zhalien first. He would consider options then, but the most appealing one was beating the young man within an inch of his life.
And then he'd let Vimes have a go.
He smiled grimly to himself, dropped down silently, and made his way back to the Palace.
***
The October night comes down; returning as before
Except for a slight sensation of being ill at ease,
I mount the stairs and turn the handle of the door
And feel as if I had mounted on my hands and knees.
--TS Eliot
EIGHT: THE RITES OF MAN
Editor's Note: Chapters Eight and Nine are the most difficult to place in time; coming somewhere between the brief rule of the dragon and Vetinari's death, they are the fully-realised writings of a mature statesman, and apparently, considering the goodly length of time over which they were written, are the cautious and well-measured thoughts of a man uninclined to hurry.
Chapter Eight has been tentatively linked to the period right before the Assassins' Guild put Vetinari's contract into abeyance, and some scholars have determined that parts may have been written during his Lordship's brief illness from arsenic poisoning. Although his writing is as keen and intellectual as ever, there is a certain dramatic quality about some of it which has not been seen since his earliest chapters.
***
Concerning Truth, that which may be spoken as events dictate, but should be heard on every occasion:
Man is raised in our free society to believe that he has certain rights; the right to make his own decisions, the right to trade with whom he wishes and for what, the right to worship as he pleases, to marry and procreate. But no right does he hold in as high regard as the right to be told the truth. If his version of the truth is betrayed, he will leave his wife, forswear his gods, part with his business associates, or make rash, foolish choices.
A man will accept that he has been told a half-truth, a literal truth, or a lie of omission, if the end result justifies the deception; he will snarl about honour and honesty, but he will not forsake the human race because of them. Half-truths are, at any rate, preferable to lies, because they hold parts of the truth and are therefore easier to remember. But a man who believes he has a right to know the truth is a dangerous man.
Because Truth is not immutable. It is not entirely knowable. And the rights of man, unfortunately, do not exist outside man's small sphere of influence. Rights are products of civilisation. The only natural right a man has is the right to an attempt at survival. And death, of course. But every living creature has the right to death.
So why this born-in yearning for truth? Why do we seek to quantify the world? Without mystery, would not this be a dull, colourless life? But then some people prefer the extraordinary boredom of the known.
That is one true, uncorrupting priviledge of political gamesmanship; it is never boring.
We yearn for the truth because we think the truth will comfort us, but what we really want is to find a comforting statement and call it truth. The two are very different. A man well-used to understanding the way things work is never truly betrayed, because he has come to expect the essential ill-will of the world. It is a dour existence, though punctuated by the occasional surprise when a man, expected to do things typical of baser human nature, rises above to do something noble and good.
The tincture of night suffuses civilisation, and we light candles to keep it at bay. We never consider that to embrace the night is to control it.
***
Havelock Vetinari was not a man given to chasing after people, tracking them down, or locating them through investigation. He had the City Watch for that. If he wished to speak to someone, Vetinari preferred that they come to him. It seemed less...desperate, somehow. And quite a bit less time-consuming.
When he returned to the Palace he gave orders. It was what he did. Within twenty minutes, three under-clerks, all of them what he would consider "scholarship boys" -- clever youngsters from the poorer parts of the city, who could incidentally spell correctly and keep their mouths shut -- were in his office.
They were used to taking orders that they didn't understand. They nodded, and looked at each other, and each made their own individual way out of the Palace, down to the Shades. There was no particular hurry. If the rumour did not spread until evening, that was fine; Zhalien could hardly expect to make a move before then, at any rate.
He arranged for someone to pester Vimes, every hour or so, about the case and what he was doing about it. He took reports on how the Times was covering the scandal. Apparently they'd dubbed it "Gardengate" because Margolotta had been arrested at the gates to the grounds. Vetinari thought it was mildly dramatic, but then he was not Sacharissa's copyeditor.
And then he went back to his job.
Very calmly.
It had been years since anyone was really in earnest about trying to kill him. Poisoned candles, that was showy, and gonnes, well, that was bloodlust. It was a long time since anyone had thoughtfully and entirely selflessly wanted him dead for the sheer joy of seeing him dead, rather than for some greater political ideal. Vimes was right. It made one feel quite alive.
If a man wants you dead badly enough, of course, there is no defence in the world which is effective. The only way to defend against a murderer is to discover who he is. In this case, Vetinari had the advantage of already knowing. That was something.
A really determined man would get past the guards with no trouble, and into the Palace with very little. If he was clever, he'd make it as far as the fifth floor, where the Oblong Office and his chambers were, with smooth sailing. And even an Assassin-trained politician was probably not much of a match, after all these years, for a determined young Uberwaldean. The forest bred stern souls; to survive being human in Uberwald, you had to be strong.
If Edvard Zhalien knew himself -- and Vetinari doubted greatly that he did -- he would know that even though he was determined to kill the Patrician, the person he really passionately wanted dead was Margolotta von Uberwald. Not just dead, but dishonourably dead, and eternally so. He wanted there to be no possibility that she would rise, and a betrayed Patrician would make very sure that his enemies, no matter how resilient, did not get a second chance to betray.
Pity, really. Edvard could have been of use.
The sun had set, and Vetinari was standing at the window, back to the door, when it burst open. It was a bit of drama, he knew, but sometimes drama was irresistable. Edvard Zhalien came for him with a hunter's speed and accuracy.
The long, heavy walking-stick whipped out from Vetinari's side as he turned. Who needed a sword inside a stick, when you had the stick? Just as effective and far less messy. It smacked against the boy's chest, stopping him in mid-leap. There was a sudden crunch, a sound like a drowning man's gasp for air, and a thump.
The head of the cane swung around and connected neatly with Zhalien's.
"Igor is in the cells, and Margolotta is secure in the Embassy. You have no allies," Vetinari said calmly. Edvard Zhalien, glassy-eyed, stared up at him. "I'd call it a day, if I were you."
He leapt again.
This time Vetinari did not use the merciful edge-on approach; the brass cane-head slammed into the boy's neck, knocking him sideways.
"You are not a spy or a patriot, Edvard, no matter how much the Baroness has paid you," Vetinari continued. "You're just a boy, and you're after the wrong man. If you stop now, you probably won't get hurt. Much."
He had expected a knife at some point, but he was not quite fast enough to stop it. It cut through robe, shirt, and shoulder, cleanly, before he brought the cane up and shoved Edvard back.
Yes; twenty-five was about right. An infant still when Antoni Zhalien, his father, had been killed. A thick shock of black hair, dark eyes. Standing, panting, still in a hunter's crouch, though one eye was bloodshot and bruises were beginning to form.
Vetinari felt the blood flow down his arm, and realised that he was enjoying himself. This was worrying. He should have incapacitated the boy with the first blow. Instead he had let him have his go, and had...well, he'd sneered at him.
He was enjoying making a wreck of the youngster. At his own personal risk.
First beat him within an inch of his life...and then let Vimes have a go...
This was not the Vetinari way.
He shook his head and moved quickly when Edvard sliced again -- dodging, throwing the cane, and grasping both wrists with his hands. He pushed Edvard against the window. The knife clattered to the floor.
"Tell me," he said, in Edvard's ear as the boy struggled to free himself. "Look out the window and tell me what you see, boy."
"Your end," the boy replied, and tried to butt his head backwards. Vetinari dodged.
"One day," he said agreeably. "But not today. A personal vendetta, Zhalien? Supported by the good Baroness and her fortune?"
"That vampire murdered my father."
"Your father was a vampire hunter -- "
"A historian!"
"As a hobby, perhaps. He came after her in cold blood. She gave me his book, you know. Antonei Zhalien, the last man who tried to kill her. As a warning to me."
"Son of a bitch!"
"Easy, boy. You waited a remarkably long time to have your try. She has too many allies in Uberwald, eh? But in Ankh-Morpork, especially after setting her up as a spy...she has no one." Vetinari considered things. "Well. Almost no one."
"I'll kill you, old man."
"Oh, I very much doubt that. I'm sure you wanted to, when you heard the rumour. Margolotta von Uberwald, spy and seductress, pardoned because of diplomatic immunity? You must have seen red. You should have simply killed her, if you were suicidally bent. Strategy never works at times like this, and not against me. You certainly should have gone after her before you came for me."
"I did," said Zhalien. And laughed.
Havelock Vetinari had a moment of temporal uncertainty.
His body, acting without instructions from his brain, slammed Zhalien's face directly through the glass window, and snapped his neck.
At least, that was what he was sure had happened. He was therefore mildly surprised to discover that, after a few confused seconds, instead he had neatly applied pressure to a very important vein in the back of the head, which caused unconsciousness fairly rapidly.
All control begins with the self.
He walked swiftly to the doorway. He never put guards on his office door, and no-one had been about. He picked up the speaking tube, and made a few requests.
Drumknott arrived, carrying a crossbow, around the same time Ellen did, carrying bandages.
"Ah. Good," Vetinari said. He was back in his chair; he didn't feel that was the dramatic thing to do, but the blood loss convinced him it was rather the wise thing to do. "Ellen, my arm, if you would be so kind. Drumknott, summon the Watch, would you? I'm sure they'll want to meet Mr. Zhalien."
Drumknott, for the second time that day, had the sensation that perhaps life would have been easier if he'd been a priest like his mother wanted.
***
Night had well and truly fallen. There was no moon.
This was, Vetinari thought, appropriate, though also mildly worrying; perhaps the influx of Uberwaldeans into the city was causing Ankh-Morpork, also, to develop a psychotropic landscape. He was not having with lightning flashes every time someone did something maniacally evil; for one thing, it'd never stop.
No doubt Zhalien had wanted Vetinari to kill him. That would be scandal at the least and murder at the most. Vicious murder, too. But now Zhalien was going to live to tell his story to the Watch. Sooner or later. Vimes had a way of making even the most reluctant, honour-bound wretch talk. And Igor was certainly not all that honour-bound.
He hadn't spoken of Zhalien's promise that he'd gone for Margolotta first.
He didn't really believe it.
But he'd vanished from the office, nonetheless, as soon as Ellen was finished with the bandage. And come here.
The Uberwaldean embassy was a stark, imposing building, which seemed taller than it actually was. Only one window was lit -- that would be the guards on Margolotta's room. They gave him no trouble. If he did not want to be seen, he was not seen; even if he was, he was the Patrician.
Margolotta's room was pitch black, too dark; the darkness that is conspicuous for its absence of light. He closed the door behind him, locking in the gloom.
"Margolotta," he said quietly.
No answer.
"I am sorry, Margolotta," he continued, moving forward. Forward, but slowly. "It was necessary to say what I said. Else how could we have drawn Zhalien out?"
Still silence? Or the whisper of breath, indrawn to speak? Too quiet to tell.
"I know you understood me. Love for power -- oh, such a dramatic phrase. You know me better than that. Even now."
His stick clicked against something -- the wood of a chair, or perhaps the leg of a bed. Yes; he could feel the bedpost, if he reached out.
"Edvard said he came for you first. No doubt he did a thorough job, if so. But I think he lied."
Yes, now he was sure there was movement, somewhere in the room.
"When he said that, I nearly broke his neck with my bare hands."
"You should have."
Relief flooded through him. "Margo -- "
"Do not speak to me, Havelock Vetinari," came the voice. Two yellow pinpricks of light glowed, far off and slightly to his left. "How long had you known? Since I arrived? Since before? You invited me into your confidences, into your -- "
"I invited you? Only to my city."
"You vere vaiting even then?"
"Not so."
"Vhen, then?"
"Does it matter?"
"It does to me."
"Since a little before our dinner together. I knew I was going to be robbed. Whether it was you or someone else."
"You believed it vos me."
"Yes."
"I vos a fool."
"Not so very much." The glowing yellow eyes hadn't moved. "Let us have some light, Margolotta."
"I prefer zer darkness."
"We certainly pick our times, don't we?" he asked. "Easier to fight than to say goodbye, eh?"
"I vos not zer von who picked zer fight last time. Nor did I lie zis time."
"Do you expect me to feel guilty that I lied to help you? Is not embarrassment better than death at the hands of a clever young man?"
There was a long pause.
"Margolotta?"
A candle flared to life.
Two yellow pinpricks of light, far off and slightly to his left, turned out to be a cat sitting on a far window ledge.
Margolotta stood about three inches in front of him.
"Zere is a first time for everyzing," she said sadly.
She was wearing pajamas, with a bunny on the pocket. It had fangs, and red eyes, and a little cape.
"Do you know something strange, Margolotta?" he asked.
"I know many strange things," she replied.
"I believe I do love you." He gave her a small smile. "I certainly hope I should not lose my temper, risk my life, and beat a man nearly to death for anything less. As you say. A first time for everything." And then, in Uberwaldean: "Forgive."
She nodded. "Zat vos all I vos vaiting for," she said.
A leaden pause.
"Zhraoi."
I forgive.
***
Not knowing what to feel or if I understand
Or whether wise or foolish, tardy or too soon...
Would she not have the advantage, after all?
This music is successful, with a "dying fall"
Now that we talk of dying --
And should I have the right to smile?
--TS Eliot
NINE: THE SECOND PARABLE
Editor's Note: This final chapter comes out of a much longer one, but obvious edits and margin notations have indicated that the Patrician, a man who knew the value of words, wished only this part to be made public. His other, more private musings, at his own request, have been given into the care of a colleague for safekeeping.
***
It is as with all things that men understand stories better than they do plain speech; is it not strange? A symbol is instinctively comprehended, while a plain fact is often thrust aside as being "untrue", either because the witness does not, or cannot, bear to face its truth. It was wise to begin with a parable; it was the instinct of a child, a most natural instinct.
In the city of Ankh-Morpork there was a Man who took to traveling, so that he might see the world and the wonders that were in it. Of all the art and culture to be offered outside of his beloved city, there was only one place he was sorry to leave. He did not dwell upon it, as the years passed, but it was never very far from his thoughts.
Power was the Man's for the taking, but he did not want power; riches were offered, but he did not want riches. He took control, whether it was for the taking or not, but control was not what he sought.
The Man loved the city more than any other thing. So he sought to make it a city worthy of the love that every man must feel for the place he was born.
He was very good at it.
He learned his lessons quickly and well, and survived and thrived upon change, but never uproar -- good, orderly, progressional change, the acceptance of ideas whose time has come.
Men who would rule, know this: there is no tide against which one can stand with impunity. Every battle takes its toll, and some will pull the sand from beneath your feet. Choose the ones worth fighting, or you find yourself drenched to the bone.
First the city, then the people, then one's servants, then oneself.
It is the only sensible way to live.
But the man forgot, as time went on, that all four must be served. The self, lastly, yes; but serve it all the same, otherwise it is not life, but merely existence.
That is all the knowledge that I have to give. If the reader has learned all he could, the world is a better place. If the reader has learned nothing, at least take this advice:
Be kind to dogs.
And the world will still be a better place.
***
Vetinari was already sitting at his little table in the corner room, writing, when Drumknott brought up his dinner, and a few late letters. It was soup night; on a little plate, next to the clear broth and the correspondence, were a few buttery, iced pastries, because Cook was an eternal optimist.
The Patrician ate as he wrote, spilling not a drop of ink or soup. The past four months had been busy ones; Drumknott knew that his master was planning something out of the ordinary, but he hadn't seen enough of any one part of the plan to discover just what. If it had been anyone other than Vetinari, he might have thought war, but he knew that the Patrician was very much against war; it was simply too expensive to be practical.
One never really mastered how to read Vetinari. Even Sir Samuel, who seemed to understand the man, was just as much in the dark as Drumknott. But it was obvious, since the Zhalien scandal had broken, that Vetinari was...different. He didn't actually smile more, but he seemed to have an especial zeal for his duties. It was as though, for years, he'd been doing them because someone had to; now he was doing them because it was...
Drumknott's mind rebelled at the thought of "Havelock Vetinari" and "fun" in the same sentence.
He was simply grateful that the Lady Margolotta's stay in Ankh-Morpork had been mercifully brief. He could adjust himself to many things, but he did not think he would ever have adapted to serving her breakfast in bed. Especially Vetinari's bed.
Headache, indeed.
His Lordship seemed to spend a lot more time on correspondences, too. Odd, that, what with the clacks going further and faster every day.
Vetinari handed him a stack of papers, absently eating with his other hand, and dismissed him. Drumknott smiled.
Yes. Good to be back to normal.
***
My dear Havelock,
I did not think, at the time, that you could possibly be right. For that you must have some tolerance; I am a woman long used to the idea that romance is something held at close quarters. But you know this.
Perhaps for us it is more than romance. If you had tried to teach me, when you were nineteen, that an affair of the mind could satisfy more than affairs of a more physical nature, I should not have respected your intellect in the slightest. You must, at the moment, have rather little respect for mine. To write to you is the most satisfying hour of my week, and to read your letters almost as good. I do not feel I miss anything; there is pragmatism and poetry to be had, and what more could either of us desire?
You protest that love is a weakness, and as such must be defended. I disagree. I think it is your strength. For me you lied and fought; your life would be far less exciting without me in it, is that not true? In Uberwald, where one stands a good chance of being staked even now, my life was rather more dull when I did not have your letters to look forward to.
Now, as to our discussions of politics. Do you believe that to foster an existing system of governance is always correct? Granted that the system is functional on a majority level, but if it is an oppression to some measure of the population --
There was a rap at the window.
Vetinari looked up from the letter he was reading. Smiled. Stood up, and walked to the floor-to-ceiling glass panes, five stories in the air.
"I thought you didn't do this sort of thing anymore," he said.
Margolotta, on the other side, shrugged. "For old times' sake," she said, slightly muffled by the glass.
"The letters were not enough?"
"They vere enough. But I do so love a holiday."
"I am planning a holiday."
"You are not."
"I am indeed. In a year's time, I will take a short diplomatic trip to visit the Low King."
"Ah, I see she has seduced you."
"Very amusing, Margolotta. I wonder, should I let you in?"
"I vish you vould, it's rather cold out."
He flicked a latch on the window, and pulled it inward. Margolotta stepped gracefully out of the air, and into the little room.
"Wait," he said, putting a hand up before she could move too close. He walked swiftly into the main entrance-room of his chambers, and pulled a bolt across the door. Drumknott, if he found a locked door, would know better -- this time, at any rate -- than to go any further.
Margolotta had shut the window, and was trying one of the pastries, when he returned. She put it down and dusted off her fingers daintily. And smiled at him.
"Now," the Patrician said, moving forward, "About your theories of governance..."
END
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Your writing is very good; you capture PTerry's feel and style very well.
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*flails at the sheer level of awesome*
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(Anonymous) 2008-08-25 11:29 pm (UTC)(link)But what you have done is that you have kept that wonderful character Terry Pratchett created and made him into a man. Not easily done, and you have succeeded perfectly. While I love his character, I love even more when he is flustered or when he loses control because that means that the situation is extremely important.
And I loved that even when goaded, he managed to keep control.
You write beautifully, and i hope you will write more Discworld fics soon, and also update the Stealing Harry universe. I, like many of your reviewers, wish that was canon.
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